18502	----	Transcribed from the 1850 C. Gilpin, R. Y. Clarke, and Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org NEW SERIES, No 9. THE ANNUAL MONITOR FOR 1851. OR OBITUARY OF THE MEMBERS OF THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS In Great Britain and Ireland, FOR THE YEAR 1850. LONDON: SOLD BY C. GILPIN, R. Y. CLARKE, AND CO., DARTON AND CO., AND E. MARSH: GEORGE HOPE, YORK. 1850. INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. We have again to present to our friends the Report of the Annual Mortality in the Society of Friends, in Great Britain and Ireland. It has frequently been observed, how nearly the number of deaths in each year has approximated, but we have this year to notice a considerable diminution in the annual return. We are not disposed, however, to attribute the diminished numbers, chiefly to any special cause connected with health, but consider it rather as one of those fluctuations which are ever found to arise in a series of years, in the mortality of a small community. The number of the dying, however, may be expected to bear, as respects the average, a pretty uniform relation to the number of the living. And if the fact be, as all our late inquiries lead us to believe it is, that we are, though slowly, a diminishing body, we must expect that our average number of deaths will also be found gradually to diminish. We have often anxiously pondered over the question,--Why the Society of Friends should be a diminishing body? And we propose to give in this place a few of the thoughts which have been suggested to us in the course of our consideration. In the first place, let us notice the natural causes which tend to the decrease of our Society. We have formerly shown that the mortality among our members is less than in the community at large, which so far as it extends, is of course a reason for the increase rather than the diminution of our numbers. But then we have, on the other side, the well- ascertained fact, that whilst in the community at large, the registered births exceed the deaths, by 45 per cent; in the Society of Friends, the registered deaths actually exceed the births! The cause of this fact is to be found, not only in connection with the number who marry out of the Society, but also in the operation of that prudential check on entering into the married state, which will always prevail amongst a moral people, where the means of subsistence cannot easily and with certainty be obtained. But to whatever we may attribute the cause, the fact itself is a complete answer to the question--Why we are a diminishing rather than an increasing people? It may be said,--Why are not our religious principles aggressive?--Why, if they be true, do they not find converts among the various Christian communities of our land?--Why, as in the early times of our Society, are there not numerous conversions, and fresh bodies of warm-hearted, and sound-minded believers, added to our numbers?--These are deeply important and very interesting questions, and we are willing to offer a few thoughts upon them, with the seriousness and modesty with which it becomes us to speak on the subject. We believe, that a mistaken view prevails, in regard to the truest Christian principle being that which will be accepted by the largest number of persons. The experience of all the past ages of the Church contradicts the assumption, and shows clearly that there is in man a deep- seated opposition to the acceptance of divine truth in its purity and simplicity. True vital religion has ever called for the service of man's heart to God, and in every age, this allegiance has been the state of the _few_, rather than of the _many_. The history of the ancient church is full of illustrations of this truth. Whilst Moses lingered on the Mount, whence the children of Israel knew that the law was to be given, and from whence such evident demonstrations of the divine power had been manifest to the people, they were employed in making the golden calf to go before them, and crying "these are thy Gods, O Israel!" And when they had received the law, written by the finger of God, and were somewhat humbled under the correction of their sins, how few were there, who carried out its injunctions in their genuine spirit, and how many were there, who from time to time, defiled themselves by the idolatrous service of other gods. Even when brought by a strong hand, and an outstretched arm, attended by many palpable miracles which were wrought on their behalf, they were seated in the "Land flowing with milk and honey," which had been promised to their fathers; how prone were they constantly to desert even the profession of their faith, and to serve the gods of the nations which they were sent to destroy; yet in all these times there were a few, and it was probably comparatively but a _few_, who had not bowed the knee to Baal. We have evidence of the same fact in the history of Christianity. The beautiful example of the Saviour, and the wonderful miracles which he performed--all for the good of man--failed to attract the high boasted reason of the Greek, or the Roman, or to soften the obduracy of the blind and hard Pharisaic hearted Jew: it was still the _few_ who had sympathy with the character He exhibited, and the truths which He spoke, and who found Him to be to their souls "the power of God unto salvation." And even when these few were gathered together, and under the extraordinary effusion of the Holy Spirit, many were added to them, and "the multitude of them that believed were of one heart and one soul," they were still comparatively but a _few_. The further history of the Christian Church may appear to some to exhibit a different view, but to us it seems not less clearly to illustrate the same melancholy truth. It is certain, that during the life-time of the Apostles, many by their powerful preaching, under the influence of the Holy Spirit, were brought to repentance and a living faith in Christ, and we know that not a few sealed their testimony with their blood, yet the simplicity and the purity of Christianity were soon more or less spoiled by the still contracted spirit and notions of many of the Jews, or the false philosophy, not entirely abandoned, of the pagan converts. We doubt not, however, that notwithstanding these deteriorating admixtures, there may be said to have been many--aye, a glorious multitude--who held the truth in its primitive power, and in a large measure of primitive simplicity. Still, when these are compared with the whole population of the countries where the Truth was preached, the real converts must be spoken of as a _few_, and thus was it evident that there was still an inherent opposition in man to the restraining and purifying doctrines of the gospel of Christ. And when in later years, whole nations and peoples were said to become Christians, it may well be doubted whether in such times there had not been as great a reduction of the number of true converts of old standing, as there was addition of this class amongst the new ones. Christianity as professed in those days, had thrown off her simple garb, and had decorated herself to please the corrupt taste of the people--as the sun and other heavenly bodies were probably the earliest objects of adoration to mankind, and were used in the first instance as striking symbols of the light and power of the one Creator and Father, so did the professors of Christianity, pretty early present to the people, some intermediate objects of reverence and love, by which those who turned from the simple affiance to the one Great Redeemer and High Priest, might find a rest suited to their carnal, or at least imperfectly spiritual conception of Christianity. And when the temporal church boasted of its universal sway in Europe, and its entire unity, there were probably a smaller number of true Christians within its pale, than existed in the midst of pagan persecutions at the close of the apostolic age. Let us now look at times nearer to our own, when Huss, and Luther, and Zwingle, by a power not their own, caused many rays of the glorious light of Truth to shine upon benighted nations, and disturbed the slumbers of the corrupted church. Great were, and still are the blessings derived from the great struggle. Many of the bonds of Satan were broken, and many a heavy burdened soul found its long desired rest. Yet how soon was even the brightness of this morning dimmed, and how little progress did the cause of the Reformation make after the departure of the immediate instruments in the great movement. In Switzerland, not inaptly called the cradle of the English Reformation, the Cantons which, in the first instance received the truth and joined the Protestant cause, continue still to bear the same name, but not one which at that time retained the designation of Catholic, has since become Protestant: and at Geneva, where Calvin taught, and where his doctrines are still professed, opinions which were not less abhorrent to him than the worst of the errors of popery, are openly maintained. Those who now preach the vital truths of the Reformation, are the _few_ not the _many_. In England, the iron rule of Elizabeth in ecclesiastical matters, and in particular her requirement of uniformity with respect to the "rags of Rome," checked the real progress of the Reformation in the English church, but by a reaction which in the ordering of Divine Wisdom, often makes the wrath of man to praise him, it appears to have been the means of raising up an increased antagonism to error, in the persons of men willing to suffer and to die for the cause of truth. It will perhaps be admitted that at many periods of the history of what is called the English church, whilst its nominal members numbered a large proportion of the whole population, the actual number of the genuine disciples of Christ within its pale were in small compass. The revival in some measure, of the spirit of its reformers, even in opposition to the letter of many of its formularies, has, no doubt, in past times, done much to increase its living influence and usefulness, but recent events have shown how large a portion of its clergy instead of going forward in the work of the Reformation, are rather desirous of retrograde movement, and of approximating, if not of entirely returning to the errors of Rome. Such, we ought ever to bear in mind, is the natural tendency of man, and so prone is he, even when raised by the True Light to a perception of the things which are most excellent, to sink again into the grovelling habits of his own dark nature. We come now to the threshold of our own religious history, and shall endeavour to answer, in substance at least, the queries with which we commenced the present inquiry. It was certainly an extraordinary period of our national religious history, in which the Society of Friends arose--a time in which old foundations were shaken, and an earnest inquiry excited in many minds after the way of truth and of real peace to the soul. We think that it is not assuming, to express our belief, that a remarkable extension of spiritual light and energy was extended to the people of England, in that day, when George Fox, and his early associates, went forth through the length and breadth of the land, and found so extraordinary a preparation for their service in the hearts of their fellow-countrymen. The first preachers knew a being made Christians themselves, before they went forth to call others to Christ--what a deep sense of sin and of its hatefulness in the sight of God--what earnestness, or rather agonizing in prayer--what joy in the sense of the true knowledge of Christ, and of communion with him in Spirit--what subsequent watchfulness and reliance upon him in every step of their course--what zeal in making known the truth which they had found, and what constancy in suffering for it, yea thinking it all joy that they were counted worthy to suffer for the name of Christ!--Such were the men who were heralds of our religious Society, and by whose instrumentality thousands at least, were convinced of the truth; large numbers of whom gave evidence that they were not only convinced, but converted to God. Need we then wonder at their success? though still compared with the numbers to which they preached, the converts may be said to have been _few_. It was still the _many_, who if brought to see as it were their face in a glass, went away and straightway forgot what manner of men they were. We believe that the number of persons who went under the name of Friends, in Great Britain and Ireland, at the close of the 17th century, was at least three times as great as it is at the present time. It will be in accordance with our object, to endeavour to indicate what may have been the chief causes of the suspension of those active measures which we have called aggressive,--though full of love, and which marked the early periods of our Society. An historian of the church, who was not insensible of what constitutes true religious energy, has stated, that extraordinary revivals of this kind, have rarely been maintained in their primitive vigour more than about forty years. Rather more than that time elapsed between the commencement of George Fox's labours and their close, at the time of his death. About eight days previous to that event, he attended a meeting of ministers, in London, and one of those who was present says: "I much minded his exhortation to us, encouraging friends that have gifts to make use of them; mentioning many countries beyond the seas that wanted visiting, instancing the labours and hard travels of friends in the beginning of the spreading of truth in our days, in breaking up of countries, and of the rough ploughing they had in steeple houses, &c., but that now it was more easy; and he complained, that there were many Demases and Cains who embraced the present world, and encumbered themselves with their own business, and neglected the Lord's, and so were good for nothing; and he said, they that had wives, should be as though they had none; and who goeth a warfare should not entangle himself with the things of this world." This characteristic extract will suggest, probably, to many readers, our object in quoting it. If there was cause for the reproof conveyed in it in that day, in which we know the primitive zeal still burned brightly, what must we say of the subsequent, and of the present state of our little church! Long after the death of George Fox, there continued to be a large increase to the numbers of friends; many who had been wise and great in this world, were made to rejoice in the laying down of their outward wisdom, and in sitting down in deep humility to learn of Jesus, by the teaching of the Holy Spirit in the heart. These were prepared boldly to declare God's controversy with sin, and the means by which it might be subdued, not omitting to proclaim the alone ground of a sinner's pardon through the propitiatory sacrifice of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. We believe certainly that it has never been permitted to our Society to be without its faithful labourers in the gospel, or without many sincere confessors of its doctrines, who, by life and conversation, have been true preachers to their brethren, and to the world in general. Yet we must confess, that whilst as a Society, we continue to profess the same religious views as were held and promulgated by our early Friends, we fear we do not come up in practice to that pure standard to which they attained. The door is open to all the world, yet we sit at ease in our ceiled houses. Many around us are hungering and thirsting for the knowledge of God, yet we are occupied with our farms and our merchandise. Let us not be inquiring, "What shall this man do," or what should the other have done? but remembering the reproof, "What is that to thee, follow _thou_ Me," submit ourselves to that humbling, but preparing hand, which was so signally displayed in the cause of those who were engaged in the planting and watering of our religious Society. Then might we again hope to witness an increase of spiritual life and vigour in the body, and thus become as "a city set upon a hill, that could not be hid." THE ANNUAL MONITOR. OBITUARY. Age. Time of Decease. HANNAH ABBOTT, _Thorley_, _Essex_. 88 11mo. 19 1849 MARTHA ADY, _London_. 81 3mo. 23 1850 ELIZABETH AIREY, _Kendal_. Widow. 81 5mo. 6 1850 WILLIAM ALDERSON, _Winterscale_, _Garsdale_, _Yorkshire_. 69 5mo. 2 1850 REBECCA ALEXANDER, _Goldrood_, _Ipswich_. Widow of Samuel Alexander. 72 12mo. 13 1849 EDWARD ALEXANDER, _Limerick_. Son of the late Edward Alexander. 20 2mo. 1 1850 JOSEPH ALLEN, _Dunmow_, _Essex_. A Minister. 76 9mo. 21 1849 SARAH ALLEN, _Bristol_. A Minister. 77 6mo. 1 1850 ELEANOR ALLEN, _Ballitore_. Wife of Henry Allen. 49 3mo. 4 1850 ANN ALLIS, _Bristol_. Wife of Hagger Allis. 65 8mo. 30 1850 JOHN ALLISON, _Durham_. 57 6mo. 1 1850 ROBERT ALSOP, _Maldon_, _Essex_. A Minister. 72 7mo. 21 1850 SOPHIA APPLETON, _Stoke Newington_. Wife of John Appleton. 49 3mo. 28 1850 WILLIAM ASHBY, _Hounslow_. 61 1mo. 7 1850 HANNAH C. BACKHOUSE, _Polam Hill_, _Darlington_. A Minister. Widow of Jonathan Backhouse. {2} 63 5mo. 6 1850 GEORGE BAKER, _Askham Field_, _York_. An Elder. 71 1mo. 26 1850 He was one who remembered his Creator in the days of his youth, and who proved in his own experience, that "the fear of the Lord" is not only "the beginning of wisdom," but that it is also "a fountain of life preserving from the snares of death." His earnest desire was to be found walking acceptably before God; and while a young man, he became greatly distressed at being overcome by drowsiness in meetings for worship. On one occasion, when this had been the case, he retired to a secluded spot, under a hedge, where, with many tears, he poured forth his prayers for deliverance from this besetment. Many years afterwards, when accompanying a friend on a religious visit to the families of that meeting, he pointed out the place, and remarked with expressions of gratitude, that from that time, he did not remember having been overcome in the same manner. He was deeply impressed with the words of his Saviour: "All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them," and he so carried this precept out into practice, as to become remarkable for his uprightness of character, and for his consideration for others. The following circumstances present instructive examples of the kindly sympathy of this "good Samaritan:" On the occurrence of a malignant fever, in one of the eastern dales of Yorkshire, while he resided in that district, he left his own home for several weeks, to nurse some of his neighbours who had become affected with the disease, devoting his whole time to the sick, while dread of infection rendered it difficult for him to obtain assistance in this office of mercy. After his removal into the neighbourhood of York, and at a time when many persons were returning past his premises from a contested Election, and some of them so much intoxicated as to be incapable of taking care of themselves; fearing lest any severe accident should befall them while in this condition, he took several of them from the highway, and lodged them in one of his outhouses, dismissing them on the following morning with suitable but kind admonition. And when numbers of the Irish poor were driven from their own country by famine, and wandered about in this land "for lack of bread," he sheltered many of them in his out-buildings and ministered to their necessities. George Baker occupied the station of Elder for many years, exercising a fatherly care in the church, and extending counsel or encouragement, as he saw occasion, with a simplicity and godly sincerity which gave him great place amongst his friends. He was often applied to by his neighbours for counsel, and as a peace-maker; and in serving them was remarkable for his patience, self-denial, and success. In his latter years, his powers both of body and mind failed greatly, in consequence of an accident which he met with, while in the pursuit of his occupation as a farmer; but having "worked while it was day," he was preserved through a period which might be spoken of as "a night, in which no man could work;" so that love, that badge of discipleship with Christ, shone brightly in his last moments, as from under the margin of a dark cloud, and a solemn feeling of peace with God, through Jesus Christ, pervaded his dying hours. ELIZABETH G. BARCLAY, _Walthamstow_. Daughter of Joseph G. Barclay. 2 8mo. 31 1849 ROBERT BARKER, _Cheadle_, _Manchester_. 62 9mo. 28 1850 THOMAS BAYNES, _Bainbridge_, _Yorkshire_. 70 5mo. 14 1850 THOMAS BEAKBANE, _Liverpool_. 50 4mo. 14 1850 RACHEL BEEBY, _Allonby_. 65 12mo. 15 1849 MARY ANNE BELL, _Belfast_. Daughter of Thomas and Sarah Bell. 39 2mo. 23 1850 MARY BENINGTON, _Wakefield_. A Minister. Wife of George Benington. 55 6mo. 8 1850 ELIZABETH BENNIS, _Clonmel_. Daughter of the late William Bennis of Limerick. 16 2mo. 24 1850 PHOEBE BENT, _Sutton-in-Ashfield_, _Nottinghamshire_. Widow of Joseph Bent of Stockport. 85 8mo. 15 1850 ELIZABETH BENTLEY, _Ipswich_. Daughter of Thomas F. and Maria Bentley. 16 11mo. 28 1849 MARY BENWELL, _Sidcot_. 50 1mo. 13 1850 ELIZABETH BEWLEY, _Rockville_, _Dublin_. Daughter of Thomas and Rebecca Bewley. 3 1mo. 16 1850 WILLIAM BINNS, _Poole_. An Elder. 81 4mo. 10 1850 We have often had to observe, that many of our friends, who have lived to a good old age, and who have been loved and honoured in their respective stations, as upright pillars in the church, have left but few written memorials of their course for the instruction of others; whilst encompassed with infirmities, and looking for the help of the Lord's Spirit to resist their manifold temptations and easily besetting sins, they have been enabled to pursue the even tenor of their way, seeking through divine grace to fulfil the day's work, in the day time, and hoping to hear at last the call of mercy into one of the many mansions prepared by Him, who has loved them and died for them. We love to dwell upon this class of our departed friends, and without undervaluing those whose gifts have been more prominent, or whom circumstances have rendered more conspicuous in our pages, we sincerely desire that these more hidden, but not less valuable parts of the spiritual building, may ever be honoured amongst us. Such an one was our late friend, William Binns. It was during his apprenticeship that, under the ministry of two women friends, engaged in a family visit, he was powerfully awakened to the eternal interests of his soul, and through divine grace, the impression made, was of so decided a character, that putting his hand to the Christian plough, he looked not back. He was greatly concerned for the true welfare of our religious Society, and in the district in which he resided was eminently useful; caring for the flock over which the good Shepherd had made him an overseer. Sterling integrity and uprightness marked his character; his judgment was clear and sound, and was frequently given in comprehensive and pertinent language, free from all superfluous expression. He took a very low estimate of his own attainments, and was humbled under a sense of his shortcomings; as the shadows of evening were closing around him, he frequently and feelingly intimated, that there was for him, but one ground of faith and hope, the free mercy of God in Jesus Christ his Saviour; such was the subject of his frequent expression to his friends, and they rejoice in the belief that having in his long pilgrimage taken up his cross, and sought above all things to follow Christ, so in the end he was prepared to enter into the eternal joys of his Lord. GEORGE BINNS, _Bradford_. 52 8mo. 26 1850 EMMA BINNS, _Sunderland_. Daughter of Henry Binns. 6 8mo. 22 1850 WILLIAM BLACK, _Cockermouth_. 71 9mo. 20 1849 JOSEPH BLACK, _Lisburn_. 22 5mo. 23 1850 THOMAS BOWRY, _Stepney_. 67 4mo. 27 1850 ROBERT WM. BRIGHTWEN, _Newcastle-on-Tyne_. Son of Charles Brightwen. 4 3mo. 6 1850 THOMAS BROWN, _Cirencester_. A Minister. 84 10mo. 13 1849 AMELIA BROWN, _Luton_. A Minister. Wife of Richard Marks Brown. 62 12mo. 7 1849 This beloved friend was privileged beyond many in the pious care exercised in her religious training. She became early acquainted with the teachings of divine grace, and from childhood, appears highly to have valued the holy scriptures. It was frequently her practice to set apart some portion of the day for private retirement and meditation, and in thus seeking to wait upon the Lord for the renewal of her spiritual strength, she was favoured to know "times of refreshing," and a growth in "pure and undefiled religion." She loved the truth in sincerity, and her mind was enriched in the instructive contemplation of its order, excellence and beauty, and the benign and salutary influence it has on those who obey its requisitions: fervently she craved for an increase of faith and strength, that she might be found among the "called, and chosen, and faithful." "I felt," she remarks on one occasion, "as if I could make any sacrifice called for; the language of my mind is almost continually, what shall I render unto the Lord for all his benefits." Under the apprehension that it would be required of her publicly to bear testimony to the power and sufficiency of divine grace, her mind was greatly humbled, and under the pressure of religious exercise, she thus records her feelings: "Sweetly tendered in my room, and craved for strength, fully and unreservedly, to yield all to Him, who still in mercy visits me; if consistent with divine goodness, may my mind be more illuminated, that I may more clearly distinguish between my own will and the Lord's requirings." She was recorded a minister in 1823; and on this important event she observes: "Feeling some quietude, humble desires are prevalent that I may indeed be watchful. Dearest Lord! be pleased to hear my feeble though sincere aspirations after increasing strength and wisdom. Thou knowest that I feel awfully fearful lest I should bring any shade on thy blessed cause." Her connection in married life, introduced her into a large family, the duties of which she cheerfully performed with maternal solicitude, and she became closely united in bonds of affection to the several branches of the domestic circle, anxiously promoting their religious and moral welfare. In ministry, this dear friend was pertinent and edifying, at times close and searching; in the exercise of her gift, she travelled at different intervals in several of the English counties. In the summer of 1848 her health began to decline; her demeanour under pain and suffering evinced her humble dependence upon the Lord, and the language of her soul was, "not my will, but thine, oh Father, be done!" Some alleviation was permitted, and she so far recovered as to be able to assemble with her friends for divine worship; on these occasions, her communications evinced her undiminished interest in the cause of truth and righteousness. In the last meeting she attended, she bowed the knee in solemn supplication, craving for herself and those present, the attainment of perfect purity and holiness, and that this might be the chief concern of their lives. A few days after, she was seized with paralysis, and although consciousness was not entirely effaced, she said but little; she retained a grateful sense of her many mercies, and a fervent affection towards her husband and near connections. Gradually declining, she passed away as falling into a sweet sleep, and we cannot doubt exchanged the tribulations of time, for the blissful joys of eternity. JOSEPH STANDIN BROWN, _Hitchin_. 60 6mo. 27 1850 SARAH BROWN, _Preston Crowmarsh_, _Oxon_. Wife of Richard M. Brown, junior. 36 3mo. 31 1850 GEORGE BRUMELL, _Scotby_. 72 2mo. 23 1850 ASH BUDGE, _Camborne_, _Redruth_. Wife of John Budge. 53 4mo. 10 1850 In an unexpected hour, and in the enjoyment of usual health, it pleased our heavenly Father to lay his hand of affliction upon this dear friend, and after a severe illness of about four weeks, to gather her, as we reverently believe, into "the rest which remaineth for the people of God." It appears, that in early life, "the grace which bringeth salvation," wrought effectually in her heart, so that her surviving relatives cannot recall the time when the fear of God did not influence her conduct; her pious mother, who for many years filled the station of Elder in our Society; was deeply interested in the religious welfare of her children, and earnestly sought, in the morning of their day, to imbue their minds with the principles and precepts of the gospel of Christ, and her labours of love in reference to this beloved daughter were graciously owned. From her childhood, she was more than commonly dutiful and affectionate to her parents, rarely giving them any cause for uneasiness; an aged grandmother also, who resided for many years with them, she waited on with such tender care, as to call forth the expression of her belief, that a blessing would rest on her on that account. Great meekness, tenderness, and humility clothed her mind, not only throughout the season of her affliction, but for a long course of previous years, binding her in very tender bonds to her husband and children, as well as to her other endeared relatives and friends. It appears, from the first day on which her illness assumed a more serious character, that an impression pervaded her mind, that it would be unto death, and accompanying this impression, a deep and earnest desire for entire resignation to the divine will; and this desire was graciously answered; for during the period of her illness, her resignation, and consequent tranquillity, were indeed remarkable; attended by a precious measure of "the peace of God which passeth all understanding." So fully was this the case, and so little of the appearance of death accompanied her illness, that a lively hope of her restoration to health, was, even to the last day of her life, earnestly cherished by those around her, and in addition to this, such was the nature of her disease, that great stillness and uninterrupted rest were considered necessary; thus circumstanced, whilst both her mind, and their minds, were abundantly satisfied with the precious evidence of the love of God in Christ Jesus, shed abroad in her heart, they were not anxious for much expression, or careful to commit to writing what, from season to season, fell from her lips; feeling that her mind "wore thanksgiving to her Maker." She evinced, throughout her married life, a deep interest in the well- being of her tenderly beloved children, making it her frequent practice to spend some portion of her time in retirement with them, in reading the holy scriptures and in prayer; and this interest increasingly appeared as she lay on the bed of affliction, having them daily in her chamber, and again and again, in tender affection, impressing on their minds the importance of divine and eternal things, urging them to walk in the way of God's commandments, and to regard his favour and approbation as the one thing, beyond all other things, necessary both to their present peace and everlasting salvation: similar counsel was also extended to the other members of her household and family, to the friends who kindly visited her, to her medical attendants, and to her neighbours. More might be said in reference to the Christian graces which marked the character of this beloved friend, but the object is not to magnify the creature, but to set forth the excellency and sufficiency of the "grace which is from God our Father, and the Lord Jesus Christ," and by the effectual operation of which, she was what she was. The last words she addressed to her tenderly beloved husband were: "All is well:" and again, shortly before the final close: "My foundation is on the Rock;" that Rock, we undoubtingly believe, which "no tempest overthrows." REBECCA CANDLER, _East Hill_, _Colchester_. 55 5mo. 8 1850 SARAH CARSON, _Liverpool_. Wife of William Carson. 59 2mo. 21 1850 HANNAH CARTER, _Preston_. Daughter of Thomas and Mary Carter. 4 7mo. 12 1850 HANNAH CASSON, _Hull_. Daughter of Benjamin Casson. 14 8mo. 22 1850 HANNAH CATLIN, _London_. Died at York. 62 3mo. 26 1850 WILLIAM CHANTLER, _Lewes_. 78 2mo. 15 1850 DANIEL CHAPMAN, _Reeth_. 24 12mo. 29 1849 WILLIAM CHESELDEN, _Ipswich_. 85 12mo. 17 1849 JOHN CHRISTMAS, _Colne near Earith_. 87 7mo. 7 1850 MARY CHRISTY, _Woodbank_, _Lurgan_. Daughter of the late John Christy, of Stramore. 33 1mo. 23 1850 THOMAS CLARK, _Bridgewater_. A Minister. 91 6mo. 16 1850 SAMUEL CLARK, _Lower Grange_, _Ireland_. 68 12mo. 28 1849 JOSEPH CLARK, _Southampton_. An Elder. 85 5mo. 25 1850 SUSAN CLEMES, _Ackworth_. Daughter of Samuel and Jane Clemes. 1 4mo. 1 1850 JOHN BARCLAY CLIBBORN, _Duner Mills_, _Clonmel_. 80 3mo. 22 1850 JOSHUA COLEBY, _Alton_. An Elder. 73 3mo. 25 1850 MARY COOKE, _Liverpool_. Widow of John Cooke. 68 12mo. 9 1849 MARY COOPER, _Brighouse_. A Minister. Widow of Thomas Cooper. 79 4mo. 20 1850 MARTHA COOPER, _Lockwood_, _Huddersfield_. Widow of John Cooper, of Brighouse. 65 9mo. 14 1849 JOSEPH COVENTRY, _Stoke Newington_. 70 2mo. 17 1850 ELIZABETH CRAPP, _Truro_. 64 1mo. 22 1850 MARY CRAWE, _Norwich_. Widow of Spicer Crawe. 77 3mo. 8 1850 TABITHA CROSLAND, _Bradford_. Wife of Robert Crosland. 45 10mo. 29 1849 RACHEL CURCHIN, _Ipswich_. Died at York. 50 1mo. 20 1850 WILLIAM CURTIS, _Alton_. 79 10mo. 13 1849 FRANCIS DARBY, _Sunniside_, _Coalbrookdale_. 67 3mo. 20 1850 SAMUEL DAVIS, _Aldershaw_, _Garsdale_, _Yorkshire_. 81 5mo. 30 1850 EDWIN DAWES, _Stoke Newington_. 38 10mo. 27 1849 ANNA MARIA DAY, _Saffron Walden_. 68 11mo. 8 1849 GULIELMA DEANE, _Reigate_. Daughter of James and Sarah Deane. 18 11mo. 4 1849 SARAH (_Sally_) DEAVES, _Eglantine_, _Cork_. Daughter of Reuben and Sarah Deaves. 22 10mo. 3 1849 The sudden death, by Cholera, of this dear young friend, caused at the time a very lively emotion among a wide circle of friends. She was the only and much beloved child of her bereaved parents;--naturally of a most amiable disposition, and of that lively temperament which gives a peculiar zest to life and all its passing enjoyments, she diffused around her somewhat of the buoyancy and sunshine which seemed ever to attend her own steps. Thus attractive and admired, and drinking largely of the cup of present pleasures, the thoughts of the future appear to have had but little place in her mind. In a state of excellent health, she had gone to Mountmelick to pass a few weeks with some near relatives, when she was seized with the disorder which, in a few hours, closed her life. Those hours were passed in much bodily suffering, but sorer still were the conflicts of her mind. The scales which had prevented her from seeing the real worth of life and the awful realities of the future, at once fell from her eyes, and she saw or rather felt with indescribable clearness, that the great truths which appertain to the welfare of the soul belong alike to the young and the healthy, to the sick and the dying. She saw that she had been living to herself and not to God, and this, whatever particulars she might lament, was the heavy burden of her awakened spirit. In the depths of contrition, and in the earnestness of faith, she was enabled to pray to her heavenly Father, and Saviour, to draw near and to have mercy upon her. Thus passed some hours never to be forgotten. The rapid progress of her disease hardly allowed time for much further mental exercise or expression. She sank into a state of quietude of body and of mind. And when all was over, the sorrowing parents were condoled in the hope, that the prayers of their beloved child had been heard, through the mercy of Him who never turned away his ear from the truly repentant suppliant. What lessons does this brief narrative offer to survivors. Awfully does it speak to the children of pleasure, of the inestimable value of the soul--of the importance of time--of the folly of living in forgetfulness of God, and unmindful of their high destiny as immortal beings. What a light does it throw on the responsibility of parents; and whilst affording no encouragement to delay in the hope of a death-bed repentance, what a view does it open of the infinite mercy of our heavenly Father in Christ Jesus. MARTHA DELL, _Birmingham_. Widow of Joseph H. Dell, of Earls Colne. 78 4mo. 30 1850 SAMUEL DICKINSON, _Denbydale_, _Highflatts_, _Yorkshire_. 79 2mo. 19 1850 EDWARD DOUBLEDAY, _Harrington Square_, _Westminster_. 38 11mo. 14 1849 ISABELLA DOWBIGGIN, _Preston_. Widow. 75 7mo. 26 1850 JOSEPH DOYLE, _Calledon_, _Kilconnor_. 60 7mo. 6 1850 THOMAS DUNBABBIN, _Chorlton-on-Medlock_. 68 3mo. 29 1850 CHARLOTTE EDMUNDSON, _Kingstown_, _Dublin_. Widow of Joshua Edmundson. 76 10mo. 18 1849 JANE EUSTACE, _Hampstead_, _Dublin_. 56 12mo. 10 1849 ROBERT FARR, _Birmingham_. Died at Worcester. 36 3mo. 10 1850 ANNE FAYLE, _Enniscorthy_. Widow of Josiah Fayle. 54 1mo. 18 1850 ELEANOR FELL, _Uxbridge_. Wife of John Fell. 41 10mo. 15 1849 SUSANNAH FERN, _Rochdale_. Widow of Joseph Fern. 76 7mo. 24 1850 SUSANNA FINCH, _Reading_. 78 12mo. 6 1849 SUSANNAH FINCHER, _Evesham_. Widow of John Fincher. 78 12mo. 16 1849 SARAH MARIA FISHER, _Newport_, _Tipperary_. Daughter of Benjamin C. and Mary Fisher. 18 4mo. 16 1850 SARAH FOWLER, _Higher Broughton_, _Manchester_. Widow of William Fowler. 87 6mo. 28 1850 CATHERINE FOX, _Rushmere_, _Ipswich_. An Elder. Wife of Thomas Fox. 62 10mo. 6 1849 ELIZABETH FREELOVE, _London_. Wife of James Freelove. 40 12mo. 17 1849 LUCY FREETH, _Birmingham_. 53 1mo. 19 1850 ANN FULLER, _Yarmouth_. Widow of John Fuller. 77 5mo. 20 1850 ANNE GALE, _Racketstown_, _Ballynakill_, _Ireland_. Widow. 73 6mo. 10 1850 JOHN GAUNTLEY, _Bakewell_. 72 7mo. 28 1850 MARY COOKE GELDART, _Norwich_. Wife of Joseph Geldart. 55 5mo. 24 1850 ROBERT GOSWELL GILES, _Oldford_, _Middlesex_. An Elder. 80 8mo. 23 1849 JOSEPH GILLETT, _Banbury_. Son of Joseph A. and Martha Gillett. 21 3mo. 2 1850 THOMAS GOODYEAR, _Adderbury_. 75 8mo. 14 1850 BENJAMIN GOOUCH, _Greenville_, _county Kilkenny_. 84 5mo. 2 1850 ISABELLA GRACE, _Bristol_. Daughter of Josiah and Mary Grace. 9 9mo. 28 1850 ELIZABETH GREEN, _Trummery_, _Ballinderry_. Widow of Thomas Green. 96 4mo. 8 1850 ELLEN GREEN, _Gildersome_, _Yorkshire_. Widow of David Green. 70 4mo. 25 1850 MARY GREENWOOD, _Stones_, _Todmorden_. 72 11mo. 12 1849 JAMES GREENWOOD, _Plaistow_. 79 5mo. 9 1850 THOMAS GRIMES, _Chelsea_. 52 5mo. 20 1850 ABRAHAM GRUBB, _Merlin_, _Clonmel_. 73 11mo. 7 1849 JOHN GULSON, _Leicester_. 89 5mo. 26 1850 THOMAS HAGGER, _Hoddesdon_. 85 7mo. 11 1850 RACHEL HALL, _Greysouthen_, _Cumberland_. 69 1mo. 30 1850 MARY HARKER, _Bristol_. Widow of John Harker. 81 11mo. 5 1849 ADAM HARKER, _Darlington_. 76 4mo. 3 1850 MARGARET HARKER, _Cowgill, Dent_, _Yorkshire_. Wife of Thomas Harker. 63 2mo. 23 1850 MARY HARRIS, _Peckham Rye_. Wife of John Harris. 61 10mo. 7 1849 JOHN HARRISON, _Poole_, _Dorset_. Son of Samuel and Sarah Harrison. 3 9mo. 29 1849 ELIZABETH HARRISON, _Southgate_, _Middlesex_. 60 3mo. 26 1850 MARY HARTAS, _Sinnington Grange_, _near Kirby_, _Yorkshire_. A Minister. Widow of Thomas Hartas. 74 3mo. 2 1850 JOHN HARTAS, _Westerdale_, _Castleton_, _Yorkshire_. 49 9mo. 26 1850 WILLIAM HARTLEY, _Dunfermline_, _near Edinburgh_. 43 4mo. 23 1850 JOHN HASLEM, _Rosenalis_, _Mountmelick_. 81 1mo. 5 1850 MARY HAWKSWORTH, _Thorne_. Wife of John Hawksworth. 64 1mo. 5 1850 ELLEN HAWORTH, _Todmorden_. Wife of William Haworth. 57 12mo. 10 1849 BENJAMIN HAYLLAR, _Dorking_. 83 10mo. 6 1849 HANNAH HAYTON, _Penrith_. 70 3mo. 24 1850 MARY ANN HEAD, _Ipswich_. 33 4mo. 18 1850 ANN HERBERT, _Tottenham_. 72 9mo. 24 1849 ISAAC HEWITSON, _Penrith_. 82 8mo. 28 1850 ELIZABETH HILL, _Hillsborough_, _Ireland_. 87 9mo. 18 1849 RICHARD IVEY HOCKING, _Truro_. 49 10mo. 5 1849 MARY HODGKIN, _Shipston-on-Stour_. 78 12mo. 8 1849 JAMES HOGG, _Portadown Grange_, _Ireland_. 51 1mo. 2 1850 ANN HOLMES, _Huddersfield_. 31 5mo. 21 1850 SARAH HOOWE, _Edenderry_. 67 8mo. 30 1850 MARTHA HORNE, _Tottenham_. An Elder. 85 9mo. 2 1850 ELIZABETH HORSFALL, _Leeds_. 50 1mo. 17 1850 RICHARD HORSNAILL, _Dover_. 48 7mo. 23 1850 In endeavouring to pursue faithfully the path of manifested duty, we believe it was peculiarly the aim of this dear friend, "to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with his God." He was of a very diffident disposition, and cautious in giving expression to his religious feelings, lest he should thereby make a profession beyond what he thought his attainments warranted. For many years he laboured under a disease, which was attended with much suffering; but this proved a means of weaning him from the world and its pursuits, and of inducing him more earnestly to "seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness," with the unshaken belief that all things necessary would be added. He manifested a deep interest in the prosperity of our religious Society, and according to his measure, especially in the latter part of his life, willingly devoted himself to its service. He likewise took great delight in promoting the best interests of the juvenile portion of the population in the neighbourhood in which he resided; and the counsel he gave to those of this class, often gained their good will and respectful attention. He also exhibited a very humane disposition toward the animal creation, and rarely allowed a case of ill-treatment or oppression to pass without attempting to redress the wrongs inflicted. For some years, he took great interest in supplying the crews of foreign vessels, resorting to the port of Dover, with copies of the holy Scriptures and religious tracts; and from his kind and unassuming manners, his efforts were almost universally well received. His last illness, of four months' duration, was attended with extreme bodily suffering; but the nature of his complaint being very obscure, he entertained a hope that he might be restored to his former state of health, and expressed some anxiety for length of days, in order that he might be more useful to his fellow-creatures. But as his strength declined, this desire gave way to quiet submission to the will of his God; and it was evident, that his soul was anchored upon that Rock, which alone can support in the hour of trial. Soon after he was taken ill, he remarked in allusion to his business, that he had thought it right in one instance, to decline the execution of an order, where more display of taste was required, than he could feel satisfied with; and this sacrifice, with some others of a similar kind, had afforded him peace: adding, "I do want to come clean out of Babylon." He said, the language had been much upon his mind: "Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow:" and also the words of our Saviour,--"If I wash thee not, thou hast no part with me." Being in great pain, he said,--"You must pray for me, that my patience may hold out; I have indeed need of your prayers, for my sufferings are very great; but, bye and bye, perhaps I may be able to say, I have not had one pang too many." At another time, he supplicated thus: "Merciful Father, be pleased to grant me a little ease, O! Thou that makest the storm a calm, and sayest to the waves, Peace be still." Soon after which he lay quiet; and whilst tears of gratitude flowed down his cheeks, he said, "Do not disturb me; all is stillness,--what a mercy!" On one occasion, when feeling exceedingly depressed, he remarked, that the vessels he had visited, and the poor sailors were brought mentally to view, one after another, with much sweetness, and whilst he took no merit to himself, he desired to encourage others to do what they could for the good of the poor. At another time, after giving instructions to one of his sisters, to make some selection of tracts for the sailors on board a German vessel, then lying in the harbour, he observed: "Oh, what a field of labour there is! how I do wish that some one would take this up, for I feel as though I should be able to do very little more in it." His mind, during his illness, seemed filled with love and gratitude. He remarked, "I never felt so much love before, both to my family and friends; I do believe this illness will bind us more closely together than ever." And again: "Oh, how kind you are to wait upon me so; the Lord will reward you!" At another time, he said, "I had not thought to have been taken at this time of my life, but I am in such a critical state, that life hangs on a thread;--the pains of the body are what I seem most to dread." On inquiring one day, where that line was to be found, "At ease in his possessions," he remarked, "I do not think I have been at ease in mine, I have endeavoured to live loose to them." A hope being expressed that his illness would be sanctified to him, he quickly replied, "Yes, and not to me only, but to all of you." He gave some directions, in the event of his death, with much composure, observing: "It seems an awful thing for me to say thus much, but a great favour to be so free from anxiety." In the night he was heard to say: "No merit of mine, it is all of mercy, free unmerited mercy!" On a young man in his employment coming to assist him, previous to going to his own place of worship, when about to leave the room, he thus addressed him: "Mind and make a good use of the time, and do not be afraid of looking into thy own heart, but suffer the witness to come in and speak, whether it be in the language of encouragement or reproof. Many persons go to their places of worship, where much of the time is spent in singing and in music, which please the outward ear, but this is not religion! It is when we are brought to see ourselves as we really are, sinners in the sight of a holy God, that we are led to seek a Saviour, and to cry, in sincerity, 'A Saviour, or I die! A Redeemer, or I perish for ever!'" On its being remarked to him, that it was consolingly believed, he was one of those who had endeavoured to occupy with his talent, which, if only one, it was hoped, had gained an increase, he replied,--"That will only be known at the great day of account, when weighed in the balance." On Seventh-day evening preceding his decease, he remarked to a beloved relative, that it seemed the safest for him to say but little in regard to his own attainments, adding,--"My desire is, for a continuance of kind preservation." And on the day before his death, he remarked with gratitude, that his intellects had been preserved clear throughout his illness. During the night, he was much engaged in prayer; his bodily powers were fast sinking, but his mind appeared preserved in peaceful serenity. In the morning, he expressed a desire that his sister would remain by him, affectionately inquired for his father, and soon after, we reverently believe, exchanged a state of suffering for one of never-ending rest and joy, in the everlasting kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. ALBERT GEORGE HORSNAILL, _Rochester_. Son of George and Maria Horsnaill. 4 5mo. 22 1850 JAMES HOTHAM, _Leeds_. 44 2mo. 7 1850 JOHN HULL, _Ramsgate_. Died at Cheltenham. 55 6mo. 3 1850 MARY HUNT, _Almondsbury_. A Minister. Widow of James Hunt. 79 12mo. 7 1849 DAVID HURST, _West Houghton_, _Lancashire_. 35 2mo. 19 1850 HANNAH IRWIN, _Deptford_. Wife of Thomas Irwin. 55 2mo. 9 1850 JOHN CLARK ISAAC, _Studminster_, _Newton_, _Marnhull_. 67 2mo. 12 1850 ELIZABETH PIM JACOB, _Newlands_, _Dublin_. Daughter of the late Joseph Jacob. 17 10mo. 30 1849 ELIZABETH JACOBS, _Folkstone_. Widow of Jacob Jacobs. 76 6mo. 9 1850 CAROLINE JACOBS, _Maidstone_. Daughter of Jacob and Lydia Jacobs. 6 8mo. 15 1850 MARY ANN JEFFERIES, _Melksham_. Daughter of Thomas and Martha Jefferies. 38 12mo. 14 1849 EMMA JEFFREY, _Folkstone_. Daughter of the late John and Eliza Jeffrey. 11 10mo. 6 1849 SARAH JEPHCOTT, _Coventry_. Wife of Enoch Jephcott. 72 3mo. 26 1850 SAMUEL JONES, _Hoxton_. 39 5mo. 10 1850 SARAH JONES, _Hereford_. Daughter of Joseph Jones. 22 7mo. 17 1850 JUDITH KING, _Castle Donington_. 86 8mo. 11 1850 JOHN LESLIE, _Wells_, _Norfolk_. 66 10mo. 14 1849 CHARLES LIDBETTER, _Croydon_. Son of Martin and Elizabeth Lidbetter. 2 2mo. 9 1850 JOHN LITTLE, _Alston_. 78 3mo. 27 1850 RICHARD LYNES, _Chelsea_. 85 1mo. 3 1850 WILLIAM LYTHALL, _Baddesley_, _Warwickshire_. 68 3mo. 13 1850 ANN MALCOMSON, _Milton_, _Ireland_. Widow of Thomas Malcomson. 79 7mo. 2 1850 WILLIAM MALLY, _Preston_. 77 7mo. 23 1850 JOSEPH MARRIAGE, _Chelmsford_. 76 12mo. 8 1849 WILLIAM MARSH, _Ashton_, _Lancashire_. 50 10mo. 1 1849 REBECCA MARSH, _Dorking_. Wife of William Marsh. 49 10mo. 27 1849 ALFRED MARSH, _Luton_. Son of Robert and Maria Marsh. 4 8mo. 14 1850 DAVID MARSHALL, _Sheffield_. 61 12mo. 9 1849 JANE MASON, _Leeds_. Wife of George Mason. 45 10mo. 9 1849 MARY MILES, _Peckham_. Wife of Edward Miles. 36 4mo. 1 1850 SUSANNA MOORE, _Waterford_. 80 8mo. 12 1850 PRISCILLA NASH, _London_. Daughter of William and Rebecca Nash. 17 3mo. 13 1850 EDWARD PHILIP NASH, _Holt_, _Norfolk_. Son of Thomas W. and Sarah Nash. 2 4mo. 1 1850 HANNAH NEALE, _Mountmelick_. Daughter of William Neale. 33 3mo. 29 1850 Hannah Neale had an extensive circle of acquaintance, by whom she was much beloved and esteemed, as being one of a very innocent and blameless life. Some of the circumstances relating to her, are of a very affecting and interesting character, and speak loudly the uncertainty of all earthly prospects. In the summer of last year, she entered into an engagement of marriage with a friend residing in England. Having considered the subject with earnest and sincere desires to act in accordance with best wisdom, she looked forward to the completion of the prospect with a pleasing and hopeful confidence, yet even at an early period of the engagement, there was something that seemed to whisper to her, the uncertainty of its completion. At this time she appeared in her usual health and full of spirits; but whilst on a visit to her aunt, at Kingstown, her health became affected, and from this time, symptoms exhibited themselves, which baffled all medical skill. She was still, however, hopeful respecting her own recovery, and very often expressed in her correspondence, how much she was pained by the thought of being the cause of so much anxiety to others,--that her own sufferings were trifling, and the comforts surrounding her so numerous, she felt that she had every thing to be thankful for. It was, however, evident to those around her, that there was little ground for hope, and a dear friend intimated to her, that her medical advisers considered her end might possibly be very near. This intelligence greatly startled her, but she afterward expressed, how thankful she felt that she had been honestly apprized of her danger. The solemn impression then made on her mind, never left her, and her constant desire was, that she might, through divine mercy, be made meet for the kingdom of heaven, repeating emphatically, "I have much to do." She often expressed her great sorrow, that she had not yielded to the serious impressions with which she had been favoured, saving, "They were soon scattered;" and regretted much that she had not lived a more devoted life. She felt herself to be a great sinner, needing a Saviour's gracious pardon; and for a long time feared she never should obtain that forgiveness, she so earnestly longed for. But though her faith was feeble, she endeavoured to lay hold of encouragement from the mercy extended to the Prodigal Son, and to the Thief upon the cross, hoping that the same mercy might be extended to herself; but for a long time, her poor tossed and tried mind "could find nothing to lean upon." She remarked, she could not feel that she had sinned against her fellow-creatures, but that she could adopt the words of the Psalmist: "Against Thee, Thee only, have I sinned," saying, "I feel that I have nothing to build upon, and that I want every thing; I am not prepared to die, I want all my sins to be forgiven; I hope I shall not be taken till the work be fully accomplished." The whole of the 51st Psalm, she said, seemed to suit her case, and with solemnity repeated, "'Create in me a clean heart, oh God! and renew a right spirit within me.' If I am saved, it will indeed be at the eleventh hour, I have been such a sinner." Thus did the Spirit of Truth search all things, and bring this beloved friend sensibly to feel, as she weightily expressed, "that at such a solemn hour, it will not do to build upon having led a spotless and innocent life, something more is then wanted to lean upon." She often observed, how well it was for those who had given up their hearts to serve their Saviour in the time of health,--that had she done so, she should not now, in the hour of trial, have had to feel such deep sorrow of heart,--that she could only hope for mercy and forgiveness, adding, "If I perish, let it be at Thy footstool." As her bodily weakness increased, she remarked, "I often feel unable to read, or even to think; but I can _cling_; this is about as much as I am able to do." Though this beloved friend took these low views of her own state, her company was deeply instructive and edifying to those around her, and a heavenly sweetness marked her deportment. Her heart was often filled with gratitude to her heavenly Father for the extension of his love and mercy, and she remarked many times, "I have indeed been mercifully dealt with." The dear sufferer rapidly declined; yet her mind continued bright, and she was preserved in a patient, waiting state, fully conscious of the approach of death, she queried how long it was thought likely she might live? praying,--"Oh! dear Saviour, may it please thee not to take me till the work be fully accomplished." She often said, "It is a solemn thing to die;" and the evening preceding her death, when her friends were watching around her, she remarked that, believing her end was near, "It felt very, very solemn to her." At this deeply interesting season, He who is indeed Love, condescended in great mercy to draw near, so that she seemed lifted above terrestrial things, and permitted a foretaste of those joys, of which we consolingly believe, she now fully participates. Under this precious influence, her countenance beamed with sweetness, and she emphatically repeated many times,--"Divine compassion! mighty love!" and raising her hand, exclaimed, "Oh such love!--such love!--and to me such a sinner; is it not marvellous?" adding, "a weary burdened soul, oh Lord, am I, but the blood of Jesus can wash the guilty sinner clean.--Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.--Oh how wonderful! hard things have been made easy, and bitter things sweet." She remarked that, at such a solemn hour, the world had no relish, "oh no!" she said, "it is not worth a thought: 'The world recedes, it disappears, Heaven opens on my eyes, my ears.'" To a young friend whom she tenderly loved, she said, "Oh if we should all meet in heaven, will it not be delightful? oh! dear ---, we must all come to this, and nothing will do for any of us but the blood of the Lamb." She continued for some time addressing those around her in this strain; and to the question of her brother, whether she was happy? she replied, "Yes, indeed, I am happy." Thus her dying lips seemed to testify, that she was mercifully brought to see the salvation of God, and that he is able to save to the uttermost all those who come unto him, through faith in Christ Jesus our Lord. HENRY NEILD, _Over Whitley_, _Cheshire_. An Elder. 59 10mo. 4 1849 In the removal of this beloved friend, we have another instance of the uncertainty of time, and another call to prepare for the life to come. Henry Neild left home on the 12th of 9th month, 1849, for the purpose of attending his Monthly and Quarterly Meetings, at Nantwich; but he was taken ill in the former meeting, and though relieved by medical aid, it failed to remove disease, which continued daily to waste his frame, and in little more than three weeks terminated his earthly pilgrimage; and we thankfully believe, through redeeming mercy, translated the immortal spirit to "an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away." He had long been a very useful and willing helper in the small Quarterly Meeting, of which he was a member; and a true sympathizer with the afflicted, taking heed to the apostolic injunction, "Bear ye one anothers burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ." Deep and fervent were his desires for the welfare of our Society, for the maintenance of all our religious testimonies, and that its members might be redeemed from the influence and spirit of the world. In the early part of his illness, he remarked that "it was surprising to himself, how entirely he could leave all earthly things; he had desired to leave all to Him who doeth all things well; and to commit himself into the hands of his dear Saviour." At another time, he said, "I am very gently and mercifully dealt with, I feel that I am a poor unfaithful creature, but I consider it a favour to be made sensible of this, for it is only of divine mercy that we can rightly feel our need." Thus kept in humble reliance upon the mercy of God, in Christ Jesus his Saviour, he was permitted to repose on that "Anchor to the soul which is sure and steadfast," and to cast all his care upon our compassionate and ever present Redeemer. He died at Nantwich, at the house of Croudson Tunstall, whose own death took place little more than a month afterwards. WILLIAM NEWSOM, _Limerick_. 62 6mo. 18 1850 In affixing a few lines to this name, the desire is simply to arrest the attention of any reader, who may be too closely engaged in temporal things; giving their strength to that which cannot profit, and not sufficiently pondering the passing nature of all terrestrial things. William Newsom had been extensively engaged in commerce through great part of his life, and there was reason to fear he was unduly absorbed by its cares and allurements: for the last year or more, he appeared to be becoming more sensible that disappointment was stamped upon his pursuits; his bodily health heretofore unbroken, began also to decline, and it was comfortingly believed by his friends, that this and other revolving circumstances, were tending to turn the energies of his mind from perishable, to imperishable objects. A few months before his decease, it became still more evident, that the hand of his heavenly Father was laid upon him in mercy; and on one occasion, he remarked, "that he saw nothing in the world worth living for, it abounded in trouble and disappointment, all outward things were stained in his eyes, there was nothing but religion that could be of any avail for any of us; and it mattered not when we were taken--young, old, or middle aged--if we were but ready, that was the great point!" His experience, however, during the last few days of his life shewed, that although the ground might have been prepared, the work was by no means effected; deep and sore conflict was then his portion, and oh! with what fervency did he call upon his Saviour, beseeching him in his mercy to be pleased to look down upon his poor unworthy creature, for he alone could help in that awful hour. Once he exclaimed, "what could all the world do for me now?" His wife, under great exercise of spirit, replied, "Nothing! the best, when laid upon such a bed as thou art, have nothing to look to or depend upon, but the mercy of the Saviour;" the poor sufferer earnestly pleaded that that mercy might be extended to him, remarking, "He has all power in heaven and in earth." He then fervently prayed that the Lord would save his never dying soul. It is believed, that whilst his many sins of omission and commission were brought vividly before his view, by the unflattering witness, he was made very fully sensible that the great work of salvation rests between the soul of man and his Creator, and that "no man can redeem his brother, or give to God a ransom for him." Through the night, he was mostly engaged in prayer, with uplifted hands invoking for mercy and forgiveness. Some time before his death, the great conflict of mind he had been under, appeared to subside, and to be succeeded by a sweet calm, and he intimated to his wife, that he felt comfortable and satisfied. Till within half an hour of the close, prayer continued flowing from his lips, the last audible sounds being an appeal to the Lord; and but a few minutes before he ceased to breathe, a conscious look at his dear wife, seemed to say, "all is peace;" and it was granted to her exercised spirit to believe, that the unshackled soul when released, was received into a mansion of rest, through the mercy and merits of his Lord and Saviour. In reference to that impressive hour this dear relative writes,--"Oh! how many times that solemn night, did I long that all the world could feel the great necessity, whilst in health and strength, so to live, as to be prepared for that awful hour, which sooner or later must come upon us all; it is a very dangerous thing to put off the work of the soul's salvation to a deathbed, or to depend upon mercy being extended as at the eleventh hour, for it may not then be found." Let us then be concerned to work whilst it is called to-day, and be ready to meet the awful summons,--"Steward give up thy stewardship, for thou mayest be no longer steward." SUSANNAH NICKALLS, _Ashford_, _Folkstone_. Wife of Thomas Nickalls. 65 6mo. 1 1850 MARY NICHOLSON, _Liverpool_. 78 12mo. 14 1849 MARY OSTLE, _Newtown_, _Beckfoot_, _Cumberland_. Widow of Thomas Ostle. 83 12mo. 18 1849 HANNAH PALMER, _Radway_. Widow of William Palmer. 71 10mo. 17 1849 JOHN PERCY, _Ballinagore_, _Ireland_. Son of John and Anna Perry. 3 2mo. 1 1850 RICHARD PATCHING, _Brighton_. 70 2mo. 15 1850 RACHEL PATTINSON, _Felling, near Newcastle-on-Tyne_. Widow of Thomas Pattinson. 59 1mo. 5 1850 SOPHIA GULIELMA PAYNE, _Lambeth Walk_, _Surrey_. Daughter of James and Ann Payne. 1 6mo. 7 1850 ELIZABETH PEARSON, _Preston_. Daughter of Daniel and Ann Pearson. 1 7mo. 6 1850 JOHN PEGLER, _Mangersbury_, _near Stow_, _Warwickshire_. 74 7mo. 6 1850 ISABELLA PEILE, _Carlisle_. Wife of Thomas Peile. 45 8mo. 1 1850 FRANCIS EDWARD PENNEY, _Dorking_. Died at Brighton. Son of the late Richard Penney. 22 7mo. 27 1850 ELIZABETH HALL PICKARD, _Bushcliffe House_, _Wakefield_. Wife of David Pickard. 35 10mo. 30 1849 HARTAS PICKARD, _Bushcliffe House_, _Wakefield_. Son of David and Elizabeth H. Pickard. 1 11mo. 26 1849 ELIZABETH PIERSON, _Dublin_. Daughter of Joseph Pierson. 25 2mo. 3 1850 SARAH LYDIA N. PIKE, _Derryvale_. 6 7mo. 27 1850 HANNAH LECKY PIKE, _Derryvale_. Children of the late James Nicholson and Sarah Pike. 3 9mo. 7 1850 ELIZABETH PIM, _Richmond Hill_, _Dublin_. An Elder. Widow of Jonathan Pim. 63 2mo. 22 1850 EMILY PIM, _Mountmelick_. 4 4mo. 5 1850 FREDERICK PIM, _Mountmelick_. Children of Samuel and Susanna Pim. 1 7mo. 31 1850 ELIZABETH PLUMLEY, _Tottenham_. 72 1mo. 10 1850 SARAH PRESTON, _Earith_, _Hunts_. An Elder. Widow of Samuel Preston. 79 4mo. 22 1850 JOHN PRICHARD, _Leominster_. 86 5mo. 24 1850 ESTHER PRIDEAUX, _Plymouth_. Widow of Philip C. Prideaux. 71 1mo. 8 1850 _Jane Prideaux_, _Kingsbridge_. The decease of this friend is recorded in the Annual Monitor of last year. We have since been furnished with the following notice of her. Our beloved friend, Jane Prideaux, died the 26th of the Second month, 1849, aged 87 years: for many years before her decease, she filled very acceptably the station of Elder, and therein approved herself a lowly follower of her Lord and Master. Very precious to her surviving friends, is the remembrance of her innocent, circumspect walk, holding out as it does in an impressive manner, the invitation, "Follow me as I have followed Christ." During the latter years of her lengthened life, the fruits of her faith became increasingly prominent, and she was endeared to her friends and neighbours around her in no common degree. But it was during the last two months of her life, when under great bodily suffering, that her tongue was more fully set at liberty to declare the lovingkindness of the Lord, who in this season of trial was graciously pleased to lift up the light of his countenance upon her, and to grant a full evidence of acceptance with himself, enabling her to rejoice in the assurance that when her earthly house of this tabernacle should be dissolved, there would be granted to her "a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." Her patient, cheerful endurance of bodily pain was striking and instructive; and in some seasons of closest conflict, her faith was strong, and her acknowledgment of the supporting power of God, full and fervent. She often said, the Lord was able to save and to deliver to the uttermost, and would deliver _her_, when patience had had its perfect work. Very impressive were her short petitions to the Father of mercies, for his support and deliverance, accompanied as they constantly were with the addition, "if consistent with thy will." She remarked, "I am in the hands of an unerring Creator, He _cannot_ err. We must not look to ourselves, but to our Saviour, who loved us and gave himself for us--even for _me_, the most unworthy of his creatures. He healeth all my diseases, and I have many, but my mercies outweigh them all." Love and interest for her friends seemed often to dwell in her heart beyond the power of expression. Speaking of those who were members of the meeting to which she belonged, she sent messages to each, and made appropriate remarks respecting them individually, dwelling with especial comfort on the remembrance of those among them who were bearing the burden of the day, and labouring to promote their great Master's cause. She afterwards said, whilst tears of tenderness flowed, "Oh! how many comfortable meetings I have had in that little meeting-house, how have I loved to go and sit there! It was not a little illness that kept me away: and how has it rejoiced my heart to see individuals come in, who have been as the anointed and sent!" On being told one morning that Friends were going to meeting, she said, "May they know the Sun of righteousness to arise as with healing in his wings;" emphatically adding, "I think they will." At another time she sent messages of love to many of the members of her Monthly Meeting, adding with an expression of feeling, to which those around could not be insensible. "But I cannot name all; my love is universal; God is love." One night, when in great pain, she acknowledged in grateful terms, the kindness of her attendants, and her belief that a blessing with a full recompense would be given them; and addressing one of them, she continued, "I love thee tenderly, and feel thee near in the best life--in the truth that is blessed for ever." Afterwards, she broke forth with an audible voice thus: "Bless the Lord, oh my soul! and praise him for all his benefits. What can I do! how shall I praise him enough!" And then, as with melody of soul, she added,-- "Heavenly blessings without number, Gently falling on my head." After taking an affectionate farewell of those around her, and addressing them in an instructive and encouraging manner, she added, "I can heartily say, that death is robbed of its sting, and the grave of its victory. Thanks be unto God who giveth the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." And again, "Praise and magnify the Lord! Oh if I could sing, I would sing his praise!" To some beloved relatives, from a distance, who came to see her, she testified of her faith, hope, and confidence,--acknowledged, that although frail in body, she was strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might; and expressed her desire, that they might all meet where partings are not known, adding, "goodness and mercy have followed me all the days of my life; and there is a promise for the poor in spirit that will be fulfilled, 'When the poor and needy seek water and there is none, and their tongue faileth for thirst, I the Lord will hear them, I the God of Israel will not forsake them.'" She was permitted to pass quietly away without any apparent pain, and is now, we reverently and thankfully believe, an inhabitant of that city "which hath no need of the sun, neither of the moon to shine in it; for the glory of God doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof." DAVID PRIESTMAN, _Gorton_, _Manchester_. Son of Henry and Mary Priestman. 3 8mo. 1 1850 RACHEL PROUD, _Scarborough_. A Minister. 77 5mo. 4 1850 WILLIAM PUCKRIN, _near Whitby_. 87 11mo. 27 1849 ANN PUGH, _Tyddyn-y-gareg_, _North Wales_. 90 6mo. 24 1850 ANN PUMPHREY, _Worcester_. 84 4mo. 22 1850 SARAH RACEY, _Norwich_. Widow of Thomas Racey. 72 11mo. 25 1850 JAMES RANSOME, _Rushmere_, _Ipswich_. 67 11mo. 22 1849 ANNE RAWLINSON, _Newton-in-Cartmel_. 45 12mo. 12 1849 DEBORAH REYNOLDS, _Rochester_. 76 5mo. 4 1850 SARAH REYNOLDS, _Liverpool_. 68 5mo. 19 1850 SUSANNA REYNOLDS, _Oldswenford_, _Stourbridge_. Wife of John Reynolds. 45 12mo. 28 1849 WILLIAM RICHARDS, _Wellington_. 73 12mo. 19 1849 JOSIAH RICHARDSON, _Peckham_. 84 1mo. 8 1850 HELENA RICHARDSON, _Belfast_. Wife of John G. Richardson. 30 12mo. 7 1849 HANNAH RICKERBY, _Burgh_, _near Carlisle_. 50 7mo. 13 1850 JOSEPH ROBINSON, _Stoke Newington Road_, _London_. 72 7mo. 6 1850 WILLIAM ROBINSON, _Bellevile_, _near Dublin_. 62 10mo. 26 1849 FREDERICK ROBINSON, _Dublin_. Son of Samuel S. and Charlotte Robinson. 16 12mo. 16 1849 MARY ROBINSON, _Fleetwood_. Widow of Isaac Robinson. 77 2mo. 8 1850 JANE ROBINSON, _Whinfell Hall_, _Pardshaw_. Wife of Wilson Robinson. 84 7mo. 15 1850 REBECCA ROBINSON, _Tottenham_. Wife of James Robinson. 56 10mo. 11 1849 ANNE ROBSON, _Sunderland_. Wife of Thomas Robson. 65 3mo. 20 1850 HENRY ROBSON, _Huddersfield_. Son of Thomas Robson. 51 8mo. 12 1850 JOSEPH RUSSELL, _Cork_. 61 1mo. 14 1850 JAMES SANSOM, _Tideford_. An Elder. 73 10mo. 10 1849 MARIA SCALES, _Nottingham_. Daughter of Lydia Scales. 32 4mo. 16 1850 It often pleases our heavenly Father to carry forward the work of divine grace, in the hearts of his children, by means, and through dispensations, altogether unfathomable to the finite comprehension of men; but the humble believer, looking beyond the changing rugged path of this life, with filial love and confidence can repose on the mercy and goodness of the Lord, and believingly apply the language of our Saviour, "What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter." In very early life, the subject of the present brief notice was made sensible of the contriting influence of divine grace on her heart, so that many of her earliest recollections were fraught with love to her Saviour. For many years, she was subject to attacks of illness of a very trying character, in connection with which, she was brought as into the very furnace of affliction, and earnest were her prayers, that 'patience might have her perfect work,' and that through faith in the wisdom of her heavenly Father, she might become fully resigned to his holy will; and a sense of his supporting power and presence, were often mercifully granted to her, in times of severest suffering. Her last illness was short: two days previous to her decease, she remarked, "I have had an awful night," but added, "my mind is calm and peaceful, I can now _quite_ say, 'Thy will be done;'" and to the remark, "His grace is sufficient for thee," she replied, "Oh yes! and without that, we can do nothing; I cast all upon Him, and can say, I fully trust in His will, and in His power." JOSEPH SEFTON, _Liverpool_. 66 12mo. 15 1849 SARAH SEWELL, _Wereham_, _Norfolk_. 85 11mo. 4 1849 GEORGE SHAW, _Clonmel_. 68 12mo. 22 1849 SUSANNA SHEPPARD, _Mile End Road_, _Middlesex_. 97 4mo. 16 1850 BETTY SHIPLEY, _Derby_. Widow of John Shipley, of Uttoxeter. 86 2mo. 3 1850 MARGARET SIKES, _Ashburton_, _Ireland_. Wife of William Sikes. 48 5mo. 4 1850 ALICE SILL, _Kendal_. 82 6mo. 1 1850 GEORGE SIMPSON, _Birkenhead_. 58 7mo. 5 1850 SUSANNA SMITH, _Drynah_, _Mountmelick_. Widow of Humphry Smith. 80 11mo. 19 1849 MARY SMITH, _Darlington_. 77 3mo. 2 1850 ABIGAIL SMITH, _Preston_. 70 5mo. 12 1850 HANNAH SMITH, _Walton_, _Liverpool_. Wife of Henry H. Smith. 58 1mo. 23 1850 CASSANDRA SMITH, _Birmingham_. Died at Dover. 49 9mo. 27 1849 JOHN SMITH, _Winchmorehill_. 77 7mo. 11 1850 ELIZABETH SNOWDEN, _Bradford_. Daughter of John and Ann Snowden. 21 7mo. 21 1850 MARY ANN SPARKES, _Exeter_. 41 2mo. 3 1850 ELIZA COLE SPARKES, _Exeter_. Daughter of Thomas and Esther Maria Sparkes. 1 4mo. 29 1850 JOSEPH SPENCE, _York_. An Elder. 75 9mo. 26 1850 CHARLES SPENCE, _Darlington_. Son of Charles and Hannah Spence. 6 12mo. 8 1849 MARY SPENCER, _South Lodge, Cockermouth_. 69 6mo. 30 1850 WILLIAM SQUIRE, _Stoke Newington_. 59 3mo. 24 1850 DORCAS SQUIRE, _King's Langley_, _Hempstead_, _Herts_. 67 1mo. 9 1850 CATHERINE DYKE STADE, _Aberavon_, _Glamorgan_. Daughter of J. and R. D. Stade. 6 11mo. 26 1849 SUSANNA STANILAND, _Hull_. 78 8mo. 26 1850 JAMES STEEVENS, _Basingstoke_. 59 2mo. 25 1850 MARY STRETCH, _Nantwich_. Widow of Richard Stretch. 80 3mo. 25 1850 ELIZABETH STRETCH, _Finedon_. Widow of Samuel Stretch, of Hortherton, Cheshire. 75 2mo. 27 1850 SARAH TACKABERRY, _Ballygunner_, _Waterford_. Widow. 88 5mo. 12 1850 GEORGE NORTH TATHAM, _Headingley_, _Leeds_. 78 5mo. 19 1850 JAMES TAYLOR, _Heston_, _near Brentford_. 79 2mo. 7 1850 BENJAMIN THOMPSON, _Spring Hill_, _Lurgan_. 77 3mo. 19 1850 THOMAS THOMSON, _Dublin_. Son of Benjamin and Sarah Thomson. 23 11mo. 21 1849 PHILIP H. L. THORNTON, _Sidcot_. Son of William and Catherine Thornton. 22 6mo. 5 1850 The subject of this memoir was a native of Kingsbridge, Devonshire; and was educated among Friends. He was not by birth a member of our Society, but was received into membership a short time previous to his death. Having been adopted by his uncle, he was taken to Ireland, when about fourteen years of age, as an apprentice to one of the Provincial Schools, of which his uncle was the superintendent. Endowed with natural abilities well adapted for the acquisition of knowledge, and possessing a taste for various branches of literature and science,--gifted, too, with engaging manners and affability of disposition, he became, as he grew up, a general favourite amongst those with whom he associated, and his immediate relatives indulged in fond hopes of his becoming an honourable and useful charter. His best friends, however, were sometimes anxious on his account, lest the caresses of the world should turn aside his feet from the path of safety, and prevent that entire surrender of heart and life to the requirements of the gospel, which alone consists with true Christian discipleship, and affords a well-grounded expectation of real usefulness and permanent well- being. But he was open to receive the admonitions of his friends, and there is reason to believe that the voice of Christian counsel was instrumental to his good. He was never very robust; and his application to study, in addition to his stated duties, was, perhaps, not favourable to bodily vigour. Before the expiration of his apprenticeship, he became so enfeebled, as to cause his relations much anxiety; and as his uncle and aunt had withdrawn from the Institution, the Committee of the School kindly acceded to their proposal to remove him to their own house. Here he soon rallied; and in the summer, of 1848, applied for the situation of teacher of Sidcot School. He entered upon the duties of the station with earnestness and zeal; and the notice and encouragement which he there received, tended both to render his occupation a delight, and to draw forth the more hidden depths of his character. His heart was in his work, and the field of labour particularly congenial to his taste. A few months, however, sufficed to bring on a return of delicacy, and rendered it advisable that he should retire for a while from active duty; but the following year, apparently with renovated powers, he again resumed his post. For a while, he appeared to think that his health was becoming confirmed; but about the commencement of another year, he was rapidly brought low, and nearly disqualified for the performance of his school duties. He was however retained in his office, with delicate attention to his known wishes, until in the 4th month, 1850, he was obliged to withdraw, and again make his uncle's house at Mountmelick his home. The following extracts from letters and memoranda written previous to his leaving Sidcot, show the state of his mind at that period. 2nd mo. 10th. "I often feel,--oftener than ever, that the thread of life is in me weak,--very weak; and, oh! I am sometimes almost overwhelmed with the retrospects, and prospects, this feeling opens to my view. I feel that I have been pursuing false jewels, sometimes those which have no appearance even of external brilliance, and the _Pearl_ has escaped my notice. I have, I believe, earnestly desired that I may be enabled to see the true and real beauty of the Pearl, and its inestimable value, in such a light, that nothing may again warp my attention from it." 2nd mo. 23rd, 1850. "My weakness of body, and frequent illnesses, have brought before my mind the great uncertainty of my continuing long in this scene of probation. I feel that I have lived hitherto 'without God in the world,' plunged in sin and darkness; that my sins are a greater burden than I can bear; and unless my all merciful God and Father, through his dear Son, forgive them, and relieve me from them, I fear they will draw me with them to the lowest grave." "I believe my heart's desire is, to walk in the narrow way,--to be the Lord's on his own terms, and to be humbled even in the dust. The evil one suggests, that I can never be forgiven, and fills my soul with doubts and fears; but, oh Lord! thou hast said, 'He that cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out.'" 2nd mo. 24th. "Strong desires are in my heart, that I may be favoured with an assurance of forgiveness; but, oh! I fear that my repentance is not sincere, that the pride of the world still holds place in my heart. Oh Lord! I pray thee that thou wilt use thy sharp threshing instrument, and break in pieces all that is at variance with thy holy will." "This is First-day. Be pleased to keep the door of my lips, Oh Father! and reign absolutely in my thoughts; grant that meeting may be a time of favour and visitation, and that I may be enabled to wait patiently for thee. Oh! that I could keep the world from pouring on me as a flood, at such times: Thou, gracious Father, canst enable me to do this." 3rd mo. 1st. "Struggles seem to be my portion, in which the world, the flesh, and the devil often seem likely to get the victory. Lord, grant through the blessed Saviour, that if I have found the good part, nothing may be permitted to take it from me. I greatly desire an increase of faith. Alas! I feel the little I have fail sometimes." 6th. "Oh! that none of the Lord's intentions respecting me, may be frustrated by my disobedience and unwatchfulness. Oh! I feel that I am indolent and very lukewarm, if not cold altogether, in attending to my soul's salvation, and in doing all for the Lord's glory. Thou knowest, oh Lord! that I am very weak in body; but, oh! grant that I may not make that a cover for indolence and lukewarmness. Thou hast known my peculiar trials, and I thank thee that thou hast, through the dear Lamb, granted me strength to bear them." After his return to Mountmelick, this dear youth lived seven weeks, and during this time his company was most sweet and instructive; the tenor of his conduct and conversation being beautifully regulated by the influence of the divine Spirit, bringing, in great measure, as there was reason to believe, every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ; and the composure and serenity of his countenance, clearly indicated the sweet peace which pervaded his mind. About the end of Fifth Month, it became evident that the final change was drawing near. This he was enabled to look to without dismay; saying, when a fear was expressed that he could not continue long: "I cannot say that I have any fear." On the night of the 2nd of 6th Month, he said: "I wish I could feel a stronger assurance of acceptance with the Almighty;" and afterwards he requested to have the 23rd Psalm read to him. The next morning, sitting up in his bed, he remarked: "There remaineth a rest for the people of God;" and, after a pause, "I want more of that faith, of which I fear I possess so little; and yet, when I have asked for what was proper and needful for me, it has not been denied. I desire to be enabled to pass through the valley of humiliation, without much conflict; and then comes the valley of the shadow of death:--only a shadow! the finger of God will guide safe through, all those who put their trust in him: 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.' The rod to chasten, the staff to support! Oh! all that is of the world, and all that is in it, are worthless in my sight. If the Lord has any work for me to do on earth, I trust I am willing to do it; but if not, I have no wish to stay." In the afternoon, the beloved invalid broke forth with the following expressions: "The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want;" emphatically adding, "What a very precious promise!" and, after a short pause,--"Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord, though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow, though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool," remarking, "and this was under the old dispensation. Oh! I hope my sins are gone beforehand to judgment; but there seem to be so many fresh sins, I have so much time that I do not improve as I ought; but the poor weak body and this weak mind too!" On its being remarked, that we did not serve a hard master, he seemed comforted, and continued, "Oh! that I could see the pearl gates; but I fear I have not faith enough, nor love enough to love Him perfectly who first loved me, and died for me, yes! even for _me_! Oh! I desire to throw myself at his feet; how I wish I could love him better, and serve him more." The whole of Fourth-day he seemed fast sinking, and calmly spoke of death as very near. He craved for patience, again and again, making use of many sweet expressions as his end drew near. "O Jesus! sweet Jesus, come!" and placing his hands together, supplicated thus: "Oh, dear Lord! if it be thy will, be pleased to take me, for the sake of thy dear Son." And, again, "Thy will be done." He remarked, "I believe I am passing through the dark valley of the shadow of death;" and on the hope being expressed that he would be supported through, he responded, "Through mercy!" Soon after this, he sank into a quiet sleep, which lasted some hours; and, shortly after waking, the unfettered spirit took its flight so gently, as scarcely to be perceptible to those around. FRANCES HENSHAWE THORPE, _Overbury_, _Tewkesbury_. Widow of Thomas Thorpe. 65 10mo. 5 1849 WILLIAM TODHUNTER, _Dublin_. 46 1mo. 19 1850 SUSANNA TODHUNTER, _Dublin_. Widow of John Todhunter. 74 2mo. 2 1850 SUSANNA TODHUNTER, _Dublin_. Daughter of Thomas H. and Hannah Todhunter. 1 8mo. 30 1850 CATHERINE TOMS, _Amersham_. 67 1mo. 8 1850 ALEXANDER TOWNSEND, _Rathrush_, _Kilconnor_. 70 12mo. 7 1849 CROUDSON TUNSTALL, _Alvaston Grove_, _Nantwich_. An Elder. 68 11mo. 17 1849 Dedication to the cause of truth, marked the character of our dear friend; and divine grace wrought effectually in him--breaking the obstructions of the natural mind--smoothing the rugged path of life, and enabling him to rejoice in the mercy which followed him, and which was his support through many tribulations. It was his earnest desire to know _in himself_ a growth in the truth, and to have his building firm on the Rock of ages. His diligence in the support of our meetings for worship and discipline, and the reverent frame of his spirit in these meetings, was animating and exemplary to his friends, as was also his daily circumspect walk. The chastenings of divine love produced profitable experience, and being accepted by him, with humble gratitude and prayerful submission, his heart was enriched by spiritual blessings. When near the confines of time, and the power of utterance nearly gone, he was reminded by a friend of the faithfulness and tender mercy of our Saviour, when he emphatically replied,--"_That_ is my only comfort." Thus under the rapid decay of the outward man, he possessed a peaceful mind, in that blessed hope which had been in his day, as the anchor to his soul--"sure and steadfast." THOMAS WADDINGTON, _Penketh_. 49 9mo. 3 1850 JOHN WAITHMAN, _Yealand_. 49 11mo. 2 1849 MARIA WALKER, _Wooldale_, _Yorkshire_. Daughter of Samuel Walker. 24 10mo. 18 1849 HANNAH WALKER, _Dirtcar_, _Wakefield_. Wife of Robert Walker. 68 4mo. 3 1850 BARBARA WALLER, _York_. 70 11mo. 13 1849 The quiet acquiescence of this dear friend, in the divine will, under changes of circumstances involving, to her energetic and lively mind, much suffering, appeared to many of her immediate friends, deeply instructive. In early life, she was, for several years, resident in the family of her brother Stephen Waller, at Clapton; and during the long continued illness of his wife, took charge of the family, including an interesting group of young children, between whom and herself the tenderest affection subsisted. On the restoration of her sister's health, she came to reside with her brother Robert Waller, of York. In the First month, 1829, at the solicitation of the committee, she consented to undertake, for a time, the domestic care of the Boys' School, then first established by York Quarterly Meeting, in that city. Though in delicate health, and with a voice which she could rarely raise above a whisper, she soon became so warmly interested in the institution, as to prevent the necessity for further inquiry for a female head. Her active and executive mind, found here a large field of usefulness, which she well occupied. Her kind interest in the institution, the scholars and the officers, increased from year to year. Her ability in providing for and securing the comfort of all around her, always conspicuous, was eminently so in times of sickness, whether of more or less severity. On these occasions, besides her power of skilfully ministering to physical comforts, her quiet spirit, knowing where she herself had sought and found consolation, could direct others to the same unfailing Source. At the close of the year 1836, in consequence of the decease of her sister Hannah, the wife of Robert Waller, she was called from the scene of her arduous, yet to her, pleasant labours; the beneficial results of which were, the establishment of orderly arrangement, and plans of domestic comfort, essential to the well-being of a school. She remained with her brother at Holdgate, till the time of his second marriage, when change was again her allotment. After a short absence from York she finally settled there. Her declining health rendered repose needful, although the liveliness of her spirits enabled her greatly to enjoy frequent intercourse with her friends;--and the school, the scene of her former labours, was an object of continued affectionate interest. In recording these few incidents, which we well know, of themselves, are of little importance, perhaps entirely insignificant to the general reader, we believe, nevertheless, that a useful lesson may be conveyed. The path of our dear friend was, remarkably, not one of her own choosing; most of the changes of place and circumstance which she experienced, involved much that was painful; yet under all, the quiet, peaceful, thankful resignation which she was enabled to attain, shewed where her hopes were anchored, and proved the power of divine grace to make hard things easy. For many months previous to her decease, she was confined to her couch, and latterly to her bed. During this period, she bore with unrepining patience, much bodily suffering; but her cheerful and energetic mind still retained its characteristic vigour. In this, her last illness, the kind attentions, and tender cares, which she had so often ministered to others, were abundantly repaid to herself. In addition to the assiduous and faithful services of the family with whom she had taken up her abode, and who became warmly attached to her, she had for many weeks previous to her decease, the tenderest attention of one of her affectionate nieces, of whose infant years she had been the watchful guardian. A friend who frequently visited her on her bed of suffering, says, "In some of my last visits to her, her expression of firm and loving reliance upon the Lord, whose support she had been wont to seek in the time of health, as well as in that of suffering, was a sweet testimony to the blessedness of having made him her portion. She told me how comforted she had been under great bodily weakness, when she felt unable definitely to put up her petitions, in the lively remembrance that she had a never- failing Advocate with the Father, touched with a feeling of her infirmities, ever living to make intercession for her. 'Oh!' she remarked, 'the sense of it has been precious to me.'" Thus peace and thankfulness were the frequent clothing of her spirit, till her earthly house of this tabernacle was quietly dissolved, and exchanged, we reverently believe, for 'a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.' ALICE WALLER, _The Howe_, _Halsted_. Widow of Robert Waller, of York. 76 6mo. 25 1850 Of the childhood of our friend we know but little. Her parents were members of our religious Society, and brought up their children in conformity with its practices. She was, at rather an early age, placed at the school for girls at York, which had, at that time, some peculiar advantages in regard to the religious and moral care of the pupils. But from this enclosure she was soon recalled, to be the companion of her invalid mother; and at the early age of sixteen, when her beloved parent was removed by death, she took the charge of her father's domestic concerns, and resided with him till her marriage with Benjamin Horner of York. Although the shortness of the period she remained at school, might be disadvantageous to her in several respects, yet it is highly probable that, in her mother's sick chamber, some impressions were made, and lessons learned, which were as seeds sown to bring forth fruit in a future day. Her husband's circle of acquaintance was an extensive, and, in its character, a much varied one; and, for some years, Alice Horner mingled much in gay society, occasionally frequenting with her husband places of amusement, especially those in which music formed the chief attraction. But during this period, in which she may be said to have lived to herself, she was not without compunctuous visitations; and as the responsibilities of a mother came upon her, she increasingly felt the seriousness of life, and the duty, as well as the privilege, of living to God, and being enabled to look unto Him as a Father and a Friend. These feelings appear to have gradually gained ascendancy in her mind, and her prevalent desire became, to be a Christian upon Christ's own terms. She felt herself as one who had been forgiven much, and therefore loved much,--striving to be no more conformed to this world, but transformed by the renewing of her mind. Her conscience became not only enlightened, but tender; and yielding to what she believed to be her duty to God, she not only refrained from all the public amusements in which she had formerly taken pleasure, but acted in her associations with others, consistently with her views as a Friend. If in this strait path; walking much alone and inexperienced in the way: she sometimes erred, we believe it was rather on the side of decision, than on that of undue yielding. She seemed to live under a sense of that saying of the apostle, "Whatsoever is not of faith is sin." And whilst the course which she pursued could not fail to restrict, in some degree, her intercourse with the world, those with whom she still associated, (and her circle continued to be a wide one,) appeared in general to estimate her motives; and many of them entertained an increased love and respect for her character; and He who, above all things, she desired to serve, was pleased abundantly to comfort and strengthen her in all her trials. The death of her only daughter, at the age of nineteen, as well as that of her husband after a short illness, a few years subsequently, were close trials to her; but she bowed in humble submission to these dispensations, and, under the chastening hand of the Lord, it became increasingly evident, that the "one thing needful" was steadily kept in her view. She was diligent in her attendance of our religious meetings, and often remarked, that she had been permitted to find in them "a resting place to her soul." After her second marriage, with Robert Waller of Holdgate near York, her health, which for a long time had not been strong, began more rapidly to decline, and at the death of her husband, after a long and protracted illness, she was so complete an invalid, as to be chiefly confined to her bed for many months together. This was a great trial upon her faith and patience; but her hope and trust in her Saviour's love never forsook her, and often through her long illness, she was enabled to look forward with hope and joy to that time, when "absent from the body," she should be "present with the Lord." Six months after her husband's death, she was removed, in an invalid carriage, to the residence of her eldest son in Essex, whose house continued to be her home the remainder of her days. In writing to a much beloved friend, from this quiet retreat soon after her arrival, she remarks,--"Every comfort and every indulgence is allotted to me by my attentive children. Oh what boundless demands upon my gratitude are thus poured forth. I would gladly hope not without a heartfelt acknowledgment to that Almighty Giver, who is the author of all our manifold mercies. For all things I reverently thank my God and Saviour, remembering you my dear friends, whom I have left, with the truest affection." To the same friend, who herself was suffering from illness, she again writes, "Oh, dearest ---, how many of His dear children does the Lord keep long in the furnace, yet if he do but grant his presence there, and watch over the refining process he designs to be accomplished, there ought to be no complaining either of the length of time, or the severity of the operation, but through all, the full fruits of resignation should be brought forth in perfection, to his praise, and his glory. That so it may be, my dear friend, forms a wish on my own account as well as on thine, day by day. The time has appeared long to me, that I have been required to lay under the rod, but when we measure time as did the Apostle of old, and think of it as a vapour that quickly passeth away, or as a shadow that abideth not, we see that it is but for a little moment that our chastening can endure. I cannot forbear beholding my day as far spent; but I do rejoice to see heaven as a place of rest for me,--yes, even for me! through the blood shed for my sins on Calvary's Mount. This mercy in Christ Jesus, how precious it is to dwell upon." Alice Waller loved the company of all those that loved the Lord Jesus, and especially the messengers of the gospel were acceptable to her. On one occasion when receiving a visit from a friend, whilst laid upon her bed of suffering, she, in great contrition, expressed her sense of her heavenly Father's love and mercy to _her_, a poor creature, adding, "I feel bound to tell of His marvellous goodness to me, even to me, by night and by day upon my bed, in seasons of trial I have been comforted by my Saviour's presence." In the beginning of the Sixth Month, 1850, she became more poorly, and both herself and her children were impressed with the belief that her end was drawing near; on the 15th she passed a very trying day, but in the evening revived a little and spoke most sweetly of the fulness and clearness of her hope, and her perfect confidence in the love and mercy of her God, extended to her for the sake of her beloved Saviour; she was full of sweetness and affection to all around her, her heart overflowing with gratitude to God and man. "Dear Hannah C. Backhouse," she remarked, "visited me a short time before I came here, and she said, 'I believe Jesus has thrown his arm of everlasting love around thee, and is drawing thee nearer and nearer to himself, and he will draw thee nearer and nearer, till at last He will press thee into his bosom.' It was a sweet message; I have often thought upon it since, and I now feel such close union of spirit with God, that I cannot doubt it is even so." On the passage of Scripture being repeated, "The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him," she added, "yes, and preserveth them.--'This poor man cried, and the Lord heard him and delivered him from all his troubles.' The fear of the Lord has been my support for many years past." And on being reminded of that verse of Scripture, "Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me," she said, "He has been my staff and my rod in the dark valley of death, keeping my head above the waters, and he has given me hope full of immortality,--full of immortality! and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever; I humbly trust that such will be my portion." She then remarked "It is just a week to-day since I began to be so very ill;--strange conflict of the body, with the mind so perfectly tranquil, in strong confirmation of the blessed promise, 'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee.'--I have often thought I heard the song of Moses and of the Lamb, as I lay here in deep exhaustion." At another time she remarked, "I have often sinned, and erred much, but I have One in heaven that pleadeth for me." She hailed with much joy the arrival of a beloved friend, and spoke of the event as filling up the only remaining desire she had on earth; their meeting was a season of mutual love and thanksgiving to the Lord. On Second day, the 24th, she said, "I am so loosed from every thing below, as I could not have believed;" and in the evening expressed that she was so filled with thankfulness her heart was overflowing! She intimated her belief, when her room was made ready for the night, that it would be the last she should have to pass, and the next morning it became evident that she was rapidly sinking. It was said to her that it was a long and trying travel, but she was near to a better land! when she quickly responded, "Yes, Emanuel's land:" and on its being remarked, "The crown is nearly won;" she emphatically replied, "Oh, I wish it were on!" A short time after this, her redeemed spirit was gently liberated from the shackles of mortality, to be, we humbly believe, "for ever with the Lord." FANNY MARTIN WALLER, _Guildford_. Daughter of the late Thomas Waller. 30 12mo. 14 1849 EDWARD WALLIS, _Melksham_. Son of Abraham Wallis, of London. 26 3mo. 6 1850 JOHN WALTON, _Southport_. 61 1mo. 7 1850 ALFRED WATKINS, _Eydon_, _Northamptonshire_. Son of John and Susanna Watkins. 16 4mo. 22 1850 JANE WATSON, _Allonby_, _Cumberland_. 85 10mo. 20 1849 FERGUS WATSON, _Allonby_. 90 1mo. 21 1850 ANN WATSON, _Heworth_, _Newcastle-on-Tyne_. Wife of John Watson. 72 12mo. 6 1849 MARY WATSON, _Cockermouth_. 64 10mo 18 1849 LUCY BELL WESTWOOD, _Brampton_, _Hunts_. Daughter of John and Elizabeth Westwood. 17 3mo. 19 1850 JOSEPH WHEELER, _Birmingham_. 81 11mo. 21 1849 THOMAS WHITE, _Ratcliff_, _London_. 80 3mo. 7 1850 JANE WHITE, _Chesham_, _Bucks_. 41 1mo. 2 1850 MARIA BELLA WHITE, _Henley-on-Thames_. Widow of Gabriel G. White. 84 8mo. 17 1850 ANNE WHITFIELD, _near Coothill_, _Ireland_. 85 3mo. 12 1850 RICHARD WHITING, _Tottenham_. 84 7mo. 3 1850 ANNE WHITTEN, _Roscrea_, _Ireland_. Widow. 72 3mo. 24 1850 MAUDLIN WICKETT, _Darlington_. Widow of Benjamin Wickett. 94 11mo. 15 1849 WILLIAM WILLIAMS, _Denbigh_, _Cheshire_. 70 11mo. 2 1849 WILLIAM WILSON, _Bradford_. 82 11mo. 23 1849 The following account has much of it been taken from a brief memoir of William Wilson, which appeared in the "Bradford Observer," and which has since been published as a tract. William Wilson might truly be said to be "an Israelite indeed, in whom there was no guile." He had his _peculiarities_ of character, but with all, was _singularly good_, and we cannot doubt that his prayers and his alms, had come up for a memorial before Him, who seeth in secret. At the age of fifty, with an ample fortune, he relinquished a business, in which he had most diligently laboured, when the full tide of prosperity was flowing in upon him, in order that he might devote his time, and the means placed by Providence at his disposal, to the cause of neglected and suffering humanity. For more than thirty years it became the essential and exclusive employment of his life, to explore and to relieve cases of poverty and distress, and in the accomplishment of this undertaking, he employed the same assiduity and care, which he had been wont to exercise in the management of his secular calling, distributing many times at the rate of a thousand pounds a year. As a steward of the gifts of God, he carefully invested his money so as to secure a fair rate of interest, and on no occasion did he relax from the utmost exactness in his monetary dealings; and yet it is believed that his personal and domestic expenditure never reached 150 pounds per annum. His house, like his person, was a pattern of plainness and simplicity. His furniture consisted of nothing fashionable or superfluous; and his table was equally marked by comfort and frugality. He was a warm advocate in the cause of Temperance, and was deeply interested in the subject of "the prevention of Cruelty to Animals." Of Tracts, he must have paid for, and circulated gratuitously, some millions! His whole time and energies were fully employed, and often heavily taxed, in devising and carrying out schemes of mercy and benevolence, and his life presented one uniform tenor of consistent piety. To strangers he might appear reserved, but his apparent reserve only resulted from his constitutional modesty, and retiring habits, whilst to those who enjoyed his friendship, he was frank, open, and intelligent in no ordinary degree. William Wilson was never robust, but toward the close of his life, his feebleness became more apparent; for more than a week he was confined to his bed, but without any urgent symptom of disease. His mind was calm and peaceful,--he knew and loved his Saviour, and through His mediation, we cannot doubt he has inherited the blessing to the pure in heart, leaving behind him, in many respects, an example worthy to be followed, practically bearing a noble testimony to "christian moderation and temperance in all things," and against that covetousness which is idolatry. The memory of such a man is blessed. ELIZABETH WILSON, _Rawden_. 69 4mo. 12 1850 MARY WILSON, _Kendal_. Widow. 60 1mo. 31 1850 JAMES WILSON, _Elm Farm_, _Liverpool_. 76 10mo. 31 1849 ELIZABETH WOOD, _Chelmsford_. 68 1mo. 17 1850 JANE WOOD, _Highflatts_. Wife of John Wood. 28 4mo. 4 1850 FRANCIS WRIGHT, _Kettering_. 76 5mo. 13 1850 THOMAS WRIGHT, _Cork_. 61 10mo. 9 1849 Many, both within the limits of our own Society and out of it, can bear testimony to the integrity, benevolence, and Christian deportment of this dear friend. In his transactions with his fellow-men, he was particularly careful not to over-reach, or to avail himself of advantages subversive to their interests; and in the social circle, as well as among the poor, his kindness of disposition was conspicuous. During the scarcity of provision in Ireland, his liberality was great, and his exertions on behalf of the destitute almost unremitting. His illness commenced in the early part of the 9th month, 1849, and on finding that the complaint did not yield to remedies, he expressed his earnest desire for resignation to the divine will, remarking, that whatever might be the termination, he believed "all would be well." He intimated, that he had not been one who could give much expression to his religious feelings, but that for many years his mind had been daily exercised before the Lord on his own behalf, as well as on that of his family. The prosperity of our religious Society lay very near to his heart, and he expressed his earnest desire for its preservation in "humility and simplicity." The patience with which he bore the debility attendant upon his complaint was remarkable; His mind expanded in love to his family, his friends, and to all the world, repeating emphatically, "I love them all." He frequently spoke of his willingness to depart; and as his illness advanced, there appeared an increasing sweetness and solemnity in his manner, and he mostly addressed those about him in terms of affection, expressing his thankfulness for their attention, and desiring that the Lord would strengthen them. On a hope being expressed that his mind was peaceful, he replied, "Yes, quite so." He took an affectionate leave of his wife and those around him; after which nature rapidly sank, and he quietly, and it is humbly believed, peacefully expired. ELIZA WRIGHT, _Sutton_, _Cambridgeshire_. Daughter of Thomas and Mary Wright. 7 9mo. 8 1850 THOMAS WEIGHT, _Sutton_. 49 9mo. 16 1850 HENRY WRIGHT, _Middlesboro_. 30 9mo. 10 1849 JOHN FULLER YOUELL, _Yarmouth_. 28 12mo. 1 1849 INFANTS whose names are not inserted. Under one month . . . Boys 1 . . . Girls 1 From one to three months . . . do. 2 . . . do. 3 From three to six months . . . do. 1 . . . do. 3 From six to twelve months . . . do. 1 . . . do. 1 HANNAH CHAPMAN BACKHOUSE. _Died_ 6_th of_ 5_th month_, 1850. Hannah Chapman Backhouse was the daughter of Joseph and Jane Gurney; she was born at Norwich the 9th of 2nd Month, 1787. Of her very early life she has left but little record. She disliked study, and was fond of boyish sports, until about the age of thirteen, when she began to feel enjoyment in reading. Possessed of a naturally powerful and energetic mind, with talents of a very superior order, she soon began to take great delight in study, and was ambitious to excel in every thing that she undertook. Drawing she pursued with intense eagerness, and in this and other acquirements, she made great proficiency. Until about the age of seventeen, her highest enjoyment was derived from the cultivation of the intellectual powers, and in the endeavour to raise these to their highest perfection, she imagined the greatest happiness to consist. In her journal she writes:--"My thoughts have been this week, one continued castle in the air of being an artist; the only reality they were built on, was my having painted in oils better than I thought I could, and a feeling that I shall in a little time succeed, and an unbounded ambition to do so. I have had many arguments with myself, to know if it would be right. I think it would, if I could make good use of it." But gradually she found that no object which had this world for its limit, could satisfy the cravings of an immortal soul. She began to feel that she was formed for higher purposes than the gratification of self in its most refined and plausible form, and in 1806, we note the gradual unfolding of that change of view, which through the operation of the Holy Spirit, led her to the unreserved surrender of her whole being to the service of her Lord;--a surrender that in so remarkable a manner marked her unwavering path through the remaining portion of her dedicated life. Speaking of this period, after her first attendance of the Yearly Meeting, she says,-- July, 1806. "This time, for almost the first in my life, I seem come to a stand in the objects of my darling pursuits, which I may say have been almost entirely the pursuit of pleasure, through the medium of the understanding. This I feel must be a useless search, for the further I go, the more unattainable is the contentment which I hoped a degree of excellence might have produced;--the further I go, the further does my idea of perfection extend; therefore this way of attaining happiness I find is impossible. Never in my life was I so sensible of the real weakness of man, though to all appearance so strong; for I am persuaded that it is almost impossible to conduct oneself through this world, without being sincerely religious. The human mind must have an object, and let that object be the attainment of eternal happiness. * * * After such considerations, can I be so weak as not to make religion my only pursuit? That which will, I believe, bring my mind into beautiful order, and, rendering all worldly objects subservient to its use, harmonize the whole, and fit it to bear fruit to all eternity, and the fruit of righteousness is peace. I have felt my mind very much softened of late, and more and more see the beauty of holiness, but all the progress I can say that I have made towards it, is in loving it more;--yet I feel I have a great way to go before my heart is entirely given up." Feb. 9th, 1807. "To-day I am twenty; let me endeavour to describe with sincerity what twenty years have effected upon me; how difficult self- love and blindness make answering the questions, What am I? How far am I advanced in the great end of being, the making such use of my time here, that it may bear fruit when time with me is over? When I look upon myself with the greatest seriousness, how ill do I think of myself! I see myself endowed with powers, which I often, (I hope, with a pure and unfeigned heart,) wish may be applied aright. But in my mind, what strong 'bulls of Bashan' compass me about! What I fear most, and that which sometimes comes upon me most awfully, is, that my will is not properly brought into subjection. * * * Often when clothed with something of heavenly love, do I feel that I had rather be a door-keeper in the house of my God, than dwell in king's palaces, but I fear the general tendency of my pursuits would make me more fit for the latter than the former. What I want and do most sincerely wish for, is, that I may be truly humble, and that where pride now reigns, humility may prevail; and where ambition, contentment." In 1808, the death of a favourite first cousin appears to have been the means of greatly deepening her serious impressions, and of increasing the desire to "relieve herself," as she expresses it, "from the miserable state of inconsistency in which a gay Friend is situated." A short time subsequent to this period, she writes:-- May, 1808. "With my father and mother I left the Grove this morning, with a mind much softened, though not afflicted by parting with those I love, earnestly wishing that what I was going to attend,--the Yearly Meeting, might stamp more deeply the impressions I had received. We reached Epping that night. I felt very serious; Love seemed to have smitten me, and under that banner, I earnestly hoped that I might be enabled to partake of whatever might be set before me in the banqueting house. I saw that it would be right for me to say _thee_, and _thou_, to everybody, and I begged that I might be so kept in love as to be enabled to do it,--that love might draw me, not fear terrify me." "How deeply I felt to enjoy First-day, and was strengthened at meeting. For the first time, to-day I called the days of the week numerically, on principle, it cost me at first a blush. This day has afforded me deeper and sweeter feelings than any I have yet passed; surprise and ridicule I have felt to be useful!" "Left Bury Hill early: I can look back to the time I have spent here as the happiest in my life; and I have earnestly wished that my example and influence in future life, may be useful to those whom, never before my mind was so altered, did I love with so sweet or so great an affection." After alluding to some further change, she writes; "I felt increasingly the weight of advocating the cause I have engaged in; oh! may no word or action of mine, stain the character I am assuming, and may no self-exaltation be the consequence: the mind, I feel, must be kept deep indeed, to avoid the rocks that do every where surround." 6th Month, 1808. "Went to meeting--thought that by observing the commandment, and confessing Christ before men, we should only be showing the beautiful effect of obedience, in the fruit of the Spirit it produces,--that it does not consist in speech, dress, or behaviour, but that by being obedient in these and all things, to the law written in our hearts; we should be overshadowed by that sweetness and quietness of spirit, the fruits of which would prove whose government we are under." 7th Month, 1808, Cromer. "Walked on the shore, the sky was illuminated by the setting sun the scene was of nature's greatest beauty, I could not speak, but it was not the effect of the scene. Such scenes in which I used to revel, have lost much of their influence in the inferior peace they bring, to that which a few small sacrifices, the effect of obedience, produce." Grove, 11th Month, 1808. "Patience tried, and censoriousness of mind and some words allowed to have too much dominion. The higher we rise, the more we feel the foibles of others; and then the more need have we of the spirit of love and charity, to be patient with them; and if we are not, it is not excellence, but only the sight of it we have gained." 12th Month, 1808. "I fear I have not sufficiently this week, wrestled for the blessing of peace. I am sensible of having the power of pleasing, of having stronger natural powers and more acquirements than most women,--I am conscious too, of having with all my might, sought that which is highest, and that my heart has been made willing to sacrifice all for the attainment of it, and wonders have I already known; if I do not now diligently seek that which can make me feelingly ascribe all the glory, where alone it is due, fruitless must all my talents be, and great my fall." 12th Month, 12th, 1808. "--- came, the conversation in the evening, softened my heart in the deduction I drew from it, of what a prize was our possession,--how anchorless the world seemed to be,--and I loved dear Friends!" 2nd Month, 9th, 1809. "Twenty-two years old. Through the mercy of everlasting kindness, great is the change that this year has wrought in me; the power of Love has enticed me to begin that spiritual journey which leads to the promised land: I have left, by His guidance and strength, the bondage of Egypt, and have seen His wonders in the deep. May the endeavour of my life be, to keep close to that Angel, who can deliver us through the trials and dangers of the wilderness of this world. I have not studied much this year, yet I have almost every day read a little, and never was my sight so clear into the intellectual world. The works of the head may, I believe, usefully occupy such portions of time as are not necessary for discharging our relationship in society. * * * But above all things be humble, which a love of all perfection is, I believe, not only consistent with, but the root of." In 1811, Hannah C. Gurney married Jonathan Backhouse, and settled at Darlington. The early years of her married life appear to have been much devoted to her young family. For a time, her journal was entirely suspended; but in 1815 she writes: "These last four years, are perhaps best left in that situation, in which spiritual darkness has in a great measure involved them; it may be the sweet and new objects of external love, and necessary attention in which I have been engaged, have too much drawn my mind from internal watchfulness, after the first flow of spiritual joy began to subside; or it has been the will of the Author of all blessing to change the dispensation, and taking from me the light of his love, in which all beauty so easily and naturally exists, to teach me indeed, that the glory of all good belongs to Him alone, and that He is jealous of our decking ourselves with His jewels." In 1820, she first spoke as a minister, in reference to which she writes: 3rd Month, 1820, "Had felt for some time, and particularly lately, a warm concern for the interest of our family, which to my humiliation, surprise, and consolation, I was strengthened to express to them in a private opportunity, before I left Sunderland. On our ride home, I felt the candle of the Lord shine round about me, in a manner I had not done for years, accompanied with much tenderness and some foreboding fears. I felt I had put my hand to the plough, and I must not turn back, but I remembered the days that were past, and I knew something of the power of Him in whom I had believed; though fear often compassed me about, and too much imagination." 1820. "My heart has burned as an oven, internal and external supplication has not been wanting to ease it; may I endure the burnings as I ought." Speaking of attending the Yearly Meeting soon after, she says: "I saw many dangerous enemies of my own heart near me, yet was there mercifully preserved a germ of truth, in which met the hearts of the faithful, and which was an encouragement to me; I afterwards spoke twice in the Yearly Meeting, and the composure at the moment, and after a time the peace that ensued, seemed to assure me that I had not run without being sent. The remembrance of former days came strongly before me, and in thus again publicly manifesting the intent of my heart, I felt the comfort of being no stranger to that Hand, which, as it once fed me with milk, seemed to me now after a long night season, feeding me with meat." After her return home, she writes: "Opened my mouth in Darlington meeting, on First-day afternoon. A mountain in prospect! The meetings now became very interesting to me, and as the reward of what I was induced to believe was faithfulness, often greatly refreshing." In the course of this year, she lost her eldest son, a child of great promise, and the suffering attendant upon this deep sorrow, in addition to close mental baptism, at times greatly prostrated her physical powers. 11th Month 4th, 1820, we find the following-memorandum: "'Oh how great is Thy goodness which Thou hast laid up for them that fear Thee, which Thou hast wrought for them that trust in Thee before the sons of men.' In looking back to the last two or three months, I feel I may adopt this language: in them I have known the greatest portion of suffering that it has yet been my lot to taste." 3rd Month, 1822. She writes, "In the afternoon meeting, a subject seemed so clear before me, that I ventured to speak; but oh! the evil of my heart, the consciousness of having, or supposing I had, chosen my words well, was like the fly in the ointment of the apothecary, the baneful effects of which, I felt many days after. The more I see of my own mind, the more may the breathing of my soul be,--'If Thou wilt, Thou canst make me clean.' Sometimes to believe that it is His will, is sweet to me, but we must maintain the fight, for though the victory is His, the fall is ours." "The constant and deep consideration for others in the most minute actions of life, how I love it, and feel myself 'as a bullock unaccustomed to the yoke.'" 5th Month, 6th, 1822. "Days and nights of much spiritual conflict, or rather perhaps the sight that there was much to conflict with; weak in body and weak in mind! In my ministry more patient and deep deliberation wanting. Last night, believed I had not kept close enough to my Guide in prayer, with which I felt some distress,--perhaps not altogether wrong,--but had not stopped when I ought, nor waited at every moment for clearness and strength in the exercise; I hope I shall not hurt others." 6th Month, 1822. "A month is now passed in which I have been sweetly enabled to enjoy the love of God in my heart. I trust we shall experience preservation, though we may well fear for ourselves, and be the subject of fear for others. Oh! that, without affectation, we may live deeply in the root of life!" 4th Month, 1823. "I have much to bind me to this earth, but perhaps more power of gratefully enjoying its blessings is wanted, and may be in store for me before I leave it; some minds seem deeply anchored in the truth, meekly and patiently bearing the trials of the day, with firmer faith and greater purity, but each heart alone knows its own bitterness, and I believe there is never much attainment without much suffering;--a chastened habit of thought, how desirable to be the habit of early life! riches and indulgences how inimical to it!" 4th Month, 1825. "My mind enjoyed a liberty, and something of the light of the glorious gospel, a state which I often pant after, and am so generally a stranger to; in each day a religious engagement seemed peculiarly blessed to myself. A sense of being liked and loved, is gratifying; at the same time I acknowledge, it has its dangers; it is, however, a stimulus to do good and to communicate." 4th Month, 25th. "A poor body, and a weak restless mind! How the sword does wear the scabbard! but this world is not to be our paradise; perhaps I lose some little strength in striving to make it so. Oh! my God, have pity upon me; thou alone canst know how much I suffer;--if my children ail anything, what it costs me." In 1826, she visited the families of Friends in Darlington Monthly Meeting, in company with Isaac Stephenson; and in allusion to this engagement, she writes: "Entered last week on a visit, with I. Stephenson, to the families of this Monthly Meeting. Ministry is surely a gift! may the vessel be purified by using it in faith." 3rd Month, 1826. "After many cogitations and some provings of faith, I went with Isaac Stephenson to Manchester, Lancaster, and Leeds: I felt it like leaving all to follow what I believed to be my divine Guide; it cost me some heart-sinkings and tears, but my mind was sweetly preserved in peace and confidence; and, though I had times of depression and fear to pass through, I have been thankful that I made the sacrifice. It has endeared me to many individuals; and at times, in the undoubted belief that it was a divine requiring, it has strengthened my faith, and excited some degree of thankfulness for being so employed." 4th Month, 16th. "A sweet day of rest and peace, such as I do not remember to have known for years." 4th Month, 18th. "Monthly Meeting one of perplexity and fear, Oh! for dwelling deep and lying low! and waiting in quietness for the 'little cloud!' but it seems as if my faith were to be tried by things coming unexpectedly upon me, and to be humbled by feeling ill prepared." From this time she went on advancing rapidly in the work of the ministry: her truly catholic spirit expanded in love to her fellow-creatures; the inmates of the palace as well as those of the prison, shared alike her Christian zeal and interest. Her naturally powerful and refined mind, deeply instructed in the things of God, rendered her peculiarly fitted to labour amongst those, who being invested with wealth and influence, she regarded as stewards, deeply responsible for the right occupation of their various gifts: with many of these, in the upper classes of society, she sought and obtained opportunities for conveying religious counsel; and in not a few instances there was a deep response in the hearts of her hearers, to the truths which she had to proclaim. The public meetings which she held were very numerous,--many of them very remarkable. Her fervour in seeking to arouse to a sense of their condition, those who were "dead in trespasses and sins,"--her sound and convincing arguments, in controverting the views of the infidel,--her zeal against the lukewarm professor, and her earnest affectionate invitations to the humble believer in Jesus, to "lay aside every weight," and partake, in all their fulness, of the blessings purchased for them by the dear Son of God; will long be remembered by those who felt the truth and unction of her appeals. She dwelt upon the glorious scheme of redemption, through the propitiatory sacrifice of Christ Jesus upon the cross, for the sins of the whole world; and of the absolute necessity of sanctification of spirit, through the effectual operation of divine grace on the heart, as one, who had herself largely participated, in the blessings and mercies of her God. She was, however, no stranger to deep mental conflicts, both in the prosecution of her religious labours, and in the more retired sphere of domestic life, as some of her memoranda show. In 1827, after visiting with her husband, the counties of Devon and Cornwall, an engagement which occupied them nearly two months, and included a visit to the Scilly Isles, she writes:-- 7th Month, 1827. "I felt it a day of favour when we gave in our account at the Monthly Meeting, the third day after our arrival at home, but in returning from this journey, I have been made remarkably sensible, that the business of religion is the business of the day, and that the exercises and strength of any past day, are but as nothing for the day that is passing over us; and many of these days have been passed in much mental conflict, and much bodily weakness and languor." 1828. "Many, and many have been my fears, lest the good things that others may see us surrounded with, should be as a stumbling block leading to covetousness; how hardly shall they that have riches lead the life of a humble follower of the dear Redeemer! These thoughts often beset me, and sometimes make me fear, if ever I have a right to open my mouth to advocate His cause." "I could wish I had a heart, a head, and a mind fit for all I could embrace, but that may never be: however, altogether my mind has been of late, less covered with clouds than it used to be, and my health revives with it. 'What shall I render for all thy benefits?' may well be the language of my soul." In 1829 she was again joined by her dear husband in a visit to Ireland; after which she writes:-- 10th Month, 1829. "We passed through many deep baptisms, many sinks both of body and mind, and in the course of three or four months, attended all the particular meetings; I think we did too much in the time to do it as well as we might; there was much exercise of faith, but patience had not its perfect work:--may my daily prayer be for patience, and the daily close exercise of my spirit to obtain it; for want of it, I get into many perplexities, that might be avoided; yet with all the omissions and commissions that I can look back upon with shame, I can number this journey among the many mercies of my life, being at times in it, introduced into a more soul-satisfying state than I had perhaps ever known before, and I was never more fully persuaded that we were commissioned to preach the gospel. The company of my dear husband was truly a comfort and support, as well as very endearing, and this journey has enlarged my heart in love to hundreds, and has written many epistles there, which I trust may never be blotted out." In 1830, she laid before her Monthly Meeting, a prospect of going to America. This concern was cordially united with, and she and her husband were liberated for the service in that land. In reference to this very weighty engagement, she thus writes to her dear cousin, Elizabeth Fry:-- Darlington, 2nd Month, 4th, 1830. "My dearest Betsy, I believe some of thy tenderest sympathies will be aroused, on hearing of the momentous prospect now before us of visiting North America. I dare say many, many years ago, thy imagination sent me there,--call it by that name, or the more orthodox one of faith,--so has mine, but I saw it without baptism; now, I pass into it under baptism, which in depth far exceeds any thing I have known before; the severing work it is to the ties of nature, to my dear Father, Mother, and Children, breaks me all to pieces, but I have much, if not entirely, been spared from doubts; all I seem to have had to do was to submit; this is a great comfort, for which I desire to be thankful, and for that peace which in the midst of deep suffering has so far rested upon it. Thy very affectionate H. C. BACKHOUSE." Her labours in America were very abundant, and there is reason to believe, blessed to very many. During the five years she spent on that Continent, she visited the greater part of the meetings of Friends, and in doing so, shrank from no hardship or privation consequent upon travelling in districts recently settled. In 1833, Jonathan Backhouse thus writes of her labours-- "I do think my wife's labours in these parts, have been of essential service;--helped some sunken ones out of a pit, strengthened some weak hands, and confirmed some wavering ones, as well as comforted the mourners. She has no cause to be discouraged about her labours, they have been blessed." Her husband thinking it desirable to return for a while to England, Hannah C. Backhouse was provided with a most faithful valuable companion in Eliza P. Kirkbride, and for her as well as for many other beloved friends to whom she had become closely united in America, she retained a warm interest and affection to the close of her life. In 1835, they returned to England, and in the bosom of her beloved family and friends, great was, for a time, her domestic happiness. But home endearments were not permitted to interfere with her devotion to Him, to do whose will, was not only her highest aim, but her chief delight: and whenever the Lord's call was heard, she was ready to obey. Many parts of England, and Scotland were visited between this time and 1845. During this interval some of her nearest domestic ties were broken; her eldest surviving son, an engaging youth of seventeen, her beloved husband, and a precious daughter, the wife of John Hodgkin, of Tottenham, were all summoned to their eternal home: whilst under the pressure of sorrow occasioned by the removal of Ann Hodgkin, the following letter was penned:-- Tottenham, 12th Month, 9th, 1845. "My losses have been many and great, but the greatness of this, I am increasingly coming into the apprehension of. She was lovely in her life, and in death may we not be divided! or _by_ death, but may her sweet spirit be very near in my remembrance, to the end of my days, and then may I join Father and Mother, Brothers and Sisters, Husband and Children,--how many of the nearest ties now, we trust, in heaven, and how few on earth comparatively. On this subject I cannot now dwell,--when I can view her free from all weakness, corruption, and suffering, in the enjoyment of _that_ rest, she knew so well how to appreciate, I could smile with a joyful sorrow; but few of such moments have been given; in general a patient bearing of the present moment, is the most we have arrived at, under the blessed unmoved confidence that all is well. Your very affectionate sister, H. C. BACKHOUSE." From this time a cessation from labour was granted, and after having thus devoted the meridian of her life to the service of her Lord, she was permitted for some years previous to her decease, to enjoy a season of almost uninterrupted repose. Love, meekness, gentleness, and peace were eminently the clothing of her spirit; and like Moses viewing from the Mount the Promised Land, she seemed almost to live above the trials and temptations of time; nothing appeared materially to disturb or ruffle the repose of her soul, deeply centred in God. Her ministry was often strikingly beautiful and impressive, especially exhorting to unreserved dedication, and dwelling on the glories of the heavenly kingdom. During the latter part of 1849, her health, which had long been delicate, began increasingly to give way; at the end of the 3rd Month of 1850, she was seized with alarming illness, from which little hope was entertained of her recovery; from this she so far rallied as to leave her bed-room, and go into an adjoining sitting-room, but never was able to go down stairs. It was evident her strength was very small, but no immediate danger was at this time apprehended. She was at times, cheerful, always tranquil and full of repose, and able to enjoy the company of those immediately around her; at other times illness oppressed her, and prevented the power for much exertion of mind or communication of thought. But words were not needed to declare her faith or her love, when through having faithfully occupied with the grace that had been given to her, her whole life might almost be said to have been one act of dedication to God. On the night of the 5th of Fifth Month, increased illness came on, she continued conscious almost to the last, and alluded with perfect calmness to the fresh symptoms of danger. On her sister remarking to her, that "though it was a dark valley, it would soon be all joy to her," she responded by a beautiful smile, but power of articulation soon failed, and on the morning of the 6th of Fifth Month, 1850, she most gently expired. We cannot close this account more appropriately than in the language of a dear friend who had long known and loved her. "A character of such rare excellence, such singleness of purpose, such true devotedness, in which the intellectual and the spiritual were so well balanced, and well developed together:--a character in which, with all the occasional undulations and agitations of the surface, there was such a deep, such a clear, such a calm and steady under-current of sterling piety, of unwavering attachment to the cause of our God and of his Christ, of close adherence to the leadings of his Spirit, and strong desire to do his will;--a character in which the woman, the Christian, and the Quaker were so fused into one, did truly adorn the doctrine of God her Saviour. It was conspicuous that by the grace of God she was what she was; though nature had done much, grace had done much more, and it was evident that she humbly felt that she was not her own, that she was bought with a price; that amidst all that surrounded her of the perishing things of time, she did not live unto herself, but unto Him who died for her and rose again, who was her Alpha and Omega, her all in all. In our little and afflicted church, the loss is great: she was one of our stakes, and one of our cords! The stake is removed, the cord is broken, but our God abideth for ever." A SKETCH OF THE LIFE AND LABOURS OF PATRICK, The Apostle of the Irish. We think it will be agreeable to our readers, that we should occupy a few vacant pages, by the following lively particulars respecting "Patrick, the Apostle of the Irish." They are extracted from a work lately published, under the title of, "Light in Dark Places; or Memorials of Christian Life in the Middle Ages," which is stated, in the preface, to be translated from a German work by the late Augustus Neander. Patrick flourished in the early part of the fifth century, before the Romish yoke was imposed upon the British churches, but not before much superstition had become mixed with the purity of the Christian faith. His early circumstances seem, however, to have entirely detached him from dependence upon man, and to have driven him to the One great Source of light and strength. Romanists have a story of his having gone to Rome, and having received there his authority as the first bishop of Ireland; but it is evident that his _call_ to preach the gospel to the Irish, was not of man, or from man, but immediately from God, who inspired him with holy faith and courage, and in a most remarkable manner prospered his labours. * * * * * This remarkable man was prepared, by very peculiar circumstances, for his important work; and in his instance, also, it may be seen, how that infinite wisdom which guides the development of the kingdom of God amongst men, is able to bring great things out of what seems insignificant to the eyes of men. Patrick, called in his native tongue Succath, was born A.D. 372, between the Scottish towns of Dumbarton and Glasgow, (then appended to England,) in the village of Bonaven, since named in honour of him, Kilpatrick. He was the son of a poor unlettered deacon of the village church. No particular care was bestowed on his education, and he lived on light-heartedly, from day to day, without making the religious truths taught him by his parents matters of personal interest, until his seventeenth year. Then, it happened that he was awakened by a severe chastisement from his Heavenly Father from this sleep of death to a higher life. Some pirates of the wild tribe of the Scots, who then inhabited Ireland, landed at the dwelling-place of Patrick, and carried him off with other captives. He was sold into slavery to a Scottish prince, who committed to him the care of his flocks and herds. Necessity directed his heart to that God of whom, in his days of rest in his father's house, he had not thought. Abandoned of men, he found consolation and blessedness in Him, and now first learned to perceive and enjoy the treasures which the Christian has in heaven. Whilst he roamed about with his flocks, through ice and snow, communion with his God in prayer, and quiet contemplation, were his portion. Let us hear how he himself, in a confession which he subsequently wrote, describes this change which took place in him. "I was about sixteen years old, and knew nothing of the true God, when I was led into captivity with many thousands of my countrymen, as we deserved, in that we had departed from God, and had not kept his commandments. There God opened my unbelieving heart, so that I, although late, remembered my sins, and turned with my whole heart to the Lord my God, to Him who had regarded my loneliness, had had compassion on my youth and my ignorance, and had watched over me before I knew him; who, ere I knew how to choose between good and evil, had guarded and cherished me, as a father doth his son. This I know assuredly, that before God humbled me, I was like a stone lying sunk in deep mire; but He who is able came, He raised me in his mercy, and set me on a very high place. Therefore must I loudly bear witness to this, in order, in some measure, to repay the Lord for such great blessings in time and eternity, great beyond the apprehension of human reason. "When I came to Ireland," he says, "and used daily to keep the cattle, and often every day to pray, the fear and the love of God were ever more and more enkindled in me, and my faith increased, so that, in one day, I spoke a hundred times in prayer, and in the night almost as often; and even when I passed the night on the mountains, or in the forest, amid snow and ice and rain, I would awake before daybreak to pray. And I felt no discomfort, there was then no sloth in me, such as I find in my heart now, for then the Spirit glowed within me." After he had passed six years in the service of this prince, he thought he heard a voice in his sleep which promised him a speedy return to his native land, and soon afterwards announced to him that a ship was already prepared to take him. In reliance on this call, he set out, and after a journey of many days, he found a ship about to set sail. But the captain would not, at first, receive the poor unknown youth. Patrick fell on his knees and prayed. He had not finished his prayer before one of the ship's company called him back, and offered him a passage. After a wearisome voyage, in which he experienced, from the grace which guided him, many a deliverance from great peril, and many a memorable answer to prayer, he arrived once more amongst his people. Many years after this, he was again carried off by pirates. But, in sixteen days, by the special guidance of Providence, he regained his freedom, and again returned, after many fresh perils and fatigues, to his people. Great was the joy of his parents to see their son again after so many perils, and they entreated him thenceforth to remain with them always. But Patrick felt an irresistible call to carry to the people amongst whom he had passed the years of his youth, and amongst whom he had been born again to the heavenly life, the tidings of that salvation which had been imparted to him by Divine grace, whilst amongst them. As the apostle Paul was by the Lord called, in a nocturnal vision, to carry to the people of Macedonia the first tidings of salvation, so there appeared to Patrick one night, in a vision, a man from Ireland with many letters. He gave him one, and Patrick read the first words, "The words of the Irish." And as he read these words, he thought he heard the simultaneous cry of many Irish tribes dwelling by the sea, "We pray thee, child of God, come and dwell once more amongst us." He could not read further, from the agitation of his heart, and awoke. Another night he thought he heard in a dream a heavenly voice, whose last words only were intelligible to him, namely, these words,--"He who gave his life for thee, speaks in thee." And he awoke full of joy. One night it seemed to him as if something that was in him, and yet above him, and was not himself, prayed with deep sighings, and at the end of the prayer it spoke, as if it were the Spirit of God himself. And he awoke, and remembered the expressive words of the apostle Paul, concerning the inward communion of the children of God with his Spirit, "The Spirit itself helpeth our infirmities. For we know not what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings that cannot be uttered." And in Romans viii. 24 "Christ which also maketh intercession for us." As the Almighty Shepherd of souls does not draw all to himself by the same means, nor guide and nourish them alike; but, on the contrary reveals and communicates himself to them in divers manners, according to his various purposes for them, and their various wants; it pleased Him to grant Patrick, by many manifestations of his grace, the pledge of the certainty of his fellowship with Himself, and of his call to preach the Gospel in Ireland. His parents and friends sought to hold him back, representing to him that such an undertaking far exceeded his capacity. He himself informs us of this, when he says: "Many dissuaded me from this journey, and said behind my back, 'Why does this man throw himself into danger, amongst the heathen who do not know the Lord?' It was not said maliciously, but they could not comprehend the thing on account of my rustic life and manners." But nothing could mislead him, for he trusted in the power of the Lord, who imparted to him the inward confidence that He had called him, and was with him. He himself says of this: "Whence came to me so great and blessed a gift, that I should know and love God, and be able to forsake my country and my kindred, although large gifts were offered me, with many tears, if I would remain? And against my will I was compelled to offend many of my kindred and my well-wishers. But by God's guidance, I yielded not to them; it was not my own power, it was God who triumphed in me, and resisted them all, so that I went amongst the people of Ireland to preach to them this Gospel, prepared to suffer much contempt from the unbelieving, and many persecutions, even to chains; and, if needful, to sacrifice my freedom for the good of others. And if I am counted worthy, I am ready also to lay down my life with joy for His name's sake." Patrick, accordingly, went to Ireland, in the year 431. He could now make use of his early proficiency in the Irish language. He gathered great multitudes of the people together in the open air, by beat of drum, to tell them of the sufferings of the Saviour for sinful men; and the doctrine of the cross manifested its characteristic power over many hearts. Patrick met indeed with much opposition. The priests and national bards, who possessed great influence, excited the people against him, and he had to endure many a hot persecution. But he overcame by his steadfastness in the faith, by his fervent zeal, and by a love which drew all hearts to itself. Patrick addressed himself especially to the chiefs and princes of the people. They could do the most mischief, if they were excited by the Druids against the strange religion; and, on the other hand, if they received the Gospel, they might make their people more accessible, and form a counterbalance to the influence of the Druids. Patrick took the part of servants who had suffered hard usage from their masters. When he found youths of the lower ranks, who seemed to him fitted for a higher calling, he provided for their education, and trained them to be teachers of the people. He had, from his youth, as we have seen, experienced the especial guidance of the Lord, and his heart was penetrated by it. Now, whilst he laboured in the fervour and power of faith, he was able to produce effects on the rude minds of the Irish, such as never could have been produced by ordinary human power. He saw himself, moreover, sustained by the peculiar direction of that God whose word he preached. Patrick speaks of it, not in spiritual pride, but full of the sense of his unworthiness and impotence, as well as of the consciousness of the grace working in and through him. After speaking, in one of his letters, of such marvels as God granted him to perform amongst the barbarous people, he added: "But I conjure all, let no one, on account of these or the like things, think to place me on an equality with the Apostles and other perfect men; for I am an insignificant, sinful, and despicable man." And more marvellous to him than the miracles which were wrought by him, was the simple fact which filled his whole soul, that by him who, until God drew his soul to Himself by severe chastisement, had himself cared so little about his own salvation, many thousands of the people, who had hitherto known nothing of the true God, should be brought to salvation. "Marvel," he says, "ye who fear God, small and great, and ye eloquent talkers, who know nothing of the Lord, inquire and acknowledge who it is that has awakened me, a simple man, from the midst of those who are accounted wise, learned, and mighty, in word and in deed. For I, who was abandoned beyond many others in the world; even I, in spite of all this, have been called by his Spirit, that in fear and trembling, yet faithfully and blamelessly, I should serve the people to whom the love of Christ has led me. Unweariedly must I thank my God, who has kept me faithful in the day of temptation, so that I can this day trustfully offer my soul as a living sacrifice of thanksgiving to my Lord Christ, who has delivered me out of all my afflictions, so that I must also say, Who am I, Lord? and what is my calling? that thou hast so gloriously revealed to me thy Godhead, that I can now constantly rejoice amongst the heathen, and glorify Thy name wherever I may be, not only in prosperity, but also in adversity; so that whatever may befall me, good or evil, I can calmly receive it, and continually thank that God who has taught me to believe in Him as the only true God." Patrick endeavoured to avoid all appearance of seeking his own gain or glory. A man who, according to the judgment of men, was not fitted to effect such great things, who from obscurity and poverty had been called to so high a place, and in whom therefore, as is frequently the case, those who had formerly known him after the flesh would not recognise what the Spirit had accomplished, such a man was obliged, with all the more circumspection, to avoid giving any occasion to those who were disposed to declare a thing which they could neither measure nor comprehend by the common standard, altogether beyond flesh and blood. When many, full of love and gratitude to the teacher of salvation, their spiritual father, freely offered him gifts, and pious women offered their ornaments, Patrick, although the donors were at first offended at it, in order to avoid all evil report, declined everything. He himself gave presents to the heathen chiefs, in order thereby to purchase peace for himself and his churches; he ransomed many Christians from captivity; and was himself prepared, as a good shepherd, to lay down all, even to his life, for his sheep. In his confession of faith, which, after labouring for thirty years in this calling, he addressed to his converts, he says: "That ye may rejoice in me, and I may ever rejoice in you in the Lord, I repent not what I have done, and even now it is not enough for me, I shall go further and sacrifice much more. The Lord is mighty to confirm me yet more, that I may yield up my life for your souls. I call God to witness in my soul, that I have not written this to seek glory from you. The glory which is not seen, but believed on in the heart is enough for me. Faithful is that God who hath promised, and he lieth not. But already in this world I behold myself exalted above measure by the Lord. I know very well that poverty and hardship suit me better than wealth and ease; yea, even the Lord Christ became poor for our sakes. Daily have I expected to be seized, carried into captivity, or slain; but I fear none of these things, because of the promises of heaven; for I have cast myself into the arms of the Almighty God, who reigns everywhere, as it is said in the Psalm, 'Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee.' Now I commend my soul to my faithful God, whom in my insignificance I serve as his messenger. For since with Him there is no respect of persons, and since He has chosen me for this calling, that I as one of the least of His people, should serve Him, what shall I render unto the Lord for all his benefits? What shall I say or promise unto my Lord? For I can do nothing, unless He himself give it me! But He trieth the hearts and reins, and He knoweth how greatly I long that He may give me to drink of the cup of His sufferings, as He has granted to others who love Him. I pray God that He may give me perseverance, and enable me to bear a faithful witness until my departure. And if I have striven after anything good for my God's sake, whom I love, I beseech Him that I, with those my new converts who have fallen into captivity, may shed my blood for his Name's sake, even though I should never be buried, even though my body should be torn in pieces by wild beasts. I believe firmly that if this should befall me, I should gain my body as well as my soul; for undoubtedly, in that day, we shall arise and shine like the sun, that is, in the glory of our Redeemer, Jesus Christ, who is the Son of the living God, as joint heirs with Christ, renewed in His image; for by Him, through Him, and with Him shall we reign. That sun which we see, rises daily for us by God's command; but it will never reign, and its brightness will not last for ever. All those also who worship it will (unhappy ones!) draw down punishment on themselves. But we pray in faith to Christ, the _true Sun_, that will never set, and he also who doeth His will shall never set, but shall live for ever, as Christ lives for ever, and reigns with God, the Almighty Father, and the Holy Spirit, from everlasting to everlasting." Patrick would gladly, after the absence and labours of many years, have once more visited his relations and his old friends in his native Britain and in Gaul, but he sacrificed his inclination to the higher calling. "I would gladly," he says, "have journeyed to my fatherland and my parents, and also once more have visited my brethren in Gaul, that I might have seen again the countenances of the saints of my Lord; God knows I longed for it much, but I am restrained by the Spirit, who witnesseth to me, that if I do this, He will hold me guilty, and I fear lest the work I have commenced should fall to the ground." TABLE _Shewing the Deaths, at different Ages, in the Society of Friends in Great Britain and Ireland, during the years _1847-48, and 1848-49, 1849- 50. AGE. YEAR 1847-48. YEAR 1848-49. YEAR 1849-50. Male. Female. Total. Male. Female. Total. Male. Female. Total. Under 1 year 13 10 23 14 10 24 5 8 13 {129} Under 5 years 22 23 45 20 17 37 8 11 19 From 5 years to 10 7 9 16 4 4 8 2 6 8 From 10 to 15 7 7 14 3 3 6 0 2 2 From 15 to 20 7 13 20 9 10 19 2 7 9 From 20 to 30 13 16 29 13 13 26 9 6 15 From 30 to 40 6 13 19 11 19 30 6 12 18 From 40 to 50 13 15 28 10 24 34 9 14 23 From 50 to 60 14 12 26 9 25 34 12 17 29 From 60 to 70 23 25 48 29 37 66 21 30 51 From 70 to 80 28 58 86 24 44 68 33 40 73 From 80 to 90 21 26 47 16 33 49 22 22 44 From 90 to 100 3 6 9 4 8 12 2 4 6 All ages 164 223 387 152 237 389 131 179 310 Footnotes: {2} See Memoir at the end of the Obituary. {129} The numbers in this series are included in the text, "under 5 years." Average age in 1847-48, 48 years, 11 months, and 25 days. Average age in 1848-49, 51 years, 3 months, and 22 days. Average age in 1849-50, 54 years, and 9 months. 
44991	----	_LITTLE SUNBEAMS._ III. LILY NORRIS' ENEMY. By the same Author. I. LITTLE SUNBEAMS. 1. BELLE POWERS' LOCKET 1.00 2. DORA'S MOTTO 1.00 3. LILY NORRIS' ENEMY 1.00 4. JESSIE'S PARROT 1.00 5. MAMIE'S WATCHWORD 1.00 II. THE BESSIE BOOKS. _Six vols. in a neat box._ $7.50. The volumes also sold separately; viz.: Bessie at the Seaside; City, Friends; Mountains; School; Travels, at $1.25 each. "Really, it makes the heart younger, warmer, better, to bathe it afresh in such familiar, natural scenes, where benevolence of most practical and blessed utility is seen developing itself, from first to last, in such delightful symmetry and completeness as may, and we hope will, secure many imitators."--_Watchman and Reflector._ III. THE FLOWERETS. A SERIES OF STORIES ON THE COMMANDMENTS. _Six vols. in a neat box._ $3.60. The vols. can also be had separately; viz.: 1. Violet's Idol; 2. Daisy's Work; 3. Rose's Temptation; 4. Lily's Lesson; 5. Hyacinthe and her Brothers; 6. Pinkie and the Rabbits, at 60 cents each. "The child-world we are here introduced to is delightfully real. The children talk and act so naturally that we feel real live children must have sat for their portraits."--_Baltimore Christian Advocate._ [Illustration: Lily Norris. Frontis.] LILY NORRIS' ENEMY. "WHATSOEVER THY HAND FINDETH TO DO, DO IT WITH THY MIGHT." BY JOANNA H. MATHEWS, AUTHOR OF THE "BESSIE BOOKS" AND THE "FLOWERETS." NEW YORK: ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, 530 BROADWAY. 1883. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. CAMBRIDGE: PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON. DEDICATED TO "AUNT JOSIE'S DAISY," THE SWEETEST LITTLE "SUNBEAM" THAT EVER BRIGHTENED THE CLOUDS OF A DARK AND SORROWFUL WINTER. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. THE "QUAKER LADY" 9 II. A MONKEY, A PUPPY, AND A BEGGAR 27 III. THE SILVER INKSTAND 48 IV. LILY'S PROVERB PICTURE 69 V. PROMISING 84 VI. BUT NOT PERFORMING 100 VII. WHAT CAME OF THAT 120 VIII. A LITTLE FABLE 142 IX. SATURDAY MORNING'S WORK 156 X. SATURDAY AFTERNOON'S PLAY 177 XI. A SAD ACCIDENT 198 XII. LILY'S NEW RESOLVE 220 [Illustration] LILY NORRIS' ENEMY I. _THE "QUAKER LADY."_ "If Lily Norris isn't just the most provoking child that ever lived!" said Maggie Bradford, indignantly. "Yes, I b'lieve she just is," assented Bessie. "Why," said Mrs. Rush, who was that day making a visit to Maggie's and Bessie's mamma, "how is this? Lily the most provoking child that ever lived! I thought Lily was one of your best friends, and that you were so fond of her." "Yes, Aunt May, so we are," said Maggie. "We're very fond of Lily indeed; she's one of our dearly beloveds, and we like to have her with us; but for all that, she's very trying to our patience." "Yes," sighed Bessie, "I think she's tryinger than any child we know; and yet she's hardly ever naughty,--really naughty, I mean." "How does she try you?" asked Mrs. Rush, though she believed she could herself have answered as to the cause of complaint. "She puts off so," said Bessie. "Aunt May, I think she's the greatest put-offer we ever saw; and sometimes it makes things so hard to bear. We try not to be provoked 'cause we love her so; but sometimes we can't help being a little. I b'lieve it troubles people as much as if she was real naughty in some way." "Yes, procrastination is a very troublesome fault," said Mrs. Rush. "Not a _fault_, is it, Aunt May?" asked Maggie. "I thought it was only a habit of Lily's." "And Lily is a pretty good child," said Belle Powers. "She is mischievous, and makes us laugh in school sometimes; but I b'lieve that is about all the naughty things she does, and I think that is a pretty good account for one child." "Putting off is not being naughty, is it, Aunt May?" pleaded Bessie, unwilling, even amid her vexation, to have one of her favorite playmates thus blamed. "Well, darling," answered Mrs. Rush, "I fear that procrastination and a want of punctuality must be considered as rather serious faults. I see you are vexed and troubled now; why, I cannot tell, more than that Lily has caused it in some way; and I think that any habit which needlessly tries and irritates other people can be called nothing less than a fault, and a bad one, too. What is the matter now?" "Why," said Bessie, "you see we are all going to the party at Miss Ashton's this afternoon, and Lily was to be here at four o'clock to go with us; and when grandmamma was going home just now, she said she would take us all around in her carriage; but Lily was not here, and we did not like to go without her, and grandmamma could not wait. But grandmamma said the carriage should come back for us, and it has; and mamma says it is twenty minutes past four, and there Lily has not come yet, and we don't know what to do, and we can't help being provoked." "It is just good enough for her to go, and leave her to come after by herself," said Belle, with a pout. "But you see that would not be so very polite," said Bessie; "and we have to be _that_ even if we are pretty provoked." "I should think people might be punctual when they're going to a party, anyway," said Maggie, impatiently. "The idea of being so wasteful of a party! I never heard of such foolishness! I should think that people who couldn't be punctual at parties, and go just as soon as they are invited, didn't deserve to go at all." "I should think her mother would send her in time," said Mabel Walton, Belle's cousin. "Well, I suppose she would," said Maggie; "but you know she has gone away just now, and there's no one at home to make Lily think about the time. Mrs. Norris doesn't have such a bad habit herself, and she don't like Lily to have it either. She is always talking to her about it." "What are you going to do, Maggie?" asked Bessie, as she saw her sister take up a pencil and a bit of paper, and carry them to Mrs. Rush. "I am going to ask Aunt May to do a sum for me," said Maggie. "Aunt May, will you please do the sum of four times twenty minutes, and tell me how much it is?" "I do not want the paper, Maggie," said Mrs. Rush, smiling as she saw what Maggie would be at. "Four times twenty minutes are eighty minutes, or one hour and twenty minutes." "Why do you want to know that?" asked Belle. "I'm going to tell Lily a story when she comes, and let her take lesson by it for herself," said Maggie, rather severely; the severity being intended, however, for the delinquent Lily, and not for Belle. "Children," said Mrs. Bradford, coming into the room just at this moment, "I do not want you to keep the carriage waiting. Since Lily is not here you must go without her. It is long after the time fixed." "Oh yes, mamma, we know that; I should think we might," said Maggie, with a sigh of despair. "There's the door-bell now," said Bessie, who was more patient under her afflictions than the other children. "Maybe that is Lily." So it proved; and a moment later Lily was shown into the room, followed by her nurse. A chorus of exclamations and reproaches greeted the little new-comer; but she took them all with her usual careless good-nature, though she did look half ashamed, too. Maggie, alone, mindful of the arrow she held in reserve, had nothing to say beyond a word or two of welcome. "Yes, just what I was saying to Miss Lily, that the young ladies would be disappointed to be kept waiting, ma'am," said the nurse, speaking to Mrs. Bradford; "and I came in to beg you'd not think it was my fault. I was at Miss Lily a half-hour before I could coax her to come and be dressed; and I knew she'd be late and vex them." "Oh, never mind. You can go now," said Lily, carelessly. "We'll be time enough." "Come, let us go now," said Maggie, with an expression which showed that she by no means agreed with Lily that it was "time enough;" and good-by being said to mamma and Mrs. Rush, she led the way from the room, followed by the rest of the young party, who were soon seated snugly in the carriage. "Lily," said Maggie, as soon as they had fairly started, "I have a story to tell you about punctuality." "Pooh! I don't want to hear about your old punctuality," said Lily. "Everybody just bothers me 'most to death about being punctual. Tom has been making a fuss about it just now." "But it is a story,--one of Maggie's stories," said Belle, who thought it quite incredible that any one should decline an opportunity of hearing one of those interesting and valuable narratives. "Let's hear it then," said Lily. "It is not a story of my own making up," said Maggie, with the solemnity which befitted a teacher of moral lessons; "but it is very interesting, and may do some good, if people choose to let it. But as there are 'none so deaf as those who won't hear,' so I suppose there are none so hard to teach as those who won't be taught." "But what is the story?" asked Belle. "The story is this," answered Maggie. "Once thirteen ladies went to a meeting, or ought to go to a meeting. Well, twelve of them came at the right time to the house of a very wise old Quaker lady, where the meeting was; but the thirteenth lady did not come for a quarter of an hour after she ought to. So the other ladies were as tired as they could be, 'cause they couldn't begin to do what they had to do without her--but I would have if I'd been there--and some of them yawned--which wasn't polite for them to do, but they could hardly help it--and some went to sleep, and some had headaches, and one who was sitting in a breeze from the window, where she didn't like to sit, took cold, and had a sore throat and a toothache, and she had to go and have her tooth out; which was all the fault of the unpunctual lady, and I should think she'd be very much ashamed of herself." "So should I," said Mabel, as Maggie paused to take breath. "What's the rest of the story?" asked Bessie, impatient of delay in such a thrilling tale. "Well, when she came in," continued Maggie, giving point to her story by the look she fixed upon Lily,--"when she came in, after doing such a lot of mischief, she didn't seem to think it was any great harm after all; but she just said, 'Ladies, I am sorry I kept you waiting, but it is only a quarter of an hour.' Then the wise old Quaker lady stood up and looked very severe at her, and she said, 'Friend, thee'--thee is the way Quakers say you--'Friend, thee has wasted three hours of time that did not belong to thee. Here are twelve of us, and a quarter of an hour for each makes three hours, and you--thee, I mean--had no right to do it, and thee ought to be ashamed of yourself.' And the lady was ashamed of herself, 'cause it made her feel horridly to be talked to that way before so many people; and she never did so again, which was a great blessing to every one who knew her, because she made herself a great inconvenience." And here Maggie closed her story, which she had one day lately found in some book or paper, and had brought it up on this occasion for Lily's benefit, adding to it sundry embellishments of her own, which, as she thought, made it more telling and serviceable. "But," said Lily, who took the moral to herself as it was intended she should do, "but we're not a meeting, and you're not a Quaker lady, Maggie. It's only a party." "_Only_ a party!" echoed Maggie, in an aggrieved tone, which told that this was adding insult to injury; "she says, 'Only a party'! Now, Lily, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I just want to tell you something." And Maggie held up the bit of paper on which she had taken the pains to note down the sum Mrs. Rush had done for her, lest she should forget the number of minutes. "You kept us waiting more than twenty minutes, Lily. Miss Ashton invited us at four, and you did not come till twenty minutes after; and there are four of us besides yourself, so there's one whole hour, and forty minutes,--which is 'most three-quarters of an hour,--one whole hour and forty minutes of party wasted, and only twenty minutes of it was your own." "And I'm sure it's a great deal harder to have a party wasted than it is a meeting," said Belle. "I never thought about it," said Lily, by no means offended, but considerably astonished at the way in which her short-comings were brought home to her. "I never thought of that, and I'm real sorry. I'll never do it again." "Did the lady with the toothache ever tell the late lady she made her have it?" asked Bessie. "Well, I'm not very sure," said Maggie, not willing to confess to total ignorance on this subject; "but I think she did." "Then she wasn't very kind," said Bessie. "It would have been kinder if she hadn't spoken about it. She had lesson enough. I think that old Quaker lady was pretty cross, and I'm glad she's not my grandmamma." "Maggie," said Lily, as the carriage drew up at Miss Ashton's door, "couldn't you make me a proverb picture about putting off? I would like one ever so much." For Lily took great delight in these same "proverb pictures," and was very glad to receive one even when it held up her own failings to reproof. "Is there any proverb about putting off?" asked Belle. "Yes, to be sure," said Lily. "There's 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'" "Um--I don't know," said Maggie, doubtful if this adage were quite applicable to the case in question. "I don't think that will do; but if we can't find one, we'll make one, and draw you a proverb picture about it. I'll ask mamma if she knows of any that will do." "And make it for me very soon, will you?" said Lily, jumping from the carriage with the assistance of Mrs. Ashton's maid, who had come to take them out. "I'll try to have it do me some good." This was encouraging, and Maggie's imagination was at once put to work; but not to much purpose for this evening, since as yet she knew of no proverb that would answer for the object she had in view. Our young party was greeted with a chorus of welcome, not only from Mrs. and Miss Ashton, but also from the other little girls who had all arrived before them; for children are generally punctual to such engagements, whatever their elders may be. Indeed, they usually prefer to be before, rather than after the time. "How late you came!" "What kept you?" "It's more than half-past four!" "We've been here ever so long." "We've been waiting for you"--and such like exclamations met them on all sides. "It's my fault," said Lily. "I was not ready in time, and kept them waiting." "O Lily!" said Carrie Ransom. "You always do keep people waiting." "Well, I can't help it," said Lily. "Yes, you can," said Gracie Howard; "at least, you could if you would do things in time; but you never will." "I'll grow out of it when I'm bigger," said Lily. "People 'most always cure up their faults before they're grown up." "Not if they don't take pains with them when they're little," said Bessie, solemnly. "Lily, if you keep on per-cas-ter-nating now, maybe you won't be able to help it when you're grown up, and then people will be provoked with you." "Were you much provoked with me to-day?" asked Lily. "Um-m, pretty," said Bessie; "but we're quite over it now." "Well, I don't care much then," was Lily's thought; but she said aloud, "I don't think it can do much harm when we're little. You see we're all here now. But I will begin pretty soon to correct myself of it." "She had better begin to-day," thought Bessie; but no more was said on the subject, and they were all soon engaged in a merry game of play. The party passed off pleasantly, so pleasantly that Maggie found more and more cause for regret that she and her own particular friends had been unjustly defrauded, as she considered it, of so large a portion of it; but she was too forgiving and good-natured to reproach Lily any farther, especially as Bessie privately confided to her that she did not like "that severe old Quaker lady one bit, and am very glad that she is not one of my friends." Maggie thought that perhaps she had been rather severe herself, and took pains to be especially agreeable to Lily for the rest of the day. But perhaps this ready forgetfulness of their vexation was not the best thing for heedless, light-hearted Lily. At first she had felt a little self-reproachful, but when she saw the other children forget their momentary displeasure, she thought her own troublesome want of punctuality did not matter much after all; they were all glad and happy now, and some of these days she would try to break herself of this bad habit. Ah! you see, that was Lily's way; it was always "one of these days," "some other time," "by and by;" and here lay the root of the trouble which proved so vexatious to those about her, and very often to herself. "Mamma," said Maggie, as soon as they reached home, "do you know of any proverb that would be a good correction of the habit of putting off, and never being ready in time?" Mrs. Bradford laughed. "Yes, I think I do, Maggie. What do you want to do with it?" "To make a proverb picture for Lily, mamma; she wants us to. She likes our proverb pictures very much, and never is provoked when we give her one. And I think I shall write her a piece of poetry about it too. What is the proverb, mamma?" "I will tell you in the morning, dear." "Why not to-night, mamma?" "Because I want you to go to sleep now, Maggie. If I tell you a proverb to-night, you will lie awake, turning it over in your mind, and making verses and pictures for it; and I do not wish you to do that. Wait till morning, dear." Maggie submitted, like the docile and obedient little girl she was, though she was disappointed; for as mamma knew, she would have liked to spend part of her proper sleeping time in composing verses, and inventing pictures for Lily's benefit. "Shall you make the poetry a divine song, or a moral poem?" asked Bessie, who took the greatest possible interest and pride in Maggie's poetical attempts. "I think I'll mix the two," said Maggie, after a little deliberation. "It might be better, because Lily don't care much to read things that are _very_ pious; but she needs them a little. Yes, I'll do that." And now, according to mamma's orders, they ceased talking; and Maggie, obeying not only the letter, but the spirit of her mother's command, tried to put from her all thought of the lesson she was to teach Lily, and both she and Bessie were soon fast asleep. [Illustration] II. _A MONKEY, A PUPPY, AND A BEGGAR._ "Lily!" "Yes, mamma!" "Can I trust you to do something for me?" "Yes, indeed, mamma! you know I like to help you." "I want it done immediately, dear." "Oh, yes, mamma, I'm ready. I'll do it right away." Mrs. Norris sat at the library table, writing. As she said the last words she hastily folded the note she had just finished, and slipped it into its envelope; then, as she put the address upon it, she said,-- "I have an appointment to keep, Lily; and there is Mrs. Bradford now, I believe. I am going with her, and I would like you to lay these papers smoothly in my writing-case, those others in this box,--you know where they belong,--and to put my silver inkstand carefully in the secretary. There, I have closed it, so you cannot spill the ink. Will you be a helpful little girl, and see to that for me, my daughter?" "Yes, indeed, mamma," said Lily again. "I'm glad you let me do it for you. I'll be very careful with the inkstand." "And at once, remember, dear," said Mrs. Norris, rising from her chair. "I do not wish the inkstand left here on the table, or the paper to lie scattered about. It will be a great help to mamma if you do it nicely. Ah! good afternoon, Mrs. Bradford," as that lady was shown into the room. "I am all ready, and will not detain you. I had just received a note which needed an immediate answer, before I left home; but it is finished, and I shall trust Lily to put by my writing materials for me." Lily looked up at Mrs. Bradford, rather proud of being trusted by her mother; and the lady smiled as she stooped to kiss her. "Lily likes to help mamma as well as Maggie and Bessie do, I see," she said. "Yes: and she can often be of great assistance when she is prompt and punctual," said Mrs. Norris, drawing on her gloves. "Are Maggie and Bessie well, Mrs. Bradford?" asked Lily. "Yes, dear; and they wished me to ask you to come and see them very soon. I do not know when they want you to come, for they have some plans to arrange with their Aunt Annie, but they will let you know. They are drawing some pictures for you, I believe, and want to explain it to you." "Oh, yes," said Lily; "they promised me a proverb picture, and their proverb pictures are so interesting. I should think any one might be glad to have them." "They certainly seem to give great satisfaction, both to themselves, and to those whom they are intended to benefit," said Mrs. Bradford, laughing. "Good-by, Lily. The children will see you soon. I gave them leave to ask you when they pleased; and you must come early, whenever that may be." "Thank you, ma'am," said Lily. "I'll come just as soon as mamma will let me." She followed her mother and Mrs. Bradford to the front door, where the former turned, and said a little uneasily,-- "Lily, attend to the inkstand at once, my darling." "I am going to, mamma," answered the little girl, meaning what she said at the moment, though she afterwards came so far short of it, as you shall see. As the door closed after the two ladies, Lily caught the notes of a hand-organ in the street; and running back to the library, she went to the window to look out for the strolling musician who carried it. She had not forgotten her mother's orders, or the help she had promised to be to her; and as she passed by the table on her way to the window, the scattered papers and the silver inkstand caught her eye, and reminded her of her promise. But she did not pause. "Just a moment; I'll put them away in one moment," she said to herself. "I'll just look and see if that organ man is coming here; 'cause I have some pennies in my pocket, and I'll give him some. Oh, yes! there he is, and he has a monkey. I like monkey organ men the best, 'cause the monkeys are so funny. What a funny fellow! Why, he's 'most the cunningest monkey I ever saw;" and Lily had quite forgotten her promise. She was in great glee over the monkey, who certainly was a droll, though a very ugly little beast, as monkeys generally are; and she amused herself with him for some time, as he climbed the balcony railings, stoop, and blinds, hopped up and down the broad stone steps, and every now and then came close to the window where she stood, and mouthed and jabbered away at her. Amused though she was, she was glad that the glass was between her and the grinning creature; and she always took the opportunity of his little excursions to open the window and quickly thrust out the pennies, for which he immediately sprang down, and taking them up in his paw hurried with them to his master. Lily treated him also to a cake, which he greedily nibbled; and then, seeing that the poor creature lapped his tongue upon a damp spot on the stone pavement, where a little water had been spilled, as though he were thirsty, she called a servant to bring a cup of water, and gave him a drink. Finding that she thus provided entertainment for man and beast, and that he was reaping quite a harvest, the organ-grinder stayed for some time; and all the while, the inkstand remained unheeded on the table. Not quite forgotten, either; for every now and then the recollection of it would come to her; but Lily kept saying to herself, "In one minute; I'm going in just one minute." But the one minute multiplied itself into twenty before the man moved off with his organ and his monkey, and Lily felt at leisure to attend to her mother's wishes. But it seemed after all that the time had not yet come. "Miss Lily," said a servant man, putting his head in at the library door, "is Master Tom at home?" "No, I b'lieve not; I think he didn't come from school yet," answered Lily, with her hand on the inkstand. "I'd like to know what time he'll be in," said the man, lingering, "for my brother is below with the puppies Master Tom wanted to see. There's a gentleman wants to buy both; but seeing Master Tom had spoken about one if it suited, he thought it was only fair to bring them here first, and let him make up his mind. But the gentleman must know this afternoon. Wouldn't you like to see 'em, Miss Lily? They're such pretty little dogs." "Yes, indeed I would," answered the child; and she followed the man to the basement hall, where his brother waited with the puppies,--not without another thought of her still unperformed duty; but again she contented herself with the excuse, "I shan't be half a minute, and the inkstand is shut up. It can't spill the ink." Alas, alas! it was long before the recollection of it again crossed Lily's mind. If she had found the monkey bewitching, what did she find the little dogs,--playful, pretty creatures, which seemed delighted with a playmate frolicsome and mischievous as themselves? Then her brother Tom came in; and, hearing that the dogs were there for his approval, came down to look at them and decide which he would have. Of course Lily must stay and help him to make his choice; and now that vexatious little feeling that there was something wrong, some duty unfulfilled, had altogether passed away. Lily was quite at her ease by this time. The matter was at last settled; the dog chosen, the man paid and sent away, leaving the selected puppy in a very low and melancholy state of mind at the parting. He whined and cried piteously, first scratching and barking at the door where his former owner and his puppy brother had passed out; and at last, after refusing to be comforted by all the petting that was lavished upon him, retiring into private life behind the kitchen coal-scuttle, and resolutely declining to be coaxed out. "Never mind," said Tom, "he'll be all right by and by, Lily. Wait till he's hungry, and he'll come out and be glad enough to make friends. Now I am going to buy a house for him. I saw some pretty little dog-houses down at Bruner's this morning, and I'll go look at them, and see if they'll answer." "Oh, Tom! could I go with you?" asked Lily. "Yes, if you like," said Tom; "I'll be glad to have you; only make haste to be dressed, Lily. Will you go to Nora _at once_?" "Yes, yes," said Lily, clapping her hands; and away she flew to beg her nurse to make her ready as soon as possible. Nothing presenting itself just then to take up her attention, or which looked more attractive than the promised walk with Tom, she made no delay, but obeyed his direction to go and be dressed _at once_. How many boys do you think would have consented as readily, cheerfully, and kindly as Tom Norris did to such a request from a little sister? But that was Tom's way. When he granted a favor or bestowed a kindness, it was done in a manner which made it seem as if it were a pleasure to himself. And if he were obliged to refuse Lily any thing that she asked, she never grumbled nor fretted, because she knew well that Tom would grant it if he could, or if it were best for her to have it. Tom never said he couldn't be "bothered with girls," or "catch me doing it," or ran off with some other contemptuous or unkind speech, such as boys too often use toward their little sisters. Tom was a true man, and a true gentleman, kindly and courteous in his manner and words toward all women and children, but especially to his mother and little sister: free, fearless, and generous; daring to do and to speak the right; yet so bright, so gay, so manly that not one among his companions ever thought of calling him a "Miss Nancy," a "muff," or other like names. No, indeed! and was not Tom Norris the king of Mr. Peters' school, the judge in all disputes, the one to settle all difficulties, to "help a fellow out of a scrape"? Nora would as soon have thought of questioning her own care and wisdom for Lily as she would that of "Master Tom." "Miss Lily's all right, ma'am, she's with Master Tom," would be answer enough when there was any inquiry about the little girl; and it was quite satisfactory to mother or nurse to know that she was with her brother. No fear that Lily would come to harm or fall into mischief with Tom to guard and guide her. So she made no objection when Lily came running to her and begged to be dressed to go out with Tom; and she soon had her ready. As the little girl went downstairs to join her brother, he stood in the hall below, putting on his overcoat. "Lily," he said, when he saw her, "did you tell Nora to sew on these two buttons?" "Oh, Tom!" cried Lily, clasping her hands together, and looking ashamed and troubled, as she well might. "You told me, Lily," said Tom, "when I wanted to ask mamma to give the order, that you would be sure to attend to it, and that you would go right away and tell Nora. Now you must wait till I go up and have it done. You put it off, I suppose, and so forgot it." Yes, that was just it; more procrastination, and so forgetfulness. Tom did not speak angrily, but his voice was grave, and Lily saw that he was vexed. "I'm so sorry," she said to herself, as she opened the front door, and stood waiting for her brother upon the stoop. "I did mean to remember and tell Nora right away, and I only just stopped to listen to mamma's musical box for a moment, and so I went and forgot. It is too mean I do forget so quick." What was the reason Lily forgot so quickly and so often? Because she allowed other things to take her time and her attention from the duty she should first attend to. "Please, dear little lady, to help a poor woman." Lily started, and looked around. She had not seen the woman coming, and she now was half way up the steps, almost at her elbow. "Please, little lady," the woman began again; "I've a little girl at home no bigger nor yourself, and five more of 'em, and not a mouthful to eat have they had these twenty-four hours. A little money to buy bread for 'em, and bless your beautiful face." "Oh, dear! I'm so sorry," said Lily; not moved by the woman's flattery, but by the vision of the six children no larger than herself, who were starving. "I think mamma would give you lots of things if she were home, but she is not; or papa either. Couldn't you come again?" "And I might go home to find them dying or dead," whined the old woman, coming nearer, and trying to peer within the half open door. "You couldn't give a poor mother a loaf of bread, or a few pennies, little lady? I'm not a beggar at all; I'd be ashamed to beg, but I thought if I could get a lift this once, I'd work it out some day. I never begged in my life; but there's the children starving, and me with a broken arm." Lily, who was a charitable and generous child, felt her sympathy strongly roused, and remembering the store in her money-box upstairs, she said,-- "Oh, yes! I have money of my own, and I'll give you some. But it's way upstairs, so you'll have to wait a minute till I bring it. And I'll see if I can have a loaf of bread for you too." The woman was about to follow her into the house; but Lily, recollecting certain charges she had heard given to the servants, and also a sad and mortifying thing which had once happened to Maggie Bradford, would not suffer her to enter. But, not wishing to hurt the woman's feelings, she said,-- "I think you'd better wait outside. Mamma don't like to have strange people come in when there's no one about; and the servants are all downstairs 'cept Nora, and she's up. I'll be back in a minute;" and, with an encouraging nod to the woman, away she flew on her errand of kindness. Poor Lily! in the midst of her intended prudence, she had been most imprudent; for she left the door partially open, not wishing to seem too inhospitable, and never dreaming the woman would disregard her order, and take advantage of her absence. She ran into the nursery and found her money-box, taking from it twenty-five cents. Tom was speaking to Nora, who was still busy with his coat, and Lily did not interrupt him. But presently he turned to her. "Going to do some shopping too, Lily?" he asked, as he saw what she was doing. "No," said Lily, "this is for a poor woman downstairs. Don't you want to give her something too, Tom? And do you think mamma would let me give her a loaf of bread? She's not a common beggar: she says she's not; and she has six children, all starving, just about as big as me." "Miss Lily," said Nora, starting up, "now what have you done with her? Where is she?" "Oh, you needn't be afraid, Nora," answered Lily. "I was very careful, and told her to stay outside, on the stoop, 'cause I remembered how Maggie let a man come in the house, and how he stole her papa's new overcoat while she went upstairs. I took very good care of her, and told her she couldn't come in, 'cause every one was upstairs or downstairs. Shall you give her some money? and can I have the bread, Tom?" "Wait till I come down and see the woman," said Tom, who knew that Lily's sympathies were too apt to run away with her judgment. Lily waited with what patience she might for a moment or two; but it seemed to her that Nora's fingers moved very slowly. "Tom," she said presently, "couldn't you come and see the woman while Nora finishes the coat? You know those children must be growing starveder and starveder every minute." Tom laughed, but consented; and, taking her hand, was about to lead her from the room, when Nora stopped her. "Miss Lily," she said, "you took away my large scissors this morning, and I need them to cut out some work. Will you bring them to me before you go down again?" "You find them, please, Nora," answered Lily. "They're somewhere in my baby-house." "Your mamma forbid it," said Nora. "She told me when you took a thing that way and kept it, I was to make you bring it back, and not go and hunt it up for you." "Just this once," pleaded Lily. Nora shook her head, though she would herself willingly have humored the child. "Your mamma was here, you know, when you took the scissors," she said, "and she told me if you did not bring them back as you promised, I was to send you for them. She said you are getting too much in the way of thinking that I am to hunt up all the things you don't put back in their places, and to see to every thing you put off and leave undone. You must bring me the scissors before you go, dear." "While you find them I'll go down and talk to your woman with the half-dozen children all just of your size," said Tom, who evidently had his doubts on the subject of Lily's _protégée_; "and if she seems all right you shall give her some food; but we won't give her money till we know more about her. That is mamma's rule, you know. Nora, please bring me the coat when it is done." And Tom went away, leaving Lily to follow when she had found the scissors. It took her some three or four minutes to do this; for she had left them among a heap of bits of silk and ribbon with which she had been playing that morning, and neglecting to take the scissors back to Nora when she had finished with them, as she had promised to do, she had forgotten them altogether, and could not find them at once. The coat was ready when she went back to Nora, and the nurse followed her downstairs with it. "Your bird had flown when I came down, Lil," said Tom, when he saw her. "Who, the woman? Had she gone away?" asked Lily. "Yes, she had gone; no sign of her. But didn't you say you had shut her out?" "I told her to stay out, 'cause there was no one about in this part of the house to take care of her," answered Lily, with an air of confident wisdom and prudence. "And did you not shut the door?" asked Tom. "Not so very tight," said Lily. "I left it a little scrap open, for fear her feelings would be hurt, and maybe she might think I wasn't coming back to her." "Oh, wise Lily!" said Tom, laughing, as he put on his overcoat; "you left the door standing open, and told her there was no one in this part of the house! Next time, little woman, close the door." "Did she come in?" asked Lily. "I told her she must not." "No, I believe not," answered Tom; "and as it is there is no harm done, for I've looked round, and there's nothing touched. The hats and coats are all right, and every thing else seems to be safe. You've had better luck or a better beggar than poor Maggie; but next time, puss, don't you leave any one the chance to walk in when the coast is clear." "You're sure there's nothing taken, and that she's not in the house, Master Tom?" said prudent Nora. "Yes, I believe it's all safe," said Tom; "but you'd better call Robert up, and tell him to make a thorough search. Come, Lily, we'll be off now." [Illustration] [Illustration] III. _THE SILVER INKSTAND._ "Lily," said Tom, as they went down the street together, "don't you see what a lot of trouble your habit of putting off makes for yourself and every one about you?" "Yes, I should think I did," answered Lily, with energy. "I'm dreadfully sorry about your coat, Tom; I really am, dreadfully." Apparently her remorse did not affect her spirits much, for, as she spoke, she went skipping along, swinging her brother's hand back and forth, and smiling and nodding with glee. "I was not speaking for myself so much, or caring about my coat just then," said Tom. "That does not matter now; but this is such a bad habit of yours, Lily, and it is growing worse and worse." "Oh, but I'm going to begin to cure myself very soon," said Lily. "Maggie and Bessie are going to make me a proverb picture, and Belle is going to help them; and as soon as I have it I will improve myself by it. Tom, why don't the boys in your school make proverb pictures for each other? I should think they would. Proverb pictures are so very interesting, and so improving too, Tom." "I dare say, when one is willing to be improved," said Tom; "but I do not think our boys would care much about them. They are rather too large for that." "Dear me! I should think the older people are the better they'd like them," said Lily; "'cause they can make them better when they've learned to draw. I can't make them very fit to be seen yet; but when I'm grown up and can draw nicely, I'll make a whole lot; and when I go to make visits, or my acquaintances come to see me, and I see they have faults or bad habits, I'll just give them a proverb picture to help them to correct themselves." "If you don't change your mind in the mean time," said Tom, merrily. "I don't think you'll be overrun with visitors if you entertain them in that fashion, Lily. But," becoming grave again, "I want you to listen to me, and seriously, too. You see what trouble this putting off and never being ready in time makes for yourself; and you can't help seeing also how it provokes other people, and good reason, too. For you know, Lily, you have no _right_ to make such inconvenience for other people." "Ho!" said Lily. "I see, Tom, you're like Maggie's old Quaker lady, cross old thing! I don't mean you're cross, not one bit; only you think, like her, that somebody has no right to take up other people's time by making them wait." "What Quaker lady?" asked Tom. Lily repeated Maggie's story, almost word for word, as she had told it. Tom was very much amused, but he did not let Lily see that; for it was hard to make her talk seriously on any subject, and he did not wish to have her see him laugh just now. "Yes," he said, with all the gravity he could muster, "I am much of the opinion of that old lady. I do not think that any one has the right to waste the time of other people, by keeping them waiting, when it can be avoided; or by failing to do that which they are expected, or perhaps have promised, to do. I know a lady--" "What's her name?" questioned Lily. "Never mind her name. I know a lady who is never ready at the time for which she makes an engagement, and who in this way makes herself a nuisance to all who are obliged to have any business with her; who always comes into church when the service is half over; who is late at every meal, either in her own house, or other people's--" "Yes," said Lily; "and don't you remember, Tom, how mad papa was that time she came to dinner at our house when Mr. Francis was there; and he and papa had a very important engagement, and she kept the dinner waiting so long that they could not get to their engagement in time; and wasn't papa mad?" "Not mad exactly," said Tom, "but he was very much vexed, and with reason; but I see you know whom I mean, Lily." "Oh, yes, very well indeed; you mean Miss Lee. She's just too provoking for any thing; but then I never mean to be like her. Pretty soon I'm going to begin to correct myself of putting off, and not being ready in time." "But why don't you begin now, right off?" said Tom. "Would you?" asked Lily, doubtfully. "I thought I'd wait till I had the proverb picture." "Yes, begin to-day, this very minute," said Tom. "There's nothing for me to put off just now," said Lily. "I mean make up your mind; take a resolution you will begin at once," said Tom. "You see, Lily, it is the same in every thing. You always think, 'it is time enough,' or 'another time will do;' and so the thing is left undone, or you make some trouble. You are a real generous, obliging little girl, but you could be far more helpful if you had not this bad habit. Mamma often asks you to do some little thing for her; but if she trusts to you, ten to one--" Lily stopped short where she stood, with a face of the blankest dismay, and interrupted her brother in a distressed voice. "Oh, Tom!" she said. "I did do _such_ a thing! Mamma did trust me, and I've done such a thing, and never did it." "What is it? What have you done, and what haven't you done?" asked Tom, rather at a loss to understand her, as you may imagine he would be. "Mamma was just going out with Mrs. Bradford, when a note came she had to answer before she went," said Lily; "and she was in a great hurry, and so she told me to be a help to her, and put away all her writing things very carefully. And I said I would, and she trusted me, and told me to do it right away, and--and--oh, Tom!" "And you did not do it," said Tom, gravely. "You did not do it at once, but put it off, and so left it undone." "Yes," answered Lily, her eyes filling, and her voice shaking. "I never did it, and I should think I _was_ provoking. I should think the whole world might be provoked with me. Tom, I ought to go back; but you oughtn't to be kept for me any longer. You can take me to our house, and just leave me; and I'll go right in, and put away mamma's things, and stay at home for a punishment to myself, and to make me see how troublesome putting off is." "Mamma's things are all put away, Lily," said Tom. "Who did it? You?" asked Lily, recovering her spirits a little. "Yes. I did not know you had promised to do it, or I should have spoken to you about it; but when I was looking round to see if that beggar woman had been at any mischief, I saw mamma's writing things lying about over the table, and her desk open; so I just put every thing away, and locked the desk. It is all right now," added Tom, believing it was as he said. "But how came you to forget mamma's orders, Lily?" "It was all the fault of that old monkey," said Lily, as her brother led her on. "Horrid thing! I wish he'd stayed away, and that I hadn't looked at him, or given him cakes or pennies or any thing. His frock was awfully dirty too," she added, forgetting all the amusement the monkey had afforded her, and now only disposed to regard him as the cause of her neglect of her mother's wishes. "I should not blame the poor monkey if I were you," said Tom. "How was it? You went to look at the monkey in place of attending to mamma's orders, and so forgot all about them?" "Yes," said Lily. "I meant to look at him for only one minute, and then to put away the things just as mamma told me, but he was so funny I forgot; and then the puppies came; and that's the way I never remembered them at all." "Well, you see," said Tom, "you should have put away mamma's things at once, and then gone to look at the monkey. And it was your own fault, not the monkey's, Lily. He did not ask you to come and look at him; it was your own choice." "Yes," answered Lily, rather meekly for her. "Now can't you see it is better for you to begin at once?" said Tom. "Don't let Procrastination hinder you here, Lil. The old fellow don't want himself put down, and will trump up all manner of excuses to keep his hold on you. But you root him up just as quick as you can. Begin this very day; and the next time you have any thing to do, don't listen to one of his fine speeches." "Yes, so I will, I b'lieve," said Lily. "I won't wait for the proverb picture, but just begin to-day. I wish there would come something I want to put off, and I wouldn't put it off, but just do it very quick indeed." Poor Lily! She was to learn more that day of the evils of procrastination in her own case. Tom thought he had said enough to her now; and they went on together to the store where he wished to buy his dog-house. Here they chose one, and here also they purchased a collar for the puppy, Tom allowing Lily to pick out a red one, although he would himself have preferred blue. Was he not a kind brother? As they were on their way home, they met Maggie and Bessie Bradford, with their Aunt Annie. Lily rushed forward, letting go her hold on her brother's hand; and Maggie ran to meet her, almost as eager as she was. "Is my proverb picture nearly ready?" asked Lily. "Yes, quite," answered Maggie; "and we want you to come to our house, so we can explain it to you. We've just been to your house to ask you, but you were out, or else you could have come to take tea with us, if your mamma had said so. I wonder if she wouldn't just as lief you should come now. Can't Lily come with us, Tom?" Tom had now come up to the little girls, and so had Miss Annie Stanton and Bessie; and, after taking off his hat to the young lady, he answered,-- "I think not to-night, Maggie. At least I do not like to take it upon myself to give her leave; for she had a bad sore throat yesterday, and I do not think mamma would like to have her out in the evening air." Lily looked as if she were about to cry, and Maggie and Bessie also looked disappointed. "Never mind," said Bessie, cheering up in one moment; "it will be just as good if you come to-morrow and spend the day. Mamma said we could ask you to do that if you could not come this afternoon; and we will have you a longer time, Lily." "That's putting off, though," said Lily, with a pout, "and I've just made up my mind not to do it." Tom laughed, and so did Miss Annie, both somewhat amused at Lily's haste to practise the new virtue as soon as it fell in with her own wishes; but Maggie and Bessie thought this a very sensible view of the matter. "But one may put off a thing when it comes in the way of a duty, or of another thing which should be attended to first," said Annie Stanton. "When mamma's wishes and your pleasure come in the way of one another, which should you put first?" "Why, what mamma wishes, Miss Annie. I should think I would do what mamma wants first. Anyway I _ought_ to _would_" added Lily, thinking of her shortcomings of that very day. "Then you see you may put off coming to Maggie and Bessie till to-morrow, since your mamma does not wish you to be out at night," said Miss Stanton; and with this agreement, the little friends parted. "I see," said Lily, demurely, but with a gleam of mischief in her eye,--"I see people don't think it is as much harm to put off things you want to do as it is to put off what you don't want to do." "Well," said Tom, smiling, "you see that is where it is, Lil. We are so apt to think it will do to put off what we do not care to do very much,--any little duty or task; but if it is some pleasure, we are generally ready enough to do it at once." "Maggie thinks I put off pleasures too," said Lily. "She was real provoked with me 'cause I kept them waiting to go to the party the other day." "Do you like other people to keep you waiting, Lily?" "No, indeed, I don't," said Lily. "Then ought you not to be careful how you do it to others?" "Yes, I know, Tom, and I don't _mean_ to do it; but somehow I do. But now you see if I do not improve myself a good deal of this habit," said Lily, confidently, yet carelessly; for it was plainly to be seen that she thought this vexatious fault of but little consequence. Lily had meant to confess to her mother how neglectful she had been of her wishes; but when she and Tom reached home, they found with Mrs. Norris a lady who had been invited to dinner. So Lily thought she would postpone her confession until by and by, and not draw upon herself her mother's grave and reproachful look in the presence of company. I do not know that she was to blame for this. Few little girls but would have done the same, I think; and Lily had no idea that any mischief or loss had come from her procrastination. Dinner was over, Tom gone upstairs to prepare his lessons for to-morrow, and Lily, in her favorite evening seat,--that is, perched upon the arm of her father's chair while he read his paper,--was happily playing with some paper dolls, while mamma and her friend sat opposite, talking, when a person came with a message requiring an immediate answer. Mrs. Norris went to her secretary and wrote the note, using for the purpose an ordinary inkstand which belonged there; and then said approvingly to Lily,-- "My pet, how nicely you put away mamma's writing things; all the papers in their proper places and order. Pretty well done for such a little girl." "Mamma," said Lily, wishing that she need not speak before Miss Hamilton, but too honest to take credit which was not her just due,--"Mamma, I did not put them away; it was Tom. I--I--forgot, mamma. I waited to look at a monkey before I put them away, and then the puppy came, and Tom took me out; and I forgot all about your things, and how I had promised, and never remembered till we were out in the street; and then Tom told me he had put them away, but he didn't know you had told me to do it." It was all out now; and Lily, as she glanced at Miss Hamilton, felt as if she could not be thankful enough to that lady for seeming so absorbed in the photograph album she was turning over. Mrs. Norris uttered no word of reproach; but, as she looked within the well-ordered secretary, she said,-- "Where did Tom put the silver inkstand? I do not see it." "I don't know, mamma," answered Lily. "Is it not there? Tom said he came in here and saw your things lying on the table, and he thought you must have forgotten them, so he put them all away. Shall I go and ask him what he did with the inkstand?" "No," said her mother, "I do not wish to disturb him at his lessons. I will look further." But further search proved vain, though Mrs. Norris looked, not only through each nook and partition of the secretary, but also all over the room. Still she was not at all disturbed at the non-appearance of the inkstand. "Send up and ask Tom, my dear," said Mr. Norris. "Oh, it is not necessary," said his wife. "He may have put it in some unusual place. If he took care of it, it is quite safe. He will be down presently, and I do not care to interrupt him." "See what it is to have a good character, Lily," said her father, passing his arm about the little figure on the arm of his chair, and smiling into the rosy mischievous face before him. "How long before mamma will be able to put such trust in you, do you think?" "Oh, very soon, papa; you'll see," said Lily, confident in the strength of her newly formed resolution. It was not long before Tom made good his mother's words by appearing, his lessons all ready for the next day, for it happened that he had not had much to do that evening; and Mrs. Norris immediately asked him,-- "What did you do with my silver inkstand, my boy?" "I did not have it, mamma," was the answer. "But you put it away this afternoon, did you not?" "No," answered Tom, wonderingly, but positively. "Why, yes, Tom," said Lily, "you told me you had put away all mamma's things that she left on the table." "But there was no inkstand there," said Tom. "I remember noticing that, because I said to myself, 'Mamma has taken time to put by her ink;' and I supposed you had feared it would be spilled, mamma. There was no inkstand upon the table, I am sure." "Did you move the inkstand at all, Lily?" asked Mrs. Norris. "No, mamma, I never touched it. I did not put away one single thing." Tom helped his mother in a fresh search for the missing inkstand; but all in vain. Then the servant man was called, and questioned. "I saw Miss Lily with her hand on the inkstand when I called her to see the little dogs this afternoon, ma'am," he said, in reply to Mrs. Norris's inquiries. "Do you remember, if you please, Miss Lily?" "Oh, yes," said Lily. "I remember now, mamma. I did take it up to put it away, but I set it down again when I ran after Robert to see the puppies. I meant to come right back, but I never thought of it again." "Master Tom," said Robert, "you were asking me had I seen a beggar-woman about the door this afternoon. Could she have been in here, and caught up the inkstand? If she'd just opened the library door, and peeped in, it would have been the first thing she'd see, for it stood right here, where Miss Lily left it." Tom looked dismayed, and Lily still more so; for, if the inkstand were indeed stolen, was it not all her fault? Owing to her procrastination, to the putting off of the small service her mother had asked of her? And so it proved; for nothing could be found of the inkstand, and it was never heard of again. Its loss could be accounted for in no other way than by supposing that the woman, finding the door left open, and learning from Lily's imprudent words that there was no one about to interfere with her, had walked in, opened the library door, and seeing the inkstand, had snatched it up, and made off with it. Lily's shame and grief were very great, all the more so because she knew that this inkstand was dearly loved and valued by her mamma, because it had been the gift of a dead sister. And seeing this, her mother could not bear to reproach her, for it was very unusual for Lily to take her own wrong-doing much to heart. But this was, as she said herself, "the worst consequence I ever did in all my long life;" and she probably felt it all the more deeply for her kind mother's forbearance. That she was sufficiently punished by her own remorse was plainly to be seen; and long after she was in bed and fast asleep, her mother heard long sobs heaving her little breast, and found her pillow all wet with tears. "My poor little one! I hope it may be a lasting lesson to her," said the mother, as she pushed back the hair from the flushed and tear-stained face. "If it should be, I shall think it cheaply purchased even by the loss of my much valued inkstand." [Illustration] [Illustration] IV. _LILY'S PROVERB PICTURE._ Lily was still in a very subdued and melancholy frame of mind when she reached the Bradfords' house on the following day; and when her little playmates inquired the cause, she made answer,-- "If mamma had given me my deservings, she would have shut me up in a room by myself, and never let me come out in all my life, nor come to spend the day with you any more. It's a great deal too good for such a sinner as me, and something ought to be done to me. I don't mean to have a nice time to-day." This virtuous resolution was forgotten, however, before the day was over; but at the time it much astonished her young friends, as did also the low state of Lily's spirits. Fresh questions followed; and Lily told her story, mingling her own bitter self-accusations with reproaches against the supposed thief. "For I told her she was not to come in, 'cause there was no one about to 'tend to her," she said, as if this were an added aggravation of her sorrows; "and I only left the door open for fear her feelings would be hurt; but now I don't b'lieve she had any to hurt. I don't s'pose thieves have many feelings, do you, Maggie?" "No, I don't believe they have," answered Maggie. "I just expect their feelings are 'lost to sight, and not to memory dear.'" This fine sentiment, having been properly appreciated, called up the recollection of the promised proverb picture. "Did you find a proverb that would be a lesson for me, or did you have to make one?" asked mournful Lily. "Mamma told us one," said Maggie. "It is 'Procrastination is the thief of Time.'" "You'd better say the thief of inkstands," said Lily, ruefully. "Maggie and Bessie and Belle, I feel 'most as if it was me who had stolen mamma's inkstand." The other little girls all set about consoling her; and Bessie took an opportunity to whisper to Maggie that she thought they had better not give Lily the proverb picture that day because it might make her feel worse. But this was not by any means Lily's view of the matter; and she presently asked to be shown this joint production of her three little friends, Maggie and Bessie and Belle. Accordingly, the picture, or rather pictures, were brought forth, and with them the poem which Maggie had composed to accompany them. When the red ribbon which tied the first was taken off, and the pictures unrolled, they proved quite a panorama; and Lily's mournful face lighted up at the sight. "How good of you!" she said. "It must have taken you ever so long to draw all those pictures." "There are four of them," said Bessie. "Belle made two, 'cause she can draw the best, and Maggie made one, and I one; but Maggie made 'most all the ideas. I think they're so very plain you can make them out for yourself, Lily, but we'll 'splain them to you if you like." "I'll see how much I can find out, and you can tell me the rest," said Lily, setting herself at once to the study of the drawings. "What's the reading on this one?" she asked. "P-r-o-pro-c-r-a-s-cras--Oh! I s'pose this is 'Procrastination is the thief of Time.'" "Yes," said Maggie. "And this is a skeleton," said Lily, "a skeleton with a goblet in one hand, and a--and a"--Lily hesitated, wishing to be sure to hit the right nail on the head--"and a--I'm not quite sure if it's a feather dust-brush, or a coachman's whip." "Oh!" exclaimed Belle, indignant. "Why, Lily!" said Bessie, "that's Time with his hour-glass and scythe, and Belle drew that picture, and we think it's the very best one of all." "I'm sorry," said Lily, rather ashamed of not having at once recognized the articles in question. "You know in the pictures Time is always a very thin old man," said Bessie, "so we had to make him so to have it real; and Maggie told Belle she'd better make him as thin as she could, 'cause that horrid thief Procrastination bothers him so he hardly has any flesh on his bones. This is a kind of allegory picture, you see, Lily." "Yes, I understand. And this rather beggar-looking child--" Lily hesitated again, unwilling to run the risk of making any more such uncomplimentary mistakes. "I think you'd better tell me about it. I'm 'fraid I'm rather stupid this morning. I think I went crazy last night about that inkstand, and I'm hardly recovered yet. I b'lieve that's the reason I didn't know Time's hour-glass and scythe at first." Never before had her little friends known Lily to speak and look with such solemnity, and they all felt very much for her. Maggie, however, thought it well to improve the occasion. "I did not want to seem severe with her," she said afterward to Bessie and Belle, "but I thought the picture might make a deeper impression if I let her see to what a dreadful condition procrastinating people might come." "Yes," she said to Lily, "yes, that is Procrastination, all ragged and dirty and starved. He never has a nice time, and he hardly ever has any thing to eat, 'cause when people say to him, 'Procrastination, dinner is ready,' he says, 'I think I'll eat by and by;' and then when he comes, the dinner is all gone, and he has to go hungry: and when they say, 'Go and get washed, and have on clean clothes,' he says, 'Another day I will;' so he becomes all ragged, and his friends are so ashamed of him that they just let him take care of himself. That's the way he looks so horridly. And poor old Time hardly knows what to do with himself for the way that troublesome fellow worries him. He doesn't leave Time alone to do his duty one minute. Do you see these things in Procrastination's hand?" "Yes; what are they?" asked Lily, deeply interested. "They are Time's purse and pocket handkerchief that Procrastination--I think we'd better call him Pro, because it takes so long to say Procrastination--that Pro has stolen out of his pocket; and here at his feet are some broken hour-glasses; and now he is running after Time, and trying to steal his last hour-glass, so that the poor old fellow will have none left. That means, when you're not talking allegory, that Pro steals the hours and makes you lose all your time; but he can not catch him up, which means that when you have lost your time, you never can catch up with it." "Yes," said Lily, dolefully; "but I think it would be better if you made Pro stealing inkstands. It's just what I deserve. Is that all about that picture?" "Yes," answered Maggie; "now we come to real life. Bessie, this is your picture; tell Lily about it." It is to be observed that the ragged figure which represented Procrastination, or "Pro," was to be seen in each successive picture. This was considered a judicious mingling of the allegorical with reality. "This," said Bessie, "is a little girl whose mamma said to her, 'My dear, there is a match upon the carpet; pick it up right away.' But Procrastination"--Bessie would not on any account have shortened her words, especially on such a grave occasion--"came and whispered to her, 'By and by will do; it's time enough;' and presently her little sister came in and picked up the match, and set herself on fire, and she was quite burnt up before she could be put out, and she was the only sister the put-offing child had, and she stayed unhappy all the rest of the days of her life." "Like me," said Lily. "Oh, no," said Maggie, cheerfully, "you'll get over that inkstand. I find people generally do get over things; at least, I do. Take courage by me, Lily. I thought I never should recover having papa's coat stolen, but you see I have; and I think I'm about as happy as any child could be." "Ah! but you wasn't disobedient, and didn't put off," said Lily. "Tell me some more." "Perhaps we'd better not, 'cause you feel so badly," said Bessie. "They do me good," answered Lily. "I don't think I can care for any thing else to-day. Who made this picture?" "I did," said Maggie, "and this is the story of it. This is fable or allegory too;" and, unrolling another sheet of paper, Maggie read aloud her famous poem, which had been pronounced a great success by both Bessie and Belle. Her picture consisted of a series of small drawings, which explained themselves as she read the verses. "There's a bad little fellow, His name it is Pro- Cras-tin-a-_ti_-_on_; And to you I will show How he robs and he steals And he plagues Father Time. I'll tell you all this, And I'll tell you in rhyme. When to school he is sent, He most slowly doth go, For he stops first to play, Then to look at some show; By the hour he is there, Why! the school is 'most out. That's one way he robs Time, This sad putting-off lout. When his mother doth say, 'Go this errand for me,' He will say, 'By and by;' 'Pretty soon;' 'I will see;' Till at last 'tis too late, Or his mother must go. 'Tis a base, heartless crime, For a child to do so. But there's worse yet to tell, For to church he goes late; And he reaches God's house In a sad, dirty state; For he never is dressed, And he never is clean. That 'tis all putting off, Is quite plain to be seen. He ne'er has a book, Or a toy, or a pet, For to put them away He doth always forget; So they're broken or lost, Or most shamefully torn; And he's nothing to do, Which is very forlorn. Take heed now, ye children, And list to my tale; What e'er you've to do, Do at once, without fail; For if you'd be happy, And useful, and gay, Don't put off till to-morrow The work of to-day. Remember, 'tis minutes That make up the hours; As the small, tiny seeds Bring the beautiful flowers. Don't procrastinate then, O ye daughters of earth! For woman's but grass From the day of her birth." In the ears of the little listeners this was a perfect gem of poetry, far beyond any thing Maggie had ever written before, whether it were "divine song," or "moral poem." The concluding lines were considered particularly fine, and, indeed, had been added on account of their striking effect. Bessie and Belle had heard it before, but they listened with rapt attention, and Lily was very much impressed. The third verse she felt particularly adapted to her case, though Maggie had intended no home thrust when she wrote it. But, to Lily's mind, it just suited the affair of the inkstand; and when Maggie finished reading, she exclaimed,-- "I should think I _was_ a base, heartless crime!" The children all hastened to console her, and to assure her that they thought she would not fail to improve, now that she saw her fault so plainly. "I didn't mean that the child in the poem was really you," said Maggie. "That's the reason I made Pro a boy instead of a girl. I only wanted to show you what people might come to who procrastinated all the time, and never were punctual." Maggie's drawing, as you have heard, was divided up into a number of smaller pictures, each one suited to a particular verse of the poem; and they explained themselves to one who had read or heard the latter. The fourth and last picture had been drawn by Belle, the chief artist among the little party. This also represented Father Time, who had now grown fat and flourishing, which was somewhat singular under the circumstances. He was accompanied by another burly figure, and both were armed with many lashes and whips with which they chased "Pro," now himself reduced to a skeleton state, and vainly endeavoring to escape from his tormentors. "This," said Belle, "is my drawing, but it is Maggie's idea, and Bessie and I think it is pretty grand. Here is that naughty Pro, and he has lost every thing and every one he had in the world, all through his own putting off; and here," pointing to little dots and round _o_'s with which the page was covered, "here are the hours and minutes flying away from him too. The largest ones are the hours; the little ones, the minutes. And here are Father Time and Remorse coming after him with their--their--What kind of whips do they have, Maggie?" "_Scorpion_ whips," answered Maggie. "It was a very convenient thing that I happened to read the other day about the 'scorpion whip of Remorse,' and it just gave me the idea for this picture. It means that when we feel very badly about something we know we deserve, it is just as bad as the stings of scorpions and bugs and other horrid things. And I thought we'd make believe Remorse had two scorpion whips, and lent one to Time to chase Procrastination with." "Here's the ocean," said Belle, directing Lily's attention to where high, curling waves were supposed to be leaping and dashing upward, "and Pro was running away so fast from those dreadful scorpion whips that he never saw it, but ran right into the water, and was drowned; and that was the end of _him_." Belle's tone was very triumphant when she uttered the last word, as though she were glad to have thus disposed of a troublesome customer. "I'm sure," said Lily, with an air of melancholy satisfaction, "I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you all for taking so much trouble to improve me; and I don't see how I can help being better now." "Then that's all we ask," said Maggie, "and we shan't regret any trouble we took. Now let's go and play." If the other children had had any fears that Lily's remorse and the "lesson" they had given her would interfere with her enjoyment of the day, such fears were soon put to flight; for in ten minutes she was as merry and roguish as ever, and quite disposed to join in all the entertainment provided for her. [Illustration] V. _PROMISING._ "How many of my little girls would like to help in a good work?" asked Miss Ashton, some two or three days after this. Ten little hands went up. Ten? Nay, I think there were thirteen or fourteen; for some of the children were not content with holding up one, but raised both in their zeal to show Miss Ashton they were ready to do what she asked. Miss Ashton went on to explain. "I think you will all remember," she said, "the lame soldier who was run over and killed on the corner of this street?" There was a murmur of assenting voices, and little Belle added,-- "Papa said it was a very generous thing for you and Mrs. Ashton to take care of his three children, Miss Ashton; and I think so too." Miss Ashton smiled at her, and continued,-- "But we could not take care of them always, dear Belle, and through the kindness of some friends we have found a pleasant home in the country for them. It is necessary that they should be comfortably fitted out before we send them there, however, and my uncle says that he will provide all the materials that the school will make up. The young ladies in my mother's room say they will make all the dresses and more difficult garments, and leave the simple and easier ones for you, if you choose to help. But before you make any promises, I wish you to ask your parents' permission, and also to make up your minds to have the garment you take finished by the end of two weeks, when the children are to leave for their new home. You nearly all sew well enough to do the easy work upon these little skirts and aprons, and I think your friends at home will give you what help you may need." "But, Miss Ashton," said little Belle, with woe-begone voice and look, "I can hardly sew at all. Aunt Margaret has just begun to teach me, and she says I _do_ take pains, but I b'lieve I do it pretty badly yet." "And I don't know how to sew," said her cousin, Mabel Walton, who now was sorry that she had always obstinately refused to learn how to use a needle. "I think we can find some easy thing for you both to do," said Miss Ashton, kindly. "But remember, dear children, what you promise, you must perform. If you undertake this work, you must have it finished at the end of the time I have named,--two weeks. I do not _ask_ you to do it, for the older girls are willing to do all the work; but I thought it might be a pleasure to you to help." "Oh, yes! indeed it will, Miss Ashton," said Lily, "and I'd like to have two clothes to make. Mamma says I can sew pretty well fur such a little girl, and Nora will show me how." "One garment will be enough for you, Lily," said Miss Ashton; "if you finish that in time, it is all we shall need." "You need not be afraid I won't have it done in time, Miss Ashton," said Lily. "I don't put off any more, nor be unpunctual either. I've been early at school every morning this week,"--this was Tuesday,--"and mamma said I was beginning to improve. I couldn't help it very well, I had such a horrid lesson about an old beggar-woman who was nothing but a thief; and then Maggie and Bessie and Belle made me lovely proverb pictures about the consequences of procrastination, and Maggie wrote a splendid poem, so I ought to learn better with all that." "I think so," said Miss Ashton; "but, by the way, I wonder if Maggie and Bessie would not like to join us in this work. They always take such an interest in all that goes on among us here that perhaps they would be pleased if we offered to let them help." "Yes, I know they would," cried Belle, always ready to speak in praise of her beloved little playmates. "I know they would. Maggie and Bessie are very full of good works; and they always like to do what we do, if they can, too." "Very well," said Miss Ashton. "You can ask them when you see them, Belle; and if they would like to help us, tell them to come in to-morrow, at the close of school. You can all bring me word then if your parents are willing for you to undertake this work, and I will give each one a piece to take home." The next morning each little girl brought word that she had received permission to take home and make such a garment as Miss Ashton should see fit to give her; and they had all been promised help and teaching by their mammas or other friends. The curiosity and interest of the class having been much excited by Lily's glowing account of the "proverb picture" and poem furnished her by Maggie, Bessie, and Belle, she had been persuaded to bring them with her; and being punctual for the third morning, she exhibited them before school was opened, to the great satisfaction and delight of the other children. They were also displayed to Miss Ashton. "Maggie is quite a Murphy, isn't she, Miss Ashton?" said Lily. "A what, dear?" asked the young lady, much puzzled. "A Murphy--a M-m-ur-phy," said Lily, putting severe and long emphasis on the word, as she saw that her teacher did not yet understand. "Don't you know what a Murphy is, Miss Ashton? It means some one very wise and good, who teaches right things." "Oh!" said Miss Ashton, smiling, as light broke in upon her; "you mean a Mentor, do you not, Lily?" "Oh, yes, that's it," said Lily; "but I thought it was Murphy. But I think Murphy is just as pretty a name as Mentor." "But people would understand your meaning better if you put the right name, Lily," said Miss Ashton, as she rang the bell for silence. Maggie and Bessie had told Belle that they would be very glad to join in the work of making clothes for the poor little orphans; and accordingly, when school was over and word was brought that they were below, she was sent to bring them up to the school-room. Places were soon found for them among their former school-mates, who were all delighted to see them; and, as Bessie said, "it seemed quite as if they were all young again." Then Miss Ashton had a large basket of work brought in, and took from it a number of little garments cut out, but not made, which she laid upon the table before her. "I have six skirts and six aprons here," she said, "and three calico bags, which our little orphans must have to hold their lesson-books. I think we had better give the bags to those who are the youngest, or the least accustomed to sewing,--Bessie, Belle, and Mabel. Then the rest may choose, so far as you can, whether you will take a petticoat or an apron; but as there is more work upon the petticoats than upon the aprons, I shall think it wiser for those who are not very industrious and persevering to take the latter, so that they may be sure to finish their work. Or perhaps the older ones, Nellie, Maggie, Grace, and Dora, might take the skirts, and let the other five take aprons. As I said yesterday, the young ladies in the other room will finish whatever you leave." All were satisfied with this arrangement but two. "Miss Ashton," said Nellie Ransom, in rather a hesitating voice, as though she thought she might be drawing upon herself the disapproval of her classmates,--"Miss Ashton, I think perhaps I had better only take an apron. I do not sew very fast, and I might not have a skirt done in time; and I would rather take the apron, so that I may be sure to finish it." "Pooh!" said Lily, "I should think any one might have a petticoat done in two weeks! No, not pooh, either, Nellie, I forgot that was not courteous; but then I should think you'd have plenty of time to make the skirt, and I'm going to take one 'stead of the apron, if Miss Ashton will let me." "I will let you," said her teacher. "I told you you should take what you pleased; but, Lily, I think Nellie is a wise little girl not to undertake more than she feels _sure_ she can do, and you would do well to follow her example. You do not like steady work, you know, Lily, and I should not wish the petticoat to be brought back to me half finished." "Oh, I'd never do that!" exclaimed Lily. "I see, Miss Ashton, you think it _probalal_ that Nellie and I will be the hare and the tortoise,--Nellie the tortoise and I the hare; but we'll be two tortoises, won't we, Nellie? And please let me have the petticoat, Miss Ashton. I'll be sure, oh, _sure_ to have it finished!" Miss Ashton did as she was asked, and handed Lily the skirt; but she looked as if she were not quite so sure that Lily would perform all she promised; and though she smiled as she gave the parcel to the little girl, she shook her head doubtfully, and said,-- "Be careful, Lily, and do not put off till to morrow the task you should do to-day." "No, ma'am," answered Lily, confidently, "I am quite cured of that. I wish you'd let me have two just to see how soon I will have them finished." "If you finish the petticoat at the end of ten days, you shall have some other thing to make," said Miss Ashton, rather gravely. "Nellie, my dear, here is your apron." The work was very neatly cut out and basted; prepared so that the little girls might not find it difficult to do, or give more trouble than was actually necessary to their friends at home; and each one opened her parcel and examined it with great satisfaction after they were dismissed. "I expect Nellie's will be sewed the best, 'cause she takes so much pains with every thing she does," said Bessie. "Hers and Dora's will be, for Dora is industrious too, and has a great deal of perseverance." "I think mine will be the best," said Gracie, "for I sew very nicely. Mrs. Bradish told mamma she never saw a child of my age sew so neatly." "Proudy!" said Lily, "you always think you do every thing better than anybody else; and you always go and tell when any one makes you a compliment. Gracie, you do grow conceiteder and conceiteder every day. Pretty soon, we won't be able to stand you at all." "Why, Lily!" said Belle, "you're a dreadful anti-politer this morning." "I don't care," said Lily; "Gracie does make me so mad. Yes, I do care about being called an anti-politer too," she added on second thoughts; "but, Gracie, I don't believe your work will be the best. I think like Bessie, that Nellie's will be, 'cause she sews so nicely; and so does Maggie." "Anyhow mine will be done, and yours won't, I know," retorted Gracie, who always resented very strongly the idea that any other child could do as well or better than herself. "You always put off and procrastinate, so that you never have any thing ready at the right time." "Well, I'm not going to do so any more," said Lily; "and, anyhow, I'd rather be Pro than Proudy. It's very, very naughty to be proud, and it's only a--a--well, an inconvenient habit to procrastinate. And I'm pretty well cured of it now. Don't you be afraid my petticoat won't be done; and don't let's be cross about it any more, Gracie." Peace was restored by her last words; but here were Lily's snares and stumbling-blocks. Firstly, that she had too much confidence in her own strength, and was too sure that she could cure herself of this troublesome habit if she only chose to do so; secondly, that she hardly looked upon it as a fault at all, and did not think it of much consequence, except just at the moment when it had brought some great annoyance upon herself or others. Lily was gay, light-hearted, and sweet-tempered, and trouble or disappointment seldom oppressed her spirits long,--all good things and great blessings in their proper times and places; but she sometimes let this run into carelessness, and was often disposed to make too light of her faults and their consequences. She certainly had warning and help enough in this case, if that were all she needed. She, Maggie and Bessie, Belle and Mabel all took the same way homeward; and just before they parted, Maggie said,-- "I have an idea! Would it not be a good plan for us five to have a little sewing meeting at our house for these clothes, if mamma has no objections? And it will seem to help us along, and not let it be so stupid; for I do hate to sew." The other children agreed that it would be a capital arrangement; and Maggie, turning to Bessie, asked if she thought mamma would be willing. "For we better not make too many plans about it till we know what mamma would say," said Maggie, "or we might 'live in hope only to die in despair.'" Bessie thought mamma would be quite willing, but agreed with Maggie that it would be better not to build up too many arrangements on this till they knew what she had to say. "I would like to have asked all the class," said Maggie, "but I do not think mamma wants a great many children about now; because grandmamma's house is being painted, and she and Aunt Annie and Uncle Ruthven and Aunt Bessie are all staying with us, and it makes a pretty large family,--a lovely large one," she added, with a nod of satisfaction in the present size of the household. "We'll ask mamma if we can have a meeting once a week till our things are all finished," said Bessie; "and we can sew on them between times, and show each other how much we have done. And it may be a little help to you in not putting off, Lily," she said, rather anxiously. "I would be so sorry if your petticoat was not finished." "Oh, never fear," said Lily; "you are all so afraid about me; and I tell you, I'm not going to put off any more." "I am sorry, my daughter, that you took the petticoat instead of the apron," said Mrs. Norris, when Lily reached home and told her story of the morning's business. "There would have been more hope of your finishing the apron, with your unsteady ways about work and duties." "It is not a duty for me to make this, is it, mamma?" asked Lily, unrolling the parcel and holding up the skirt. "Yes, it is a duty for you to do that which you have promised to do, is it not?" "Yes, mamma; but I need not have promised if I did not choose." "No, you need not; but now that you have undertaken it of your own free will, that makes it all the more a duty for you to finish it in time. Will you sew on it a little while this afternoon, after you have had your lunch?" "No, mamma, I think not," said Lily. "Maggie and Bessie are going to ask their mamma if they can have us for a sewing meeting at their house, and I'll wait and see what they say. It will be fun." Mrs. Norris sighed as Lily gleefully rolled up her work and tossed it upon the table. This was not a very good beginning. "Put it away in the large work-box, dear," she said. "Presently, mamma; I'm just going to tell Nora about it." "No, Lily, put it away at once. And remember, my darling, that I shall not allow Nora to finish it for you if you fall behindhand through your own fault." "Oh, no, mamma," said Lily, as she obeyed her mother's order; "but I would have put it away in a minute or two." [Illustration] VI. _BUT NOT PERFORMING._ You will readily believe that Lily's "by and by" was long in coming, as it had often been before; and this although her mamma and nurse both invited her more than once to come and begin her petticoat. The evening brought a note from Maggie Bradford, which was as follows:-- "DEAR LILY,--Mamma says we may have the sewing meeting, and Aunt Annie says she will take care of it up in her room, which is very kind of her; do you not think so? When Baby Annie heard us talking about it, she said, "Me too;" and we told her she should come if she would be good. Mamma says she is afraid she will be a disturbance, but she is so cunning that Bessie and I could not bear to tell her no; and we will be very industrious, even if baby is funny. We make you a life-member of our society for two weeks, till we have the clothes all finished; and we will have a meeting every Thursday afternoon. Come at three o'clock; and Aunt Annie will tell us stories or read to us till four, while we sew, and then we will put away our work and play. "Yours respectfully and affectionately, "MAGGIE STANTON BRADFORD. "P. S. Bessie says of course you'd never think of such a thing as bringing 'Pro' to the meeting. We wouldn't believe it of you; but if you did, we should 'speed the parting guest,' which means to turn him out as quick as you can." "Maggie knows so many proverbs and wise speeches, and always knows how to make a good use of them," said Lily, when Tom finished reading this epistle to her, she having been in too much haste to try to spell it out for herself. "Now, Tom, what are you laughing at?" "Why, I'm sure that is a good joke of Maggie's, and well worth being amused at," said Tom. "Oh, yes," said Lily, "she is very smart, and very funny too. I'm so glad we are going to have the sewing meeting; and, indeed, I don't take 'Pro' with me." "I am afraid he has paid us a visit this afternoon, Lily," said Mrs. Norris. "Why, no, dear mamma; at least, I only thought I would wait till I heard what we were going to do at the meeting, and not begin before them. It is nicer to begin all together." "And I think you will find that all the other children have commenced their work to-day," said Mrs. Norris. "But we shall see." Lily's mamma was nearly as well pleased as her little daughter at the arrangement she had made with the Bradford children, for she hoped that their example, and the wish to keep pace with them, might help Lily to conquer her besetting fault in this instance at least; and that shame might keep her from falling behindhand with her work from week to week. The sewing meeting being a novelty, and Lily very anxious to "see what it would be like," she was willing to be made ready in good time the next day; and actually arrived at the Bradfords' house eight minutes before three o'clock, which she, as well as the other children, took to be a decided sign of improvement in the punctuality line. Belle was there, but not Mabel, for the latter had taken a very bad cold, and could not come out. The little girls were soon all settled in Aunt Annie's room, each with her work; but Lily was rather dismayed, and quite ashamed, to find her mother's words proved true, and that each one of the other three children had not only commenced her work, but had completed quite a good piece upon it. Why, there was a whole seam and part of another done upon Maggie's petticoat; and she had not yet set the first stitch in hers! "Why! haven't you done any on yours yet?" asked Bessie, in amazement. "Why didn't you begin it, Lily?" "I thought to-day would be time enough," said Lily, rather sheepishly. "I'm sorry now I didn't begin it." "But it's too late to be sorry now," said Bessie, gravely shaking her head. "Procrastination has been robbing Time again, Lily." "Never mind, I'll sew very fast to-day," was Lily's answer. As soon as she had the little girls all busy at their work, Aunt Annie took up a book, and prepared to read a story to them. But scarcely had she commenced when the door, which stood ajar, was pushed open; and "Tootins" walked in, with an air which seemed to say she was quite sure of her welcome. And who was "Tootins"? you will say. A kitten? Well, I believe she was a kind of two-footed kitten; at least, she was as full of play and frolic and merry ways as any four-footed little puss that ever called old cat mother. As fond of being cuddled and petted now and then, too. "Tootins" was the dearest, cunningest, most fascinating little two-year-old bit of mischief that ever found out she had ten fingers, and the number of uses they could be put to. A mischief! I should think she was! Such restless, busy little fingers! "Mademoiselle Touche-à-tout" Uncle Ruthven named her. Such an inquisitive little mind! Such never-tiring, pattering little feet! Such a sweet voice, and such a crooked, cunning tongue! When you saw her, you wanted to catch her up, and pet and hug her, she was so fair and round and dimpled; but that did not always suit Miss "Tootins." She thought her two small feet were made to be used, and she did not choose that they should be deprived of any of their privileges, except by her own free will. So she generally struggled to be put down again; and, dear me! how sorry you were to let her go! But sometimes, as I have said, she wanted to be cuddled and petted; and then she would nestle to you, so dear and sweet, with her sunny head upon your arm, her great starry eyes fastened upon your face, while you talked baby-talk to her, or told her simple verses and stories. Understand you, do you ask? Indeed, she understood every thing you said; more than you could have believed possible. Pure pink and white skin; eyes blue as heaven; golden hair; yes, real golden hair, for when the sunlight fell upon her curls, they looked like threads of burning gold; shoulders and hands and arms that looked as if they were only made to be kissed; a gurgling, rippling laugh; and oh, such cunning, wheedling ways! That is our "Tootins;" otherwise, Baby Annie. _Our_ "Tootins," did I say? Well, I suppose I must call her Mrs. Bradford's "Tootins;" but then, you see, I have drawn her picture from life, and, having before my eyes just such a pet and darling of my own, it came very natural to say "our Tootins." But how did she come by such a funny name? you will ask again. Well, that was a name her little brother Frankie had given her when she was a tiny baby; no one knew why he did it, but he did, and he always called her by it; and of late, if any one called her by any other name, he always pretended he did not know of whom they spoke. And so "Tootins" had come to be a sort of twin pet name with "Baby," and little Annie was called as much by one as by the other. As I have said, she came in as if quite assured of her welcome, for Baby Annie was accustomed to have her society courted, and rather imagined she was conferring a favor when she bestowed it upon her friends. Moreover, she had been promised that she should join the others on this occasion, why or with what purpose she did not understand; but she knew that her sisters had talked of Belle and Lily coming. She was fond of Belle and Lily, and had demanded a share in their company, and here they were now. This she knew very well, and so she came in, followed by old nurse, who had her own doubts as to whether baby would be considered a serviceable member of the sewing circle. But "Tootins'" expectations proved well-founded, for she was greeted with exclamations of pleasure; and after submitting to the necessary amount of hugging and kissing, she was accommodated with a bench at Aunt Annie's feet, and mammy told that she might leave her. But was it really possible that any one thought baby was going to sit still on that footstool? If so, she soon undeceived them; and the busy little fingers were, as usual, searching about for what mischief they could find to do. First, she overturned Maggie's workbox, and having contrived, during the picking up of the contents, secretly to possess herself of the eyelet-piercer, was presently discovered boring holes in her own tiny shoe. The next thing which took her fancy was a small vase of flowers, which being within her reach was dragged over, the water spilled upon the floor and the flowers scattered, before Aunt Annie could prevent it. Happily, the vase was not broken, for which Miss Baby took great credit to herself, declaring over and over again that she was "dood,"--little Pharisee that she was. By the time that this disturbance was over, order restored, and the members of the sewing society settled once more in their places, baby had retired into privacy behind the window curtain; and, being suspiciously quiet, Aunt Annie thought proper to inquire into her occupation, when she was discovered industriously taking pins from a pin-cushion, and sticking them into the carpet. "Oh, what a mischievous, naughty little girl!" said Aunt Annie. "Shall I call mammy to take you away?" "No, 'deed, Nan," was the answer; "Nan" being baby's name for Aunt Annie. "Will you be good and quiet then?" "'Es 'deed," said baby, resigning the pin-cushion into Aunt Annie's hands, and trotting off in search of fresh pastures. A large trunk was in the room, the lid standing open; and Miss Stanton had already called baby three or four times from its dangerous neighborhood. But the straps which kept the lid from falling back seemed to have a peculiar attraction for the little one; and once more she went over to the corner where it was placed, and, taking hold of one of these straps, would in another moment have crushed both tiny hands by pulling the whole weight of the lid upon them, had not Maggie sprung up and caught it just in time. "You had better call nurse to take her away, Maggie; she is too troublesome, and we shall accomplish nothing while she is here," said her aunt, now really vexed. But when she heard this, Baby Annie put up such a grieved lip and looked so piteous that the other children all pleaded for her; and Miss Stanton said she would try her once more. [Illustration: Lily Norris. p. 110.] "Shall Aunt Annie tell you a pretty story?" she asked, seating the little mischief in the corner of the sofa, where she would be out of harm's way so long as she could be persuaded to remain there. Baby assented eagerly, for she always liked a story; and Aunt Annie began, the little one listening intently, with hands quietly folded in her lap, and her great blue eyes fixed on her aunt's face. "Once there was a little girl, and she was a very good little girl, and always did as she was told. When her auntie said, 'You must be still,' she was as quiet as a little mouse, and made no noise. When her mamma said, 'Come here,' she always came; and when her nursey said, 'Do not touch that thing,' she never touched it. She did not take the pins, because she knew it was naughty, and that mamma would say, 'No, no;' and she did not pull at the flowers, because she knew her auntie would say, 'Let them alone;' and she did not touch Maggie's workbox, because she knew she was not to have it. And oh, dear me! why, she never would do such a naughty thing as to touch the trunk, because she knew it would hurt her little fingers, oh, so badly! and then she would have to cry. So every one loved this baby, and said, 'What a good little girl! Come here, good little girl;' and gave her pretty flowers of her own, and let her stay in the room, and did not send her away to the nursery." Here Aunt Annie paused, to see what effect her moral tale was making on the small listener for whose benefit it was intended. Baby was intensely interested, and when Aunt Annie ceased speaking, gravely ejaculated the one syllable, "More." The other children, who thought this extremely funny, were trying to hide their smiles that they might not spoil the lesson the story was intended to convey. "Then there was another little girl," continued Aunt Annie, "such a naughty little girl, who would not mind what was said to her. When her mamma said, 'Don't go to the head of the stairs when the gate is open,' she would not mind, but she did go; and she fell down stairs, and bumped her poor little head. And she took the piercer, and made holes in her new shoes; and mamma said, 'Oh, the naughty baby! She must sit on the bed with no shoes on because she did such a bad thing.' And she took the scissors and cut her little fingers, and they hurt her so badly, and bled. And the pins too, and she put them in the carpet where they pricked grandmamma's feet; and grandmamma said, 'That naughty, naughty baby!' And what do you think happened to her one day? She would touch the trunk when her auntie said, 'Come away;' and the lid fell down, and cut off all the poor little fingers, and the little girl had no more fingers to play with, or to love mamma with, or to look at the pretty picture-books with. Oh, poor little girl! that was because she would not be good." Nothing could outdo the intense gravity of the little one's face and demeanor as she listened to this thrilling tale, and drank in each word. It was certainly making a great impression, Aunt Annie thought. "Now," she said, thinking to strengthen and give point to this, "who was the good little girl who always did as she was told?" "Tootins," said the baby, with an air of supreme self-satisfaction, and conscious virtue, which set all the other children giggling. "And who," asked Aunt Annie, trying to command her own face, as she put the second question, "was the naughty little girl who did all those bad things, and was so much hurt?" "Na-a-an!" shouted baby, changing her air of delighted self-approbation to one of stern reproof and bitter indignation against her would-be teacher. To describe the peals of gleeful laughter which followed this sudden turning of the tables would be impossible. Roguish Lily went capering and whirling about the room in an ecstasy of fun and enjoyment at this capital hit; and all thought it the most excellent joke they had heard this long time. It would have been impossible to help joining in their merry peals of laughter, even had not Aunt Annie herself been heartily amused at the little rogue's cuteness; and baby, finding she had said a good thing, joined her own rippling laugh to the general merriment, to which she further added by now saying, "Oh, dear! me so funny." The laughter and merry voices brought mamma to see what the great joke could be; and Miss Baby now thought proper to deprive them of her society, slipping down from her nest on the sofa, and running to her mother with,-- "Me better do wis my mamma." "Tootins" always considered she had "better" do whatever she wished to do. And now perhaps you will say, What has all this long story about "Tootins" to do with Lily and procrastination? Why, just this; that from the moment the baby had entered the room, Lily's attention had been entirely diverted from her sewing. In vain did that faithful little monitor, Bessie, endeavor by hints and signs, and softly whispered words, to persuade her to keep on with the work already so far behindhand. For to all her entreaties, Lily only answered, "There's time enough," or, "I'm going to do it in a minute," and so forth; while she watched the baby, and was rather disposed to encourage her in her mischief. And when Miss Stanton put little Annie up on the sofa, and began to tell her the story, Lily dropped her sewing upon the floor, and, leaving her seat, hung over the arm of the couch, listening and idling away her time. The other children were amused, too, at Annie's pranks, especially at this last one, but they kept on sewing industriously; even little Belle, who was unaccustomed to it, laboriously and with much painstaking, setting in stitch after stitch. But even this good example had no effect on Lily; and seeing this, Aunt Annie was not sorry when "the little hindering thing" declared she had "better do wis" her mother. Mrs. Bradford thought so too; and carried away the cunning but provoking monkey. "O Lily!" said Maggie, reproachfully, "I thought you were not going to bring Pro with you." "Well, I didn't," said Lily. "I'm sure I've been sewing; at least, I've sewed some; and I was just looking at Annie for a moment." "For a good many moments, Lily," said Miss Stanton; "and even when you had your work in your hand, you put in the stitches very slowly and carelessly. See there, Lily," taking up the end of the seam on which Lily was now working in great haste, in order to make up for lost time, "what long, uneven stitches, my dear child." "Oh, they'll do, Miss Annie," said Lily. "I'll do the rest better; but I must have this seam done to-day." Miss Stanton looked grave, and shook her head, and it was not a usual thing for gay, merry Annie Stanton to look serious; and Lily saw that she, like other people, did not think so lightly of this habit which she considered of so little consequence. For, as you will have perceived, Lily had already forgotten the sad lesson she had received in the matter of the silver inkstand; and Maggie, Bessie, and Belle afterwards acknowledged to one another that their proverb picture had quite failed to produce the good effect they had hoped for. "Let's keep the sewing meeting in a little longer," she said, when the hour was over, and the other children were preparing to put by their work, which had made good progress during that time. "No," said Miss Annie, "an hour's steady work is enough for any little girl, and the others are tired. They have done enough for to-day." "I think I'll do a little more," said Lily, who felt ashamed as she compared her own work with that of her young companions, and saw how much more they had accomplished. "As you please," said Miss Stanton; "but I cannot attend to you longer, Lily. I am going out to dinner, and must dress now. I hope you will do better before next Thursday." Lily went away with the others, intending to sew while they played, at least, for a while; but, as you may believe, when she saw them all engaged with their dolls, Procrastination came and put her virtuous resolution to flight, whispering that she could make up for lost time to-morrow; and, as usual, he had his way, and the petticoat was soon altogether forgotten. [Illustration] VII. _WHAT CAME OF THAT._ "Lily, darling," said Mrs. Norris, on Saturday morning, "let me see how the little orphan's petticoat is coming on." Lily went, rather sheepishly it must be confessed, and brought the skirt to her mother. "Is this all you have done?--this little piece of a seam?" said Mrs. Norris. "And so badly too. Why, my child! what have you been thinking of? You can sew far better than this." Lily fidgeted, and hung her head. "Did you not all sew yesterday, when you were at Mrs. Bradford's?" asked her mamma, examining the work still more closely. "Yes, mamma," murmured Lily. "And did you not say Miss Annie showed you how it was to be done?" "Yes, mamma." "How is it, then, that you have done so very little, and that little so badly?" "Why, you see, mamma," said Lily, hesitatingly, "I did not have much sewed, only a few stitches, and I wanted to catch up with the others; and so--and so--so the stitches wouldn't come very nice." "And why did you not have as much accomplished as the other children? This is a very poor hour's work, dear." "Yes, mamma; but Baby Annie was so funny, and I couldn't help looking at her, and I thought I would have time enough. It was such a horridly short hour; it was gone before I had time to do much." "Ah, Lily," said Mrs. Norris, "it is the same old story, I fear. Procrastination, and want of attention to the duty of the time, and perhaps a little idleness and heedlessness added to them. These last two are great helpers to procrastination, Lily; or perhaps I should say, procrastination is a great helper to the sad fault of idleness. It is so very easy, when we do not feel industrious, to believe that another time will answer as well for the duty or work we should do now. So the duty is put off; and then, when shame or need calls us to the neglected task, it is hurried through heedlessly, and it may be so badly that it is quite useless, or must be done over again, as this must, my child." "Mamma!" exclaimed Lily, in a tone in which there was displeasure as well as distress. "Yes, indeed, my daughter. I cannot allow this to be returned to Miss Ashton with such work upon it. You are but a little girl, and no one would expect to see such neat sewing come from your hands as from those of an older person; but I should be ashamed to have it thought that my Lily cannot do better than this." "Then I'll never have the petticoat done at all," said Lily, her eyes filling with tears. "It is 'most a week now since Miss Ashton gave them to us, and if I have to take that out it will be all to do from the beginning, and Maggie and Bessie and Belle have ever so much done on theirs, and I shan't have one stitch done on mine." Mrs. Norris looked grieved at the rebellious tone. "Whose fault is it, Lily?" she asked sorrowfully. Lily hesitated for a moment; then, for the first time in her life, temper had the better of her love and reverence for her mother, and she answered passionately,-- "_Yours_, if you make me pull that out!" For a moment, surprise held Mrs. Norris silent and motionless. Never before had Lily spoken so to her; never before had she been other than her loving, docile little child, not always strictly obedient it might be, but that was not so much from wilfulness as from that sad habit of putting off,--of not obeying at once. Then the surprise died out, and left only pain and grief; and while Lily was wondering what mamma would do, could do, after such a dreadful thing as that (for the very utterance of the words had sobered her, and calmed down her temper), Mrs. Norris rose, and laying down the skirt, without one word, without one look at her naughty little child, slowly and sorrowfully left the room. Lily stood still one moment, herself almost breathless with surprise and dismay at what she had done. Had she really said such dreadful words to mamma? and could mamma ever, ever forgive them? Her own dear, loving, indulgent mamma to hear such words from the lips of her own, only little daughter. What would papa say, what would Tom say, when they should know it? what would Maggie and Bessie say? For when mamma treated her as she deserved to be treated from this time forth, they would surely know that something was wrong, and must learn what she had done. And, oh! how angry God must be with her! Some little boys and girls, who are in the habit of saying unkind and disrespectful things to their mothers,--and, alas! there are too many such,--may wonder at our Lily's distress and remorse; but Lily was not accustomed to behave in this way to her mother; as you have heard, it was the first time in her life that she had done so, and now she was fairly frightened when she remembered how she had let passion master her. And what had brought this about? Lily did not think of it just then, in all the tumult of feeling which swelled her little heart; but had it not all arisen from the sad habit of procrastination, of which she thought so lightly? She felt as if she dared not run after her mother, and ask her forgiveness. True, mamma always was ready to forgive her when she was penitent after any naughtiness; but then--oh! she had never, never done any thing like this before--and Lily threw herself down upon the rug in a paroxysm of tears and sobs. By and by the door was opened, and Tom came in. He stood still for a moment in surprise at the state in which he found his little sister, then came forward. "My pet, what is it? What is the matter?" he said, stooping over her, and trying to raise her. But Lily resisted; and so Tom sat down on the floor beside her. A fresh burst of sobs came from Lily. "What is it, dear?" asked Tom again. "Shall I call mamma?" "Oh, no, no!" sobbed Lily. "She wouldn't c-c-come if you did. She'll never want to come near m-me a-a-gain." "Why? What is wrong?" asked Tom, whose fears that Lily was ill or had hurt herself were now removed; for he saw that it was not bodily but mental trouble which ailed her. "Oh! I've done the most horrid, the most dreadful thing, Tom," confessed Lily, still hardly able to speak for the fast-coming tears and sobs. "Oh! I spoke so wickedly to mamma; to my own dear, precious, darling mamma. It was 'most worse than the inkstand, oh, it was, it was! I'm so bad, oh, such a bad child!" "Are you willing to tell me about it?" asked Tom, soothingly. Lily raised her head, and threw it upon her brother's knee, allowing him to wipe away her tears; although, as she told her story, they flowed as fast as he dried them. "Lily," said Tom, hoping that this might prove a good lesson to her,--ah! how often had Lily's friends vainly hoped that the trouble she brought upon herself might prove of service to her,--"Lily, how was it that your work was so very badly done?" And Lily made a fresh confession, Tom gently leading her back to what he truly suspected to be the first cause of all this difficulty. "Lily, dear," he said, "I am sure I do not want to seem to find fault with you, or to reproach you when you are feeling so badly; but I would like you to see how all this has come about. You think it such a small fault, such a very little thing, to put off your duties, and even your pleasures, if it happens to suit the convenience of the moment. As to pleasures, I suppose that does not matter much, so long as we do not let our want of punctuality interfere with the pleasure of others; but although it may not be what we call a great sin in itself, just see into what sin and sorrow procrastination may lead us. One little duty neglected or put off may interfere with another; or, as you have done, we may have to hurry through with it in such a manner as to leave it worse than if we had not tried to do it at all. And so we are disappointed and vexed, and perhaps we grow cross and ill-tempered, or fly into a passion, and do some very wrong or unkind thing." "Yes; or behave worse than any child that ever lived, to our darling, lovely, precious mammas, just like me," broke forth poor, penitent Lily. "Yes," said Tom, gravely, but kindly, "you see to what it has led you,--disrespect and impertinence to dear mamma. Is not this enough, Lil darling, to show you how much pain and trouble may come from this habit, and why you ought to try to break yourself of it? It is not only the inconvenience which _must_ come from it, but the wrong which _may_ grow from it, which should teach us to try and keep it from gaining a hold upon us. Do you see, Lil?" "I should think I did," said Lily, dolefully, though she now sat upright, but with a most rueful and despairing countenance. "I should think it had made me bad enough to see what it can do. But, Tom,"--with an admiring look at her brother from the midst of her gloom and distress,--"but, Tom, what a wise boy you are! You talk as if you were grown up; quite as if you were a minister; only I understand all you say, and I don't understand all ministers say." "No, I suppose not," said Tom, speaking more gayly; "but we will not have any more preaching just now, only--I would like to tell you a story, Lily. Shall I?" "Yes, indeed, please do," answered Lily, brightening a little at the prospect. "It is a very sad story, but I thought it would just fit here," said her brother. "I'm not in a state of mind for a pleasant story," said Lily, who had lately fallen into the way of using long words, and "grown-up" phrases, after the example of her little friends, Maggie and Bessie. "No, I suppose not," said Tom, suppressing all inclination to smile. "Well, you know Will Sturges, Lily?" "Oh, yes, that very sorry-looking boy, whose father is dead, you told me," said Lily. "Tom, it always makes _me_ feel sorry to see him. He hardly ever smiles, or looks happy. You know mamma told you to ask him here often, and see if you could not brighten him up; but he don't seem to brighten up at all. Bessie said he looked 'as if he had a weight on his mind' all the time." "Ah! that is just it," said Tom. "He has a terrible weight on his mind; a grief that is there night and day. He thinks it is through his fault that his father was killed; and I suppose that it is so. At least it was brought about by a small neglect of his,--procrastination, or putting off, Lily." "Did he ever put off?" asked the little girl, opening great eyes of wonder. "Why, he always seems so very punctual, so very ready just when he ought to be." "Yes," said Tom, "but he was not always so, dear. Never was a more unpunctual, a more dilatory boy than Will Sturges used to be. Poor dear fellow! he has learned better by such a sad lesson. I hope my little sister may never have the like." "I'm sure," said Lily, "I don't know who has had a sad lesson, if I have not." "Ah! but, Lily," said her brother, "you have yet the time and chance to show you are sorry, and want to try to do better--if you really do repent--and to gain forgiveness from the one you have injured,--dear mamma; but poor Will, he never had the chance to make up for his neglect of his duty." "Tell me," begged Lily, all curiosity and interest. "Well," said Tom, "Will Sturges used to be, as he is now, about the brightest and quickest boy in our class." Lily shook her head doubtfully at this; it was all Tom's modesty, she thought, and more than she could conveniently believe. Tom understood her, but continued his story without interruption. "But, for all that, he never was at the head of his class, nor even took a very high standing in it; for never was such a boy for being behindhand as Will Sturges. Every thing that could be put off was put off, and he never seemed to like to attend to any duty or task at the proper moment. It was not laziness either, for he would leave some small task which should have been done at once, perhaps to take up one that was far harder, but which might well have waited till he had finished the first. He never could be persuaded to attend to his regular lessons _first_, but would let himself be led away from them, not always by play or pleasure, but often to take up some book which there was no need for him to study, always believing and saying that there was 'time enough'--'no hurry'--'by and by he would do it,' and so forth; until, as you may suppose, his lessons were left until the last moment, when they would be scrambled through, and Will just contrived to keep himself from disgrace. It was so with every thing; he never was ready in time for either work or pleasure. If he were going on a journey, or any excursion, ten to one but he was left behind by being too late for the boat or train; all his own fault too, for his father and mother used to take pains enough to have him ready in time. When Mr. Peters took the school on a picnic or frolic, it was always a part of the entertainment to see Will come tearing down the dock, or by the side of the cars just at the last moment, often _after_ the last moment, and when it was too late. No boy in school had so many tardy marks; none lost so many books, papers, and pencils, because he always thought it was time enough to put them in their places by and by. No lesson did him any good, no disappointment or inconvenience he brought upon himself seemed to cure him; until at last the sad thing happened of which I am going to tell you. "One afternoon his father said to him, 'Will, if you are going out, I wish these papers posted at the station. Take them with you, and attend to them at once, my son, before you go upon your own errand. They must go to grandfather by to-night's train. Can I depend upon you for once?' 'Yes, indeed, you may, sir,' promised Will, meaning what he said too; and when he left the house, he intended to go directly to the post-office station. But he had not gone far when he met a friend; and this boy begged him to go home with him, and see a fine new dog he had just bought. Will hesitated, looked at his watch, and found that there were still nearly two hours before the next mail would leave the station, that mail by which the papers must go if they were to reach the evening train. 'There'll be plenty of time, and all papa cared for was that they should reach the station before the mail left it,' he said to himself; and he went with his friend. He stayed with him more than an hour; then he said good-by, having, as he promised himself, more than time enough to reach the post, and mail his papers. But, just as he was about leaving the house, a little brother of his friend fell downstairs, hurting himself very badly; and, in the hurry and distress of the moment, he was begged to run for the doctor. He forgot his papers--indeed, how could one refuse such an errand at such a time?--and ran for the doctor, who lived far off, and in quite a different direction from the station. This last was not his fault, and if he had obeyed his father at once all would have been right; but, what with one thing and another, he was too late, and the mail had left. He tried all he could to send the papers by that evening train, but it was useless, for he could find no one to take charge of them, and he knew it would not do to trust them to chance hands. So he could do nothing but take them home again, which he did, and confessed his fault. His father looked very grave; but, as poor Will has often told me, did not scold him, only saying, 'Then I shall probably have to leave town myself to-morrow, and it will be a great inconvenience to me. I fear, my boy, that you will never learn the value of punctuality and the evil of procrastination until they are taught you by some severe lesson.' Poor, dear old Will! what a lesson that was to be! Well, his father was telegraphed the next day to come himself, since the papers had not arrived; and he left his home, Lily, never to come back. The train by which he went met with a fearful accident, and Mr. Sturges was killed in an instant. And from that day Will has been the sad, melancholy fellow you see him; for he blames himself for his father's death, and says but for him he would have remained at home, and so been safe. And, Lily, we must see that it is so, and that, if Will had not put off the duty he should have attended to, all this would probably never have taken place. If you could hear him talk about it!" Lily drew a long sigh, partly from pity for Will Sturges, partly from dread of what sorrows might come to herself if she were not cured of this sad fault, then said,-- "But, after all, Tom, he was not so bad to his father as I was to mamma, for he did not mean to be naughty, and I'm afraid I did. Do you know, I was in a real passion, a _passionate_ passion, with mamma. O, Tom! what shall I do?" "What ought you to do first?" asked Tom. "Go and ask mamma to forgive me; but how can she, Tom?" asked Lily, sobbing again. "Mamma would forgive any thing, if she thought you were truly sorry," said her brother. "I'm sure I am," answered the little girl. "If she could see in my heart, she would know it very well." "You can show her what is in your heart, dear, by letting her see that you are really trying to break yourself of the troublesome fault which has led you to behave so to her." Lily threw her arms around her brother's neck, and kissed him; the next moment she was gone in search of her mamma. When she reached her, she could find no words, none but a piteous "O mamma!" But her voice and her face spoke for her; and in another moment she was clinging fast around her mother's neck, her dear, kind arms about her, her kiss of forgiveness on the little head which buried itself in shame and contrition upon her shoulder. But, though Lily was forgiven, she could not recover her spirits all that day, a thing very unusual with her; but then, as she said, she had "never been so wickedly naughty before," and she felt as if she could not do enough to make up to her mother for her offence. She was rather droll, too, as she was apt to be, when by any means she fell into low spirits. When her papa came home, she did not go to meet him with her usual light and dancing step; and he missed that, and the joyous face with which she was accustomed to greet him. "Why," he said, "what ails my little sunbeam to-day?" for Mr. Norris had heard of Belle's idea about the sunbeams in the family, and he delighted to call his Lily so. "I'm not a sunbeam to-day, papa," said Lily. "You're not a little cloud, I hope," said papa. "Oh, no!" answered Lily, mournfully, "not even so good as a cloud. I've been so very, very naughty that I believe I'm a--a"--Lily was racking her imagination for a comparison that should seem severe enough enough--"I've been quite a January thaw, papa." Mr. Norris opened the door of the coat closet, and hastily put his head therein, taking a remarkably long time to hang up his hat, Lily thought. Now you must know that a January thaw was Lily's idea of all that was most disagreeable in the weather. For, the last winter, she had had a severe attack of diphtheria; and just as she was well enough to go out, a long spell of damp, foggy days set in, keeping her a prisoner for some weeks longer, and depriving her of many little pleasures on which she had set her heart. "She must not go outside of the door until this January thaw is over," the doctor said several times; and Lily had come to look upon this as the very worst specimen of weather. "Don't you scorn me, papa?" she asked, when she had made her confession to him. "No, I do not scorn you by any means, Lily," he answered; "and I am glad to see that you do really feel your fault, for it gives me hope that you may try to correct it with more earnestness than you have yet done." And then he talked to her for some time longer, setting before her very plainly all the trouble and inconvenience, yes, and sin too, which might come from indulgence in this habit of procrastination. Certainly our Lily did not want for teachers, both wise and kind; for her friends, young and old, seemed all to have set themselves to give her help in the right way, if she would but heed them. [Illustration] [Illustration] VIII. _A LITTLE TALK._ It did really seem now that Lily was taking herself to task in earnest, and it was surprising to see how much she improved during the next few days. There was no more dilly-dallying with any little duty or task she had to perform; if her mother or any other person asked some small service from her, she ran promptly and at once; when Nora called her to make ready for school or her walk, there was no more stopping "only to do this," or "just to look at that." She was not once tardy at school; not once late at meals, a thing which her father disliked extremely, but to which Lily had until now paid but little heed. Play and nonsense were given up at school, save at the proper times, and she came to her classes with her lessons correctly prepared; for, when Lily failed here, it was not from stupidity, or want of quickness, but simply from idleness, or her habit of saying "there's time enough still." The little petticoat, too, was progressing nicely, with a prospect of being finished in time after all; for Lily had begged her mamma to divide it off into certain portions, so much to be done on each day, that she might know her appointed task, and so be sure to have it completed. And she persevered, though the little unaccustomed fingers did grow rather tired every day before they were through with the allotted portion of seam or hem; for, having been so idle, or rather procrastinating, she found it hard to make up for lost time. Now she regretted that she had not taken the advice of her mother and teacher, and chosen one of the little aprons, instead of the petticoat. Nora could not bear to see her plodding away over it, and more than once begged Mrs. Norris to let her help Lily, or "give her a lift," as she called it. But Mrs. Norris refused, for she had told Lily that she would not allow this; and much as she would have liked to relieve her little girl, she did not think it best, and hoped that the burden she had brought upon herself might be of service to her. However, when the next Thursday came, and Lily was to go to the second "sewing meeting," she was very glad that she had so much done on her petticoat. "For I would be too ashamed to go to-day if I had not done better than I did last week, mamma," she said. "And two or three of the children in our class have finished their work already; and here is old me with mine not quite half done." Lily was very "scornful," as she would have called it, of herself in these days, and rather delighted in heaping uncomplimentary names and reproaches upon her own head. When she reached Mrs. Bradford's house at the appointed time, she was rather dismayed to find that, in spite of her industry of the last few days, the other children had accomplished much more than she had done. Maggie's skirt was so near completion that she had but a little piece of the hem to do; and she had only left this, in order that she might, as she said keep company with the rest in the sewing meeting. And Maggie had made a button-hole! Yes, actually made a button-hole! It was her first attempt, but still it was tolerably well done. It had cost her a good deal of trouble too, and even some few tears; but she had persevered, and now was glad that she had done so. "Patience and Perseverance conquer all things, you know," she said to Lily, when Bessie, with some pardonable pride in her sister's success, displayed this triumph of art; "but I really thought that button-hole must conquer me, only I wouldn't let it, if I did cry a little about it." Bessie, too, had nearly finished her bag; and though Belle was rather behind the others, she had a fair prospect of being quite through with her task in time. They all encouraged Lily, and told her she might still finish her petticoat by the appointed day, if she would but continue to do as well as she was now doing. The sewing meeting passed off this day without hindrance; for Baby Annie was not admitted; and there was nothing else especially to take off Lily's attention from the task in hand. Aunt Annie read an interesting story, it was true, but all the little girls sewed industriously as they listened; and at the end of the hour Maggie's petticoat and Bessie's bag were completed, while those of Belle and Lily had made fair progress. "I have only three more days," said the latter, "for you know we have to give in the things on Tuesday, and this is Thursday." Lily's tone was rather hopeless. "I think you might finish your skirt in two days, Lily," said Miss Stanton. "Two hours' steady work such as you have given to it to-day would be quite time enough. If I were you I should sew one hour to-morrow, and one on Saturday, so that you may have little or nothing for your last day, Monday." "Why wouldn't it do just as well to keep some for Monday?" asked Lily, folding up her work. "Only that if you could finish it in the next two days it would be better," answered Miss Annie, "because something might happen to prevent you from doing so at the last moment." "Don't have any more putting-off fits, Lily," said Maggie. "Don't you find 'distance lends enchantment to the view' of Pro? What are you laughing at, Aunt Annie? There is such a proverb, for I read it this very morning, only I didn't think I should have a good chance to use it so soon. I'll show it to you, so you need not think I made it up." "Yes, I know," said Annie, catching the rosy, eager face between her two hands, and lovingly kissing either dimpled cheek. "It is an old, old proverb, and one very well known, dear Maggie; and let us hope that Procrastination may indeed look so much better at a distance than near at hand that Lily may keep it there, and not let it come near her." "Aunt Annie," said Bessie, "you must be a very laughable person, for so often you laugh at things that we don't think funny at all." "That is true," answered Aunt Annie, whose eyes were brimming with mischief, while she laughed more merrily than ever. "Well," said Lily, "I did not quite understand what Maggie meant till Miss Annie said that, but I do know now; and, indeed, I do think Pro is better far off than close by. I'm sure I am a great deal better anyway, and I shall never let him come near me again." Bessie stood looking gravely at her as she spoke. "I see you don't quite trust me, Bessie," said Lily, "but you'll see. If you only knew all that I know, you'd learn what good reason I have for believing I shall never procrastinate again; but I'd rather not tell you what it is." For Lily did really shrink from letting her little playmates know of her sad behavior to her dear mother, although she could not refrain from alluding to it in this mysterious manner. "You know you're all coming to my house to spend the day with me on Saturday," she continued; "and before you come, I shall have the petticoat all finished, and will show it to you." Lily kept faithfully to her resolution upon the next day, sewing industriously for a full hour, and then putting by her work with the consciousness that she had accomplished all that could be expected of her for that day. Perhaps she had been further encouraged to do so by hearing most of her young schoolmates say that morning that their little garments were quite finished, and ready to be handed in to Miss Ashton on Tuesday. Even Mabel Walton, although she had been quite ill with a bad cold, had completed her bag; and little Belle hoped and expected to put the last stitches in her's on that afternoon. "Is your apron done, Nellie?" asked Lily of Nellie Ransom. "Not quite," answered Nellie, "and I shall not finish it before to-morrow, for my two little cousins are in town to-day, and I must give up this afternoon to them. I am glad that I took the apron instead of the petticoat, for I am sure I should not have had time to make the last." "You could have tried," said Gracie. "I'm sure a petticoat is not so much to make. Mine was all done on Saturday evening, and I did not have any help or showing either. Mamma is away, and I wouldn't let my nurse help me, but did it every bit myself. But then every one says I'm uncommonly handy with my needle;" and Gracie gave her head the toss which always excited the displeasure of her schoolmates. "Well," said Nellie, coloring and hesitating a little, "I felt pretty sure that I could not make the petticoat in time, and I thought it was better to take that which I knew I could do; and now you see I should feel badly if I could not bring in my work when the rest do." "Yes, and you were very right," said Belle. "I told Aunt Margaret about you, and she said you were a wise, prudent little girl." "I wouldn't be such a slow poke as Nellie, would you?" whispered Gracie to Lily, when Nellie had moved away a little. "I s'pose I'd be as I was made, and I s'pose you'd be as you were made," said Lily, loftily, for her "scorn," as she would have called it, was always excited by Gracie's attempts to exalt herself above her companions and schoolmates, and it rather delighted her to put Gracie down. This was difficult, however. Gracie's self-sufficiency was so great that only a very hard blow could overthrow it, even for a moment; and Lily was too much afraid of being considered an anti-politer to speak her mind as plainly as she might otherwise have done. So Gracie was not at all rebuffed by the answer she received; and, so far from taking it as the reproof Lily intended it to be, only replied,-- "Yes, of course; but I'm very glad I was made smarter than Nellie. Why, sometimes I can learn three lessons while she is learning one, she is so slow and stupid!" "She is _not_ stupid," retorted Lily, forgetting her determination to "be courteous" in her indignation; and, indeed, Gracie often made it difficult for those about her to keep to this resolution. "She is _not_ stupid, and if she is a little bit slow about learning, she always knows her lessons perfectly, and never misses; no, never. You know she's been head of the spelling class for most a year; you know it, Gracie, and Miss Ashton says she is one of her very best scholars. And the whole world knows"--Lily was waxing energetic in her defence, and more earnest to be emphatic than strictly according to facts--"the whole world knows that she writes the best compositions in our class since Maggie Bradford left." "Pooh! I never thought Maggie's compositions were so very great," said Gracie. "That shows you're no judge, and have very little common sense," said Lily severely. "I'm sure no one could write better poetry than that poem she wrote for me, and you might be proud if you could make such lovely verses. But I don't want to quarrel with you, Gracie, so we'd better not talk any more about it, 'cause I do feel like saying something not courteous to you." Gracie in her turn would have liked to say something that was not very pleasant, but she felt that she could not well do so when Lily declared her intention of not quarrelling, and retired in such a graceful manner from the threatened dispute. Still she did feel that somehow Lily had had the best of it, and had rather taken her down, as she was apt to do when Gracie displayed her vanity and self-conceit. Moreover, clever and bright though she might be at her lessons, Gracie was not very quick at words; and she often felt that Lily had the advantage of her in their too frequent little disputes. And now while she was hesitating as to whether she should make a sharp answer, and what that answer should be, Miss Ashton came in and rang the bell; so that the opportunity, or I should say temptation, for further contention was at an end. "I hope," said Miss Ashton, when the time came for dismissing school, "I hope that not one of my little girls will fail me on Tuesday. I should be very much disappointed, and mortified too, if I did not receive each garment quite finished and ready for use. Some of you I know are already through with the work which you have undertaken; and after what I have said, I believe and hope there is no one who will be willing to bring hers unfinished." Her eye rested on Lily as she spoke. Perhaps she was hardly conscious that it was so, but she almost involuntarily turned to her as the one who was most likely to fail; and, however that might be, the little girl felt herself called upon to answer, not only for herself, but for the whole class. "We'll be very sure to be ready, Miss Ashton," she said; "and I will too. I see you are afraid of me, but you need not be, for I b'lieve I'm quite cured now of putting off." Miss Ashton smiled, but it was rather a doubtful smile, for she feared that Lily was too confident of herself, and the strength of her own resolutions. So, as I have said, all this made Lily feel very industrious and prompt that day; and as soon as she was at liberty for the work, she set to her task at once, and accomplished it without delay. But notwithstanding this, the day did not pass by without a fall into the old bad habit, as you shall learn. [Illustration] [Illustration] IX. _SATURDAY MORNING'S WORK._ Saturday came, a bright and beautiful day, as Lily rejoiced to see when she ran to the window and peeped out as soon as she was out of her little bed. For she was to have quite a party of children to spend the day with her, and she had been very anxious that the weather should be pleasant. Maggie and Bessie, Belle and Mabel, and Nellie and Carrie Ransom were all coming, and they expected to have a great frolic. All Lily's playmates were fond of visiting her, not only because they loved her, and her home was a pleasant one, but also because there was such a grand play-room in Mr. Norris' house. This was a great open attic hall or gallery. The house was a large one, and this open space ran across the whole width of it, the attic rooms being at either end, and a staircase coming up at the side. But this was shut in by a door at the foot of the flight, so that it was quite secluded, and considered rather an advantage, as it afforded a kind of retiring room. There were large bins ranged on the opposite side from the stairs, which had once been used to hold coal and wood; but they were empty now, and the top of the lids afforded capital seats for the spectators who witnessed certain performances which frequently took place in the open arena. Never was there such a famous garret, or one which had seen greater sport and fun. Here the children could make as much noise as they pleased without fear of disturbing older people; here there was plenty of space for playing "tag," "hunt the slipper," "chairs," or any other frolicsome game; here they acted proverbs, charades, and so forth. These last were now their favorite amusements, and Mr. Norris' attic was considered the best place for their performance. For, added to these other advantages, there was also a room devoted to the storing of all manner of odds and ends which were not in general use, and were stored there to be out of the way; and with certain of these articles the children were allowed to do as they pleased, and to make them serviceable in their games and plays. Among them were two or three old trunks full of old party dresses and ribbons; and any little girl can imagine what delightful means these afforded for "dressing up." There were flags, too, of various sizes and conditions, old-fashioned curtain fixtures, and even a tent of striped red and white canvas. All these Lily and her playmates were allowed to convert to their own uses, so long as they destroyed nothing; and many an hour did patient Nora, ever devoted to the pleasure of her nursling, spend in putting them to rights after they had been thoroughly rummaged and scattered abroad. Chief among the treasures in the attic was an old rocking-horse which had belonged to Tom; at least he had once been a rocking-horse, but he had now not only lost his rockers, but also his hind legs. Strange to say, however, this did not at all interfere with his usefulness; perhaps it rather added to it, for when he was supposed to fill his original character, namely, that of a horse, he was accommodated with two imaginary limbs in the place of the missing members, and he never complained that they did not answer the purpose quite as well. The number of uses to which he was put, and the characters he was supposed to represent, would be impossible to tell. Sometimes he was a prince, and sometimes a beggar or a robber; sometimes a servant, and sometimes a lover or husband; sometimes a little boy, at others a cross old man; again he was converted into an elephant by having the end of a curved iron pipe thrust into his mouth, or into a camel by a pillow upon his back; at times, a fierce wild beast, growling and raging; at others, the meekest of sheep or cows, mild and gentle in all respects. At one time he spoke in a squeaking but plaintive voice; at another in what was supposed to be a deep, roaring bass. I forgot to say that he had lost his tail as well as his legs; and his beauty was farther increased by the fact that Maggie and Lily, finding his ears inconvenient for the proper fitting of crowns, caps, wreaths, and other decorations, had cropped them close to his head. He had also been shorn of his hair in various places, which gave him a mangy and distressed appearance; so that, save in the eyes of his most intimate and attached friends, he was not a horse of very fine personal appearance. This gallant and accommodating steed rejoiced in the name of Sir Percy Hotspur; but this was laid aside when convenience demanded it, and he obligingly answered to the name of the moment. Dear to the hearts of Lily and her young friends was Sir Percy Hotspur; and he was always tenderly cared for after he was through with his performances, being left to repose in the intervals in a corner of the attic, with his head upon an old sofa pillow, and carefully covered with a disused carriage robe. What a long history of an old rocking-horse, you may say, and so it is; but, you see, Sir Percy Hotspur played a very important part in Lily's life, and she was deeply attached to him, and as this is her story, whatever concerned her deserves our attention. With so many attractions, you may believe that an invitation to Lily's house was always considered desirable, and eagerly accepted. Never, I think, were four little girls who found more enjoyment in their small lives and in one another, than our Maggie and Bessie, Belle and Lily. They were so much together that whatever interested one interested all the others, and any pleasure was increased if they could all share it together. But we must go to the history of this Saturday. "Lily," said Mrs. Norris, as the family left the breakfast table, "it is nine o'clock now; and if I were you, I would finish that little petticoat at once. I think you can do it in an hour, and then it will be off your mind and conscience; and after you have practised for half an hour, you can enjoy yourself for the rest of the day as you please." "I don't believe the children will come before twelve o'clock, do you, mamma?" asked Lily. "No, probably not." "Then I have three hours," said Lily. "That is lots of time, and I shall be sure to have it done, even if I don't begin right away." "Take care, Lily," said her mother, lifting a warning finger, and shaking her head with a smile which told the little girl what that warning meant. "Don't be afraid, mamma," she answered "I'll be sure to do it this morning; and even if I did not quite finish it, I have Monday too." Again Mrs. Norris shook her head, and this time without the smile; for she plainly saw that Lily was in one of her careless, putting off moods, and she feared the work would suffer. "I am going right away, mamma," said Lily, as she saw how grave her mother looked; and away she danced, singing as she went. But as she ran through the hall, she met her brother Tom with his puppy, which he was going to take for a walk. Lily never saw the little dog without stopping to have a romp with him, and the playful little fellow was growing fond of her already, and was always eager for the frolic with which she indulged him. He sprang upon her now, whining and crying with pleasure at seeing her, and Lily stopped, of course, to pet him, and then began racing up and down through the hall; while Tom good-naturedly waited, and stood by, laughing at the antics of the two frolicsome young things. Gay and careless as the puppy himself, Lily had no more thought for the task awaiting her. I do not know that she should be very much blamed for this; but few little girls who would not have done the same, and Lily knew that there was much more than time enough for the completion of the petticoat. But I want to show you how the moments, yes, and the hours too, slipped away; how little bits of idling and procrastination stole away the time before she was aware, and in the end brought her into sad trouble. A quarter of an hour went by in Lily's frolic with the puppy, until at last Tom said he must go. "I would take you with me, Lil," he said, "only that I know mamma wishes you to do your work." "Yes," said Lily reluctantly; and but for very shame she would have begged to put off her work and accompany him. Tom and his dog were gone, and Lily sauntered towards the sitting-room. "I don't feel a bit like sewing now," she said to herself. "I could have gone with Tom, and been back time enough to finish my petticoat. Every one is so particular about my putting-off, and they never want me to do any thing _I_ want to. But I s'pose I'll have to finish the old thing now." Lily, you see, was allowing temptation to creep in. She did not still its first whisperings, but suffered them to make her feel discontented and fretful. She had stopped at the foot of the staircase, and with both hands clasped about the newel-post, was swaying herself back and forth, when Nora spoke to her from the head of the stairs. "Miss Lily," she said, by way of a gentle reminder, "do you need any help with your work?" "No, I b'lieve not," answered the little girl. "If I do, I'll come to you. I was just thinking where I'd go to sew." "Will you come to the nursery? It is all put in order," asked Nora, anxious to carry her point, and seeing from Lily's manner that her old enemy was busy with her. "I'll see presently," said Lily. "I'm just going to the little parlor to look for my petticoat. I forget what I did with it yesterday when I had done sewing." And, leaving her hold of the banisters, she crossed the hall. But as she passed the open door of the drawing-room, the piano caught her eye, and turned her thoughts into another channel. "I think I'll go and practise first," she said. "It's all the same thing, and I can do the petticoat afterwards. I have just the same time." This was true enough, but Lily was not wise, for she liked to practise, and she did not like to sew; and it would have been better for her to have done with the least pleasant duty first. She placed herself at the piano, and, I must do her the justice to say, practised steadily for half an hour. "It is ten minutes of ten," she said, looking at the clock. "Oh, there's lots of time yet; I can stay here a little longer. I'm going to practise this new piece some more." This new piece was one Miss Ashton had given her the day before, so that she had had but one lesson on it; and it had all the charm of novelty to her, besides being, as she thought, the prettiest piece she had ever played. "I'll astonish Miss Ashton by letting her see how well I have learned it," she said to herself; and she remained at the piano, playing over and over again the lively little waltz, until her mother's voice at the door recalled her to her neglected duty. "Lily," it said, "you have been practising more than half an hour, dear." "Yes, mamma," said Lily, glancing over at the clock again; "more than three quarters; but my new music is so very pretty, and I want Miss Ashton to be quite surprised with my knowing it so well." "I am afraid Miss Ashton may have a less agreeable surprise if you do not take care, my darling," said Mrs. Norris gravely. "Oh, you mean about the petticoat, mamma; but there's lots and lots of time. I b'lieve Pro has had hold of me this morning," said Lily, jumping down from the piano stool, "and I'll come right away; but you see I was so very sure about having time enough to-day, mamma, that it did not make so much difference. There's a good deal of time yet to-day, and I have Monday too." "Put away your music, Lily," said her mother; and she stood waiting while Lily laid in its place the music she would have left scattered over the piano. Perhaps Mrs. Norris thought it just as well not to lose sight again of her heedless little daughter until she had her settled at her work. "Bring your work-box to my room," said Mrs. Norris. "I have something to do there, and we will have a nice, cosey time." Lily ran for the box, and was back with it in a moment, for as she went she said to herself,-- "I b'lieve I've let Pro steal a good many little thefts already this morning; now I'll just send him off right away. I have plenty of time yet, but now I really must make haste." Lily's work-box was of rather formidable dimensions; indeed, some people thought it but one stage removed from a small trunk. It had been presented to her by an old lady with whom she was a great pet, and although it was extremely inconvenient in regard to size and weight, it was very handsomely fitted up with mother-of-pearl and silver, and contained every implement which could be needed by the most accomplished needle-woman. Upon the lid was a silver plate, with "For an industrious little girl" engraved upon it. Now as we know, our Lily was by no means an industrious little girl; nevertheless she took great pride and delight in this "ark," as Tom privately called it; and, although she had two or three other work-boxes and baskets much more suitable and convenient in point of size, she made use of this one whenever she could do so. "It held so much," she said, and indeed it did; and here the petticoat had reposed in the intervals when she was not busy with it; that is, when Lily had put it away in a proper manner. She followed her mother with this ponderous treasure clasped in both arms; and, when she reached mamma's room, brought her little chair, and opened the box. "Why," she said, when she had removed the upper tray which held all the dainty implements, and looked into the empty space beneath, "why, where is my petticoat? Somebody has gone and taken it out. Mamma, did you take it?" "No, dear, I have not touched it," said Mrs. Norris. "Did you put it away yesterday?" "Yes, mamma, you know I always put it in here. I'll ask Nora;" and away ran Lily to the nursery. "Nora, did you take my orphan petticoat out of my work-box?" she asked. "No, indeed, dear; and why would I touch it, unless you wanted some help with it?" answered Nora. Back went Lily to her mamma's room, troubled and indignant. "Mamma, some one has taken it. I never knew any thing so mean. Nora don't know any thing about it." "Who would take it, Lily? I certainly did not, and you say Nora did not. Papa or Tom could have no reason for touching it. I will tell you what I think." "What mamma?" asked Lily, anxiously. "That you could not have put it away yesterday when you stopped sewing upon it. Think a moment, my daughter; can you distinctly recollect putting it away in your box?" Lily stood considering one moment; then dismay and shame gradually overspread her face. "No, mamma, I just believe I did not. When I was going to put away my petticoat in the box, I heard papa come in, and I wanted to know why he had come home so early; so I thought I would just wait one moment, and put it away when I had asked him, and I dropped it on the floor and ran to papa. And you know he had come to take us to see those pictures, and I never thought another thing about the petticoat. I quite forgot I had not put it away when I told you I had. I will go and look in the sitting-room where I was sewing yesterday." But her search proved fruitless, although she certainly did look thoroughly through every part of the room. Nora was called, and took her part, but all in vain; and at last mamma came. Mrs. Norris rather felt that she should let Lily be at all the trouble of finding the petticoat for herself; but the child seemed so grieved that she could not bear to punish her in that way. But mamma was not more successful than her little daughter and the nurse had been, although in the end every servant was questioned, and every room searched. "It is very strange. Are you quite sure you have not seen it, Hannah?" asked Mrs. Norris of her chambermaid, a rather dull girl, who had been but a short time in the house. "Have you seen nothing of the kind lying about in the sitting-room, or did you not touch Miss Lily's box?" "Miss Lily's harnsum box, is it, ma'am? Sure, and I did see that a sittin' on the floor, where I thought you'd not be plased to see it at all at all, so I just lifted it to the table where I seen it sittin' before; but ne'er a thing I seen beside it. It wouldn't be Miss Lily's work what I found the puppy a pullin' round the ary, ma'am,--the mischavous baste that he is, my heart's most broke with him,--an' I didn't take heed what it was, but seein' it that dirty, I just put it in the basket with the siled clothes." Away went Lily, Nora after her; and, sure enough, the latter soon fished out the unfortunate little petticoat from the soiled-clothes basket. Now, indeed, Lily was distressed, and cried bitterly, for the thing was in no state to be touched until it had been washed. It was easy to imagine how it had happened. The puppy, who was growing very mischievous, and who, like many another young thing, was fond of a forbidden plaything, had probably found the petticoat lying where Lily had heedlessly dropped it upon the floor; and, watching his opportunity, had dragged it from the room, down stairs, and out into the back area, where Hannah had rescued it, happily before it was torn and chewed to bits, but not before it was sadly blackened and soiled. "Now don't you cry, honey Miss Lily, and I'll just wash it right out for you, and have it back as clane as a new pin," said the good-natured Hannah. "If I'd known it yesterday, sure I'd a done it then; but niver a wurd did I think of its bein' your work, and it in that state. Och, what a crathur it is, that botherin' little baste!" she added, as she went off with the melancholy looking petticoat in her hand. [Illustration: Lily Norris. p. 174.] "Will she have it washed and dried and ironed in time for me to finish it before the children come, mamma?" asked the sobbing Lily, burying her head in her mother's lap. "I am afraid not, dear," answered her mother, with a tender, pitying touch upon the thoughtless little head which brought so much trouble upon itself, "so much time has been lost in hunting for your work, and it is now nearly eleven o'clock." "If I'd only gone to my sewing at first as you advised me, then I'd have found out sooner what that horrid little old hateful puppy had done, and Hannah might have washed the petticoat for me in time," moaned Lily. "I wish Tom never had the puppy." "I do not think we must blame the puppy, my darling," said her mamma. "He only acted according to his nature; and he found the skirt, you know, where it should not have been." "Yes," said Lily, "poor little cunning fellow; it wasn't his fault. It was all horrid old me, with my putting off that I never shall cure myself of; no, never, never. It is too mean that I cannot finish that tiresome petticoat this morning." "Happily, dear, the consequences of your fault are not yet without remedy, and you may still make up for lost time, unless something should happen which we do not foresee; but you have only this one more chance, Lily. Take care that you do not neglect it, or be tempted to procrastinate again." [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER X. _SATURDAY AFTERNOON'S PLAY._ Mrs. Norris was right; for although Hannah did her best, she found it impossible to have the petticoat dry enough to iron so that Lily might have some time to sew upon it before her young friends arrived. As soon as she had at all recovered her spirits, the little girl relieved her mind in some degree by making frequent rushes to the head of the back stairs to see if Hannah were coming with the petticoat; and once she persuaded her mother to let her go to the laundry that she might "be encouraged by seeing how much Hannah had done." But she did not receive much encouragement from the sight of the still dripping garment, which Hannah had hung before the fire that it might dry the more quickly. Hannah took a cheerful view of the subject, saying she would have it ready very soon, and there was "lots of time afore Tuesday mornin'." But Lily was at last learning the folly of believing in "lots of time" to come; and she shook her head in a melancholy manner, and bade Hannah "take a lesson of her misfortunes, and never procrastinate." She returned to the nursery in a very low state of mind, when Nora told her she would dress her at once if she chose, so that if she had any time to spare she might employ it on the skirt when it was dry. Lily gratefully accepted the offer, but it proved of no use as far as the petticoat was concerned, for she had bade her little friends to "be sure and come by twelve o'clock," and her mamma having seconded the invitation, they had been allowed to do so; and soon after twelve, Maggie, Bessie, Belle, and Mabel arrived, just as Hannah brought up the petticoat, fairly smoking from her hot irons, and five minutes after, the rest of the young party made their appearance. The clouds passed from Lily's face and mind at the sight of all these "sunbeams," and, consoling herself with the recollection that after all she still had Monday afternoon, she was presently as merry and full of spirits as usual. Happily not one of the other children thought of asking her if the petticoat were finished, so that she was spared the mortification of confessing that it was not. It was proposed that they should all amuse themselves downstairs until the early dinner, which had been ordered for them at one o'clock; after which they would go to the grand play-room in the attic, Maggie having provided herself with some fresh proverbs and charades, which they were to play. "Harry and Fred are coming over this afternoon, and we want to make a ship in the lumber-room. You won't mind, will you?" asked Tom, who was taking his lunch at the little girls' dinner. Doubtful looks were exchanged between some of them. Maggie's looks were not at all doubtful; her face was one of blank dismay at the proposal. Playing charades and proverbs was all very well when there were only those of her own age to look on; doing it before these big boys was quite another thing. "Not if you don't like it, Maggie," said Tom, noticing her annoyance; "but we wouldn't disturb you, and anyhow I am sure you need not mind having us see you. We'll be busy at the carpenter's bench and tool-chest, and you need not heed us if we do see." "I'm--I'm afraid you'll--you'll laugh at us," hesitated Maggie, coloring. "If we laugh, it will be with you, not at you," said Tom. "But never mind; if you don't like it, we'll keep out of your way." Then Maggie felt self-reproached, and, like the generous little girl she was, determined that her bashfulness should not get the upper hand of her readiness to oblige. "I don't mind it so very much," she said; "at least I'll try not to, and you can come if the others say so. I suppose you won't take notice of us if you are building a ship, would you, Tom?" she added wistfully. "No one shall disturb or trouble you in any way, you may believe that," said Tom; and Maggie knew that he would keep his word, and so declared her willingness that the boys should share the privileges of the lumber-room. Away to the attic scampered the seven pairs of little feet the moment dinner was over; and Nora, following, opened the trunks for them, then left them to their own devices. That is to say, she brought her sewing, and went to sit in one of the rooms which opened out of the great gallery, where she might be within call if the children needed her, and at hand to keep them from mischief. That she provided for her own amusement by leaving the door so that she could see and hear, none of them, not even shy Maggie, noticed or cared. Maggie of course was always chief spirit and prime manager of these entertainments; and she now divided the party, taking Belle and Nellie with herself as performers in the first charade, and assigning the part of spectators to Bessie, Lily, Carrie, and Mabel. The audience speedily accommodated themselves and their children--that is their dolls--with seats upon the top of the bins, scrambling thereto by the help of chairs, and amusing themselves with lively conversation while waiting. Maggie and Nellie brought forth from the store-room a small table and three chairs, which were suitably placed; Sir Percy was brought from his place of repose and laid upon the floor beside them; after which the young ladies retired again into privacy. "The charade has begun, and Sir Percy is a great big dog this time," said Maggie, suddenly popping out her head once more, and then withdrawing it. After some moments she reappeared, this time gorgeously arrayed in a flowing train, formed of an old red table-cloth, bordered with gold, a wreath of artificial flowers on her head, ribbons of all colors pinned and tied about her, and an enormous fan in her hand, with which she fanned herself affectedly, mincing and prinking as she walked to a chair, where she seated herself, taking good care to keep her face turned from Sir Percy, whom she pretended not to observe. The audience were spell-bound with interest and the wish to guess the word. "Tell your mistress--er--that er--Madam Jones--er--is here--er," drawled the lady, addressing an imaginary servant, closing her eyes as if quite exhausted, and putting on all the airs and graces conceivable. Presently entered the hostess, attired with similar magnificence, but with rather a bluff and off-hand manner, which contrasted very strikingly with that of her visitor. Meanwhile, from behind the door of the store-room came a piteous mewing, which soon attracted the attention of the second lady, who peered about her in great surprise, and exclaimed,-- "That must be a cat mewing, and I never allow a cat in my house, never!" "Oh--er," drawled Mrs. Jones, "it is only my sweet pussy, my lovely _pet_, my only donly _pet_; such a dear _pet_, oh, such! Wouldn't you like to see her, Mrs. Smith?" "No, oh, no!" cries Mrs. Smith, lifting up her hands in horror; "I hate cats, and so does my lovely _pet_, Bombastes Furioso. Here, Bomby, Bomby, Bomby, come and speak to Mrs. Jones, my darling pet." Upon which Mrs. Jones affected to see for the first time the great dog Bombastes Furioso, and to be filled with alarm at the sight. "Don't call him, pr-r-r-ay, don't!" she cried. "Is it possible that you like canine dogs, Mrs. Smith? How can you have such a pet? Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!" Hereupon entered Belle on all fours, covered with a white flossy mat which had been brought up from the hall for the purpose, and ran mewing about her mistress. "I'd rather like canine dogs than canine cats," wrathfully cries Mrs. Smith; "and, ma'am, I tell you I won't have cats in my house! S'cat, s'cat, s'cat!" "Ma'am," cries Mrs. Jones, indignantly, "if you turn out my _pet_, you turn out me, and I'll never visit you again, ma'am, nor be acquainted with you any more. I cut you, ma'am, I cut you!" "And I cut you, ma'am. Bringing cats in my house, indeed! Here, Bombastes Furioso, s-s-s-s!" and the indignant and inhospitable Mrs. Smith tried to urge her dog to seize Mrs. Jones' kitty. Bombastes, however, being a dog of a lazy turn of mind, contented himself with deep, hoarse growls whenever Mrs. Jones was speaking. He was silent when it was necessary for his mistress to speak; and Mrs. Smith found herself obliged to drag her lumbering pet onwards by his two remaining hoofs--I beg his pardon, I should have said paws. This was the sole objection to the accommodating Sir Percy, that he was so unwieldy and cumbersome to move when circumstances required that he should do so. This being the case, Mrs. Jones, whose airs and graces were all put to flight by this attack upon her, had time to scuttle off with her pet before Bombastes Furioso had advanced more than a step or two. This was greeted with shouts of laughter, in which the performers themselves joined as they disappeared; and after the applause had subsided, the four heads on the top of the bins set themselves to guess the word. "I think it's affected lady," said Carrie. "I don't. I think it is cat or dog," said Lily. "You know this is only the first syllable, Carrie, so it couldn't be affected lady." "Oh, to be sure," said Carrie. "Bessie, what do you think it is?" "I think it is pet," said Bessie. "Did you not hear how often they said 'pet'? 'Pet' dog and 'pet' cat?" "Yes, so they did," said Lily. "Bessie, you are right. Oh, isn't it fun?" The performers were not long in making their preparations for the next syllable; and the only change in the outward arrangements was that various bottles, a saw, some chisels, awls, and other tools were brought out, and placed upon the table. "These are doctors' instruments," Maggie explained before retiring. Presently she reappeared, buttoned up in an overcoat which reached to her feet, a man's hat coming down over her eyes, a cane in her hand, and bustled round among the bottles. From this occupation the doctor was roused by a knock at the door, and there entered two other overcoated figures, limping and groaning in a distressful manner. "We've been in a railroad accident, and all our bones are broken, doctor," piped one of the sufferers. The unfeeling surgeon hustled them each into a chair, and with great roughness proceeded to wrap and bandage, tying a great many knots with much unnecessary vigor, accompanied with shrieks and groans from his patients. "Ow--ow--ow, doctor," cried one of them, as the doctor pulled hard upon a knot in the handkerchief he was tying on a broken arm, "you do hurt more than any doctor I ever knew. You _tie_ so hard." "Well," growled the doctor, "when you come to me with two broken arms, and two broken legs, and a broken back, and your eyes put out, and your head smashed up, do you expect to be mended without being hurt? Here, let me _tie_ your head." The patients, being well _tied_ up, at last departed, followed by the doctor; and the audience unanimously agreed that _tie_ was the second syllable. "Pet--tie," said Bessie. "I just b'lieve it's petticoat." "So it is," said Carrie; while Lily, recalled to the recollection of her unfortunate petticoat, was struck dumb by what she considered a remarkable coincidence. The performance of the third syllable was not quite as interesting as the other two had been, the _coats_ which had been worn by the doctor and his patients being brought out and beaten with sticks with a great bustle and fuss, but without a single spoken word. After this it scarcely needed the performance of the whole word to establish the fact that it was petticoat; but, the chairs and table being removed, it was gone through with by three young ladies, very much dressed, taking a walk on a muddy day, and greatly disturbed for the fate of their petticoats, as they splashed and waded through imaginary pools and puddles. "Petticoat! Petticoat! Petticoat!" resounded from the top of the bins, accompanied by violent clapping and stamping, and other tokens of the pleasure which had been afforded by the representation. And now the audience came down from their perch, and resigned it to the late performers, with whom they were to change parts; at least, Belle and Nellie were to do so, for Maggie was, as I have said, the moving spirit, and all the others played under her orders. She was the most ingenious in choosing and arranging the words, and it was believed that no charade went off well unless she took part in it. This arrangement only left two spectators, it is true; but Maggie said she needed all the others, and no objection was made. The chairs and table were now brought back to their old places. After the necessary dressing up had been done, Bessie appeared with a handkerchief tied over her sunny curls, a white apron coming down to her feet, and followed by Carrie as a servant, bearing dishes. These--a doll's dinner set--were arranged upon the table with much noise and rattle, the little landlady bustling about, and calling upon her maid to make haste. "For I keep a very good _inn_, servant," she said; "but when some people come to _inns_, they make a great fuss, and give a great deal of trouble; and I heard of a gentleman who is coming to my _inn_, and he is very cross, and a great scolder, so I don't want to give him any reason to complain, and we must have every thing very nice in my _inn_." "Yes, ma'am, we'll have the _inn_ very fine for him," answered the maid. The fears of the landlady were not unfounded, as it proved; for presently appeared Sir Percy in the character of a cross old gentleman, supported and dragged along with much difficulty by his wife and daughters. He was attired in a man's hat and great-coat, the sleeves of the latter coming down some distance below his--h'm--hands; but this was a convenience, as they could be flapped about in wild gesticulation, as he stormed and scolded at the _in_conveniences of the _inn_. A more ill-tempered old gentleman was never seen; and a hard time did his attendants have of it. He laid about him in the most ferocious manner, and was not to be pacified by all the attentions that were lavished upon him; until the little landlady declared that "if that old gentleman was going to stay a great while in her _inn_, she would not keep an _inn_ any longer." "Inn, inn," was called, not only from the bins, but also from the other side of the room, as the old man was at last carried away, still growling, and wildly slapping the air with his coat-cuffs. The children turned, and Sir Percy tumbled heavily to the floor, as Maggie loosened her hold of him, struck dumb by the sight of three pairs of eyes peering above the side of the staircase. "Now, that's too bad," cried Lily. "You boys can just go 'way. You'll laugh at us." "Indeed, we won't," said Tom. "We came up just a few moments ago, and we thought we wouldn't interrupt you by passing through, but wait until you had finished, and that was capitally done. But I'm afraid you'll hurt yourselves with Sir Percy. He is too heavy for you to lug about, and Maggie's toes barely escaped just now." "O Tom!" said Lily; "why, half the fun would be spoiled if we didn't have Sir Percy." "Well, be careful then," said Tom, as he passed on with Harry into the store-room. But Fred lingered. "I say, Midge," he said, "let a fellow stay and see the rest of your charade, will you? It's jolly." Maggie looked blank, but all she said was, "O Fred!" "No, you can't," said Lily, unmindful of the duties of hospitality in her own attic; "you just can't, 'cause you'll laugh, and make fun of us." "Now come on, Fred, and let them alone," called Tom from within the room. "I promised them they should not be teased if we came up here." "I'm not going to tease them," said Fred. "I want to see the charade, really and truly. The little chaps do it first-rate, and I like it. Let me stay, girls." Maggie and Bessie, especially the latter, had strong objections to being called "chaps," but Fred never could remember that. However, they passed it by; and Fred won a rather reluctant consent to his remaining as a spectator. He was put upon his good behavior, and with a run and a jump speedily landed himself beside Belle and Carrie, where he kept his word, and conducted himself as a well-behaved spectator should do. The next syllable presented a lady writing, her maid sewing. In rushes a gardener, tree in hand, represented by a large feather dust-brush; and with much Irish brogue and great excitement, accuses the lady's son of cutting down a young peach-tree. Son denies, and is believed by his mother, who sternly tells the gardener that her son has never told a lie, and whatever he says is "_true_, _true_, _true_." Gardener declares that "indade, an' he is thrue; an' if the missis will but make Master George Washington hould up the hand that's behint him, she'll see the hatchet he did it with." Mother demands the hatchet, son rebels, still keeping his hand behind him, but mother, chasing round and round, presently discovers it; whereupon she clasps her hands frantically, cries she thought he was _true_, falls fainting to the ground, and is carried off by son, gardener, and maid. This new version of an old and familiar story was received with tremendous applause, to which Fred's boots added not a little. Next appeared Sir Percy once more, this time without any outward adornments. He was laid upon the floor, and in his mouth was thrust a pointed stick, bearing a paper, on which was written in Maggie's largest, roundest hand, these words:-- "This is a disagreeable smelling dead cat." About and around the dead cat walked five young ladies, uttering exclamations of disgust, wondering where the smell could come from, but strangely blind to the offensive animal which lay before them. "Ow! how horrid!" cried one. "Ugh! disgusting!" exclaimed another. "What an awful smell!" said the third. "Ugh! it's that dead cat!" said the fourth. "Let's _shun_ it, let's _shun_ it!" And with loud cries of "_Shun_ it, _shun_ it," the five young ladies scamper into the store-room, from which the sound of smothered laughter had now and then mingled with the public applause without. It was not difficult now to guess the word; nevertheless the whole charade must be played out before it was even hinted at to the performers. "In-tru-sion," was carried out by two of the aforesaid young ladies, who rang violently at a front-door bell, and were denied admittance by a dainty, little sunny-haired maid, who declared that her mistress was very much engaged. The visitors persisted in their desire to see her, and forced their way in, to be fiercely attacked by the indignant lady of the mansion, who was engaged with her lover, Sir Percy, and who sternly demanded, "Whence this _intrusion_?" "No intrusion at all, ma'am," says one of the visitors. "Yes, _intrusion_, ma'am," replies the hostess; and contradiction followed free and fast, until stopped by the shouts of "Intrusion! Intrusion!" from the reserved seats. [Illustration] [Illustration] XI. _A SAD ACCIDENT._ "That's capital!" exclaimed Fred. "Give us another, Midge, will you?" Fred had conducted himself with such becoming propriety, and his applause had been so hearty, that Maggie felt not only quite reconciled to his presence, but also ready to indulge him; and she answered,-- "Yes, I have one more, and it is to be instructive as well as amusing, Fred, because it is an historical charade." "Go ahead!" said Fred, scrambling back into his seat, which he had left to help carry Sir Percy into retirement. The preparations for the first syllable of the historical charade were very imposing. Two chairs were placed face to face; upon these was mounted the table, turned upside down, with its legs in the air; to one of the legs was tied a large feather dust-brush,--the whole arrangement supposed to represent an oak-tree, as Maggie explained. Maggie, Nellie, Lily, and Belle were the performers on this occasion; and in due time they all entered, escorting Sir Percy, now in the character of King Charles, in full kingly costume, the red table-cloth doing duty for his robes, and a crown, a "real crown" of tinsel paper adorning his majesty's brows. He was held with some difficulty upon his horse,--another chair turned down for the purpose,--and again Tom's warning voice came from the store-room. "You'd better look out with that old hobby. You'll hurt yourselves some time, lugging him about that fashion." But the suggestion was treated with disdain. An old hobby indeed! King Charles an "old hobby"! The horse--that is, the chair horse--paused beneath the tree, and then, relieved of his burden, galloped off, led by Belle; while the other three prepared to hoist his cumbersome majesty into the tree, he not being agile enough to perform that office for himself. Maggie had proposed that two of the children should be his enemies in pursuit; but no one was willing to take that character. Staunch little royalists they were, every one, and not to be reckoned among the persecutors of the unfortunate king. So this little diversion from the true historical facts had been permitted to suit the occasion, all the more readily as it was feared that it would take the united strength of the whole four to raise him to the necessary height. Still Maggie had not been quite satisfied with such a very great departure from reality; and, hearing the difficulty as they worked at the carpenter's bench, Tom and Harry had good-naturedly offered to take upon themselves the obnoxious part of the king's enemies, and as soon as he was safely hidden in the tree to rush forth in search of him, and feign total unconsciousness as they passed beneath his place of shelter. This being settled, and Belle, having disposed of her horse, and returned to give a hand to the lifting process, the royal fugitive was, by the united exertions of his four devoted adherents, raised to his hiding-place. But he proved too heavy for the slight construction; and feather duster, chair, and table toppled over together, carrying King Charles with them. Maggie and Lily held fast, one on either side, but the other two had left their hold. Fred, seeing the danger, sprang like a shot from his seat, and his hand but just touched the old hobby-horse as it rolled over, not soon enough to prevent its fall, but in time to turn the heavy thing a little aside. It fell, carrying Lily back with it; and the two came together to the floor, jarring the whole house. Tom and Harry rushed out, not, alas! in the play in which they had offered to join, but in sad and alarmed earnest; and Nora flew from her work. Tom had Lily in his arms in an instant, but the poor little girl was a sorry sight. Sir Percy's head had struck against hers as they fell together, and blood was already streaming from an ugly wound just above her temple. But for Fred's timely touch, which turned the weight of the hobby-horse a little to one side, the child's head must have been crushed, and she killed. Oh, was not Maggie thankful that she had allowed her good-nature to triumph over her fear of being laughed at, and had consented to let Fred join in their fun! Ah! the fun and frolic were changed now,--changed to distress and alarm. Lily lay half stunned, gasping and death-like, while the cries and shrieks of the other children rang through the house, and speedily brought her mother to the spot. It was indeed a sad ending to the merry afternoon, and for a few moments the children could scarcely believe that Lily was not killed, or at least dying, so white and quiet did she lie. Never did piteous cry carry more relief to a mother's heart than that which at last broke from the pale, trembling lips; for Mrs. Norris too had feared that her darling was dangerously, if not fatally injured. It must have been so indeed but for the care of the kind Father who had watched over her, and sent Fred's timely help to turn aside a portion of the threatening danger. "Go for the doctor," said Mrs. Norris. But Fred, with a thoughtfulness which he sometimes showed, had already asked Tom if he should not do this, and had started off with his direction. The grass never grew beneath Fred's nimble feet at any time; and now, when he believed there was need for speed, he almost flew over the ground, and, happily finding the doctor at home, brought him back with him at once. Lily had been carried downstairs and laid upon her little bed, where her mother was doing for her all that she could, though that was not much, until the doctor came. A group of frightened and distressed little faces met the good old physician's eye as he passed through the hall. He spoke a few cheering words as he went by, but as he did not yet know how much Lily was hurt, he did not put much heart into his young hearers. Still it was a comfort to know that he had come, and it always did one good to see Dr. Banks' kind, helpful face. Before the doctor arrived, Lily had opened her eyes, and smiled at her mother with a bewildered look; but when she saw the blood which was streaming from the wound in her head, she was frightened, and began to cry again. But the dear old doctor soon quieted her fears, and those of her anxious mother; and the good news presently spread through the house that he did not think her dangerously hurt. There was a deep, ugly cut on her head just above the temple, it was true, and her eye was already swelling and blackening; but he had no fears that her injuries were serious, and with some care and quiet she would soon be well again. But Lily had had a very merciful escape, and Maggie could not be sufficiently glad and thankful that she had been kind and obliging, and allowed Fred "to come to the charades," when she heard every one saying that but for the thrust from his hand which had turned aside the weight of the old hobby-horse, the heavy thing must have crushed the dear little head of her young playmate. "It was quite a mountain of mercy out of a mole-hill of kindness," quaintly said dear Maggie, as she wiped from her eyes the tears of joy and gratitude. Hearing that Lily must be kept quiet, the thoughtful Harry carried away his sisters, and all the other little visitors, as soon as they were assured that there was no cause for alarm, and saw them all safely to their separate homes. Lily lay patient and gentle under the doctor's handling, as he felt the poor little bruised head, and tenderly cut away the hair from the wound, and bound it up; but every now and then she put up her hand, with a piteous, anxious expression, to the eye which was swelling and closing so fast. "Does it pain you so, darling?" her mother would ask. "Not so very much, mamma," she would answer, "but"--and here her words always came to an end. But when the doctor was through, and the aching head laid carefully on a soft pillow, the trouble that was weighing on her mind broke forth. "Doctor," she asked wistfully, "is my eye going out?" "Going out? No, indeed," answered the doctor, cheerily. "I rather think it is going in, my Lily-bud. It is shutting up pretty tight now, it is true; but we'll take the swelling down in a day or two, and it will soon be as useful and bright as ever." "By Monday, Doctor?" questioned Lily, anxiously. "Ho, no, indeed, my little woman! You will not have much use of this peeper for a week or ten days to come. Even if you could see out of it, you must keep quite quiet, lie here on the bed or on the sofa, and be petted and nursed for a few days, or this little head may give you some trouble." Lily looked as if something was giving her a good deal of trouble now; for as the doctor spoke, her face grew longer and longer, and now she burst into tears again, as she sobbed out,-- "My petticoat! O mamma, my orphan petticoat!" "Hallo!" said the doctor, "what is that, I should like to know? I have heard of a good many kinds of petticoats, but I never heard of an orphan petticoat before. But this will not do, my child. You _must_ lie down and keep quiet." "Do not trouble yourself about the petticoat now, darling," said her mother, gently laying her back upon the pillow, from which she had started up in her distress, "I will arrange that." "But, mamma," said Lily, piteously, "you know you said--you said that you could not let Nora finish it for me, and--and--oh, dear!--you couldn't break your word, you know, and my orphan child won't have any petticoat, and it was all my old Pro, and so what can I do? Oh, if I only didn't have Pro! I b'lieve he's my worst enemy." "What is all this about petticoats and pro's, Mrs. Norris?" said the doctor. "Put her mind at rest if you can, or we shall be having headache and fever." "Lily, darling," said her mother, "you must set your mind at rest about the petticoat. You certainly cannot finish it now; but I shall not let the little orphan suffer. By and by I will see what is best to do, but now you must talk and think no more about it. Mamma will arrange it all for you, and you will make yourself worse if you fret." "Dear mamma," said Lily, "I should think you would want to arrange not to have such a bothering little thing as me for your own little girl; only I don't s'pose you do. I b'lieve mammas generally don't." "Hush, hush, my darling," said her mother, whose own heart was swelling with gratitude that a Higher Hand had "arranged" that her dear "little bothering thing," as Lily called herself, was not to be taken from her, but that she was still spared to be the joy of all who loved her, the "sunbeam" of the home that would have seemed so dark without her. Lily obeyed the soothing touch of her mother's hand, and, confident that she would find some way to help her out of her trouble, said no more of the unfinished task. But it was upon her mind for all that, as was proved when the evening wore away, and the fever and light-headedness the doctor had feared came on. A very slight illness was enough to make Lily light-headed, and the blow she had received was by no means a slight one. So it was not strange that it should have that effect. And she talked pretty wildly about petticoats and puppies, work-boxes and rocking-horses, and had many bitter words for her enemy Pro; and all her mother could say would not soothe her. But at last she grew more quiet, and the poor little bruised head ceased to wander, and she fell asleep; and when she awoke in the morning, her mind was as bright and clear as ever. But her face was sadly disfigured, and one eye was quite closed up, so that it was plainly to be seen that Lily would not have much use of it for some days to come. All this would pass away in time, however; swelling and discoloration would disappear by and by; and, happily, the cut upon her head came where the scar would be hidden by her hair. Somewhat to Mrs. Norris' surprise, Lily said no word of the petticoat all the next day; but she was very glad that it was so, and took pains to avoid any thing that might turn her thoughts that way. Lily did think of it, however, although she said nothing; and she could not but wonder now and then how her mother would contrive to help her without breaking her word. But she felt languid and ill, and it was a trouble to talk, so she let it go for the present, believing as usual that it would come right somehow. But on Monday morning, when Nora was dressing her, the nurse said,-- "Miss Lily, darling, I am just going to ask your mamma to let me finish your petticoat for you. I think she'll excuse you this once, since you cannot do it for yourself." "No," said Lily earnestly, "you must not ask mamma, Nora, 'cause it would only give her the uncomfortableness of saying no. She told me she would not let the little orphan suffer for my fault, and she will find a way to make it right, though I don't know what it is, and I am too ashamed to ask her. But you know she said very surely and pos-i-tive-ly, Nora, that she would not let you finish it, if it was not done through my putting off; and that was the reason it was not done on Saturday morning, as it ought to have been. I know I cannot do it now myself, but I could have done it before; and mamma can not break her word." Lily concluded with a sigh, for she really did not know what plan her mother could have for helping her, and she was very anxious, though, as she said, too much ashamed to ask any more. But it so happened that Mrs. Norris overheard this conversation, and she was thankful to find how strong in her Lily was that sense of truth which would not allow her to believe for one moment that mamma could go back from her word under any circumstances. It was rather remarkable that with all her heedlessness and volatile spirits, Lily was so strictly truthful and upright, for they never betrayed her into an equivocation, as carelessness and want of thought are too apt to do. The morning was not far gone before Lily's mind was set at rest on the subject of her petticoat, for her mamma came to sit beside her, and brought her work with her. And what was her work? Lily noticed it in a moment; a petticoat for a child,--not of such muslin as her own skirts, but coarser and stronger, just such as her "orphan petticoat" was made of. "Mamma?" she said, with her eyes fixed upon the strips of muslin in her mother's hand. "Yes, dear," said her mother, "you know I said the little orphan must not suffer through you, and I told you Nora could not finish your petticoat, and send it as your work, if you did not do it yourself; so I shall make this one, and send it to Miss Ashton in the place of the other." "And tell Miss Ashton, mamma?" "Well, yes, dear, I must. Do you not think so?" "Yes, mamma, and I s'pose the girls must know. Even if she don't tell them, I think I ought to when I go back to school. They ought not to think I was industrious and good like the rest when I just put off and put off until this sad accident came, and then I really couldn't do it;" and here a great tear rolled down Lily's cheek. "My darling," said her mother, dropping her work, and bending over to kiss the sorrowful little face, "mamma cannot bear to see you mortified and grieved, but she does want this to be a lesson to you, and to save you from future trouble and loss." "Yes, mamma, I know," answered Lily, "and it serves me quite right; but it does make me feel very badly to know that all the other children can feel that the little orphans are having some good of their kindness, and they do not have one bit of mine." Mrs. Norris hesitated before she spoke again. She felt as if she could not bear to have her poor child so hardly punished now when she was suffering, and had just escaped such a great danger. She could not let Nora finish the petticoat, but why not finish it herself, she thought, as well as make another, and send it to Miss Ashton with a message from Lily that she had not done the whole of it herself? Just then came a knock at the door, and, being bidden to enter, Robert brought a note for Miss Lily, saying the messenger waited for an answer. "It is Maggie's writing, I think," said Mrs. Norris. Lily raised herself, and held out her hand. "You cannot read it for yourself, dear. Shall I do it?" asked her mother. Lily assented, and, opening the note, Mrs. Norris read as follows:-- "DEAR LILY,--We are so sorry for you, all of us, but we are so very happy you were not killed by Sir Percy Hotspur, who is very nice to play with, but not nice to fall underneath, and we are glad you are not such a victim as that. But, Lily, dear, we do not know, Bessie and I, if you have finished your petticoat for the orphan child. We did not ask you on Saturday because we thought if it was not done you wouldn't like to say so, but we thought perhaps the reason you did not speak about it was because a 'burnt child dreads the fire,' which means people don't like things that bring them into trouble, or to speak about them. So we thought it was quite probable that it was not done, and we know you cannot finish it now, for yesterday we met Dr. Banks when we were coming from church, and he said you could not go to school, or use your poor hurt eye for a good many days. So, dear, if you would let me finish it for you, I would be very glad, and Bessie will too, and you can send it to me by Patrick. And you need not think I will have to do it all in my play-time, for mamma says I can do it in my sewing-lesson to-day, which is half an hour, and if there is any more, I'd just as lieve do it afterwards, and the heart which would not do that is not worthy of a friend, but ought to be like a man we read about the other day who lived in a tub and was cross to everybody. And do you believe, people called him a wise man!!! Which shows they must have been very stupid people in those days to call such an old cross-patch wise, and I'm glad I was never acquainted with him for I would not consider him fit to know. "So ask your mamma to send me the petticoat if it is not done, that my true friendship may have the pleasure of finishing it. From your esteemed friend, "MAGGIE STANTON BRADFORD. "P.S. If a pretty bad button-hole would be any relief to your feelings instead of strings, I would just as lieve make one, but it don't look very nice." To have seen Lily's eyes--or rather her eye, for you know there was only one to be seen--as her mother finished reading this letter to her! to have seen the pleading of her poor little face! "Well, dear," said her mother, smiling back in answer to the unspoken question that was written in every line of her Lily's countenance. "Well, dear, shall we accept Maggie's offer?" "Oh, mamma! if you think I might," cried Lily. "Yes," said her mother, "since dear Maggie is so good as to offer, and give up her time to you, perhaps I will let you accept. But, my darling, I do not want you to forget that here again the consequences of your habit of procrastinating are falling on another. Maggie is doing the work which should have been done by you, and although, I am sure she does it willingly, and with all her heart, dear little friend that she is, still you must own that it is hard she should have her own share, and part of yours too." "Yes, mamma," answered Lily, penitently, "and I know I don't deserve to have any of the work I have done go to the orphan that has no father or mother, and I am very thankful to darling Maggie. And, mamma, I think I ought to ask you to write a note to Miss Ashton, and let her tell the other children that I did not do the whole of the petticoat, or it would not be quite fair. 'Specially, mamma, 'cause some of them said I wouldn't have my petticoat done, and I _scorned_ what they said, and was very sure of myself. So it would be more true, I think, to tell them how it was." "Yes, darling," said her mother, glad that her little girl was so truthful, and unwilling to take any credit that was not rightly her own; and then she kissed her, and, bringing the unfortunate petticoat, rolled it up, and sent it away to the dear little sunbeam who was so ready to shed light and comfort wherever she had the power to do so. [Illustration] [Illustration] XII. _LILY'S NEW RESOLVE._ There was a good deal of bustle and excitement, as you may imagine, on Tuesday morning, when Miss Ashton's little scholars came, each with her respective parcel. Poor Lily of course was not there; it would be many a day yet before she was able to come to school, but all the others were in their places, and very anxious for the lessons to be over. Nor were Maggie and Bessie there during school-hours; but they were to come afterwards, and bring the little garments they had made. "Let's see who finished her work first," said Gracie. "Dora, when did you finish yours?" "Saturday morning," answered Dora. "Pooh!" said Gracie, "how long you were. Nellie, when was yours done?" "Last night," answered Nellie; "and I was very glad I had not taken a petticoat, for I could not have finished it." Gracie only looked her contempt, but she did that so plainly that it might have placed her in the ranks of the anti-politers quite as readily as rude and scornful words could have done. Nellie felt it, colored, and looked hurt. "Belle, when did you finish yours?" "I _perfer_ not to tell you," answered Belle, with magnificence. "Why?" asked Gracie. "If your guilty conscience don't tell you, it's no use for me to speak about it," replied Belle, with well-deserved severity, supposed to be kept within the bounds of courteousness. Gracie gave her head a little toss, as much as to say that Belle's opinion was quite beneath her notice; but that her "guilty conscience" did accuse her was to be seen from the fact that she questioned no more of her classmates, but said conceitedly,-- "I finished my petticoat the very Saturday after I took it;" and then looked about her for the applause which no one had the mind to offer. It was strange that the frequency of the disappointments of this nature which she received did not teach Gracie that those who sought the most eagerly for food for their own vanity were not the most apt to receive it; but her insatiable self-conceit needed some severe teaching before it would lose its hold of her, and such slight blows as these were without much effect on the still increasing evil. "I am sure I could easily have made two if I had chosen," continued Gracie. "It is nothing so very great to make a petticoat in a week." "I don't know," said Nellie, who seldom bore malice, "I think it is pretty well for little girls to make one in two weeks. I am slow, I know, but as Lily said,--poor dear Lily,--I am a steady tortoise after all, and have done my task in time." "Is Lily's petticoat finished?" asked Mabel. "Does any one know?" No, no one knew; but more than one thought it quite likely that Lily would be behindhand. They knew her ways well. But, before they had time for much more conversation on the subject, Miss Ashton came in, and the business of the day began. Twelve o'clock came, bringing with it Maggie and Bessie, who also brought each the little garment she had completed; and, school being at an end, the children gathered about Miss Ashton to have her verdict on their work. Belle's bag was the first to be examined, and Miss Ashton pronounced it very well done for a little girl who was but just learning to sew. There were some long and crooked stitches, it is true; but they were tight and close, and showed that she had taken great pains. So did Bessie's; and Mabel's also was considered a success. Carrie Ransom's did not show quite as much care, but it would pass. So much for the bags made by the four lesser children; and now Miss Ashton turned to the petticoats. "I have here a note from Lily," she said, "which I shall read first. She sent it to me this morning, with her work, and a request that I would tell you what it contained." "Oh," said Gracie, "I suppose she has not finished her petticoat. She never does things when she ought to, and she is always behindhand. I finished my petticoat on the first Saturday, Miss Ashton." Now, would you not have thought that Gracie disliked Lily, and was glad to have the chance of showing up her faults? But it was not really so; for if you had asked Gracie, she would have told you that she was fond of Lily, and thought her on the whole a very good little girl. But Gracie's habit of comparing herself with others to their disadvantage gave her, not only the appearance of great conceit, but also of constant fault-finding with her companions. Miss Ashton took no notice of her speech, but opened the envelope, and took out the note, which Mrs. Norris had written at Lily's dictation. "Miss Ashton," repeated Gracie, "I finished my petticoat Saturday before last, every stitch of it." "Very well," said Miss Ashton, coolly, and without farther attention, read aloud:-- "DEAR MISS ASHTON,--I think I ought to tell you that I did not do all my petticoat myself, and it was not all because of my hurting myself, but because I did not do it in good time, but put off until I had left a good task for the last day, when my eye was so hurt I could not sew. But dear Maggie had her's all done, and so she had time for a kindness, and she finished mine; but I thought I ought to do myself the mortification of telling you about it, for fear you and the other children should give me praise I did not deserve. "And now I am very sorry I was so sure of myself to be so certain I would not fall into my bad habit again, which I find is not cured, as I said it was; but I have to try very hard yet. And I know the other children will think I thought myself very great, and I am ashamed of it, and of my procrastination too, dear Miss Ashton, which you told me would give me great trouble, and mamma too, and I see it. So please excuse me, and my eye and my head are better, thank you; but the doctor says I cannot use my eye for a good many days, and my head aches some yet. "Please give my love to all the children, and tell them to come and see me. "From your affectionate little scholar, "LILY NORRIS." If Lily's schoolmates did imagine that she thought herself "great," not one of them said so; and the reading of her letter was followed by many expressions of affection and sympathy, mingled with admiration for her straightforward honesty, which would not let her receive credit which was not her due. However, when Miss Ashton unfolded the petticoat sent by Lily, and examined the sewing, it was found that, wanting though she might have been in punctuality and industry, Lily certainly deserved praise for the manner in which her work was done. It was extremely neat and even for such a little girl; and both her own share, and that completed by Maggie Bradford received much approbation from Miss Ashton. Maggie's petticoat merited a like meed of compliment, and Nellie Ransom's apron, which came next, was pronounced remarkably well done. "Why, Nellie, my dear," said Miss Ashton, looking with surprise at the neatly laid gathers, even hems, and regular stitches, "is it possible that you did this all yourself?" "Yes, ma'am," answered steady, painstaking Nellie, who, although she was perhaps less quick than any of her schoolmates, was seldom or never behind the rest, for the reason that she was so industrious and earnest,--"yes, ma'am. An apron was not very much for me to do, but I wanted to be sure and have it nicely done." "And, indeed, you have," said Miss Ashton, still examining the apron with pleasure. "I must give you the credit, Nellie, of saying that I never saw a piece of work better done by any child of your age. I do not know that I would have done it as well myself." "Mamma takes great pains to teach me to sew nicely," said Nellie, dimpling and flushing with pleasure at her teacher's praise. "And you must have taken great pains to learn, my dear," said Miss Ashton, laying her hand on that of the modest little girl. Two or three others received their share of praise, some more, some less, according to their merits, though all were fairly done; and then Miss Ashton came to Gracie's petticoat. That it gave her far less satisfaction than the rest of the little garments had done, was plainly to be seen by her countenance, as she examined it. "Why, Gracie, my dear," she said, "is it possible that you can sew no better than this? No, it is not; for I have seen your work before, and know that you can do better if you choose. Why, Gracie, the stitches are not half as neat as those of the very little girls, and this band will not hold at all. It is impossible for me to give in such work as this. See here;" and as she drew the stitches slightly apart, with not half the strain that would come upon them in the wearing, they parted and ripped, showing with what extreme carelessness the work had been done. I do not think Miss Ashton would have said as much to any other one of her little scholars; but she thought that this mortification and blow to her self-conceit would do Gracie no harm. "My dear," she continued, "you have not taken time enough to do your work properly. Another time, better less haste and more care, Gracie. I shall have to take out almost the whole of this, and do it over myself, for I should be ashamed that our little orphans should have the example of such work. Your mother was away, I know, so that you could not go to her for help; but could you not ask some other person to show you how it should be done?" "I should think I might know how to make a petticoat," said Gracie, rather saucily. "It seems you do not," replied Miss Ashton, gravely. "As I must do this over, you cannot expect that it should be given in as your work, Gracie." Gracie tossed her head, and looked very angry, muttering, she "did not care," then burst into tears, saying it was "too bad," and "real mean," and she knew "it was just as good as the rest, only Miss Ashton never would think she did any thing fit to be seen," and altogether allowed her temper and wounded vanity so far to get the better of her that Miss Ashton bade her leave the room. I am glad to say, however, that a few moments' solitude and reflection in the cloak-room brought her to her right senses; and before she went home, she returned to her teacher, and begged her pardon for the temper and disrespect she had shown. "But my work was finished long before any of the other children's, Miss Ashton," she said once more, after the lady had assured her she was forgiven, giving her at the same time a gentle, and, alas! too oft-repeated warning against the hold her besetting sin was gaining on her temper and character. Miss Ashton shook her head. "But it is all thrown away, and worse than thrown away, Gracie," she said, "for it will need more time for me to take it to pieces and do it over again than it would have taken to make it myself at once. I can give you no credit, my child, for striving to outstrip your schoolmates, merely that you might have the pleasure of saying that you had done so. You are severe with Lily for her want of punctuality and promptness; but too great haste, especially when it springs from a bad motive, is perhaps as bad. And, Gracie, Lily sees and acknowledges her fault, while you will not." Gracie hung her head, but she was none the more convinced; and, in spite of her confession, went home, thinking herself hardly used, and Miss Ashton very unjust. With the exception of Gracie, there was not one of the little work-women whose sewing was not at least passable, and her garment tolerably well made; and they were dismissed, well satisfied with the praise they received, and the knowledge that their own self-denial and effort had helped those who were in need. Mrs. Norris had begged that Maggie and Bessie would come and see Lily that afternoon, as she was now well enough to receive them, and tell her all that had taken place in the morning; and accordingly they presented themselves in Lily's room, bringing with them their dolls. "My dollies haven't had their dresses changed since Saturday, before I was hurt," said Lily, at the sight of the last-mentioned young ladies. "Will you dress them for me while you tell me about this morning?" Dolls and dolls' clothes were brought forth, Lily possessing a multitude of both; and the two little sisters fell to dressing the neglected children of an invalid mamma. "It wasn't putting off this time," said Lily, apologetically, "for I really did seem to be so tired every time I tried to do any thing, even play, that mamma told me I had better lie still." "Yes, we know," said Bessie, "and even if it was procrastination, dolls don't really suffer, so I s'pose it's not much harm to put off doing things for them. It don't hurt," she added thoughtfully, as she drew a comb about three inches long through the flowing locks of the waxen Georgianna upon her lap,--"it don't hurt to put off play and pleasure, I believe, but only duties, and things that will do good to others." "Yes," said Lily, rather ruefully, as if she wished that pleasures and duties might alike fall under the same head, "so I find most people think. The trouble of it, and what makes it so hard is, that when a duty and a pleasure both come at once, it 'most always seems right to take the duty first; and I like pleasure so much better than duty that I expect that's the reason I procrastinate so often." "I believe that's the case with most people," said Maggie, putting on her wisdom cap to suit the solemnity of the conversation. "I find the human race generally like pleasure better than duty, 'specially if the duty is very disagreeable, and the pleasure is very nice." "That's the way with me, anyhow," said Lily, with a sigh, as she lay back upon her sofa pillows once more. "And sometimes, even when the duty is not very disagreeable, I feel like putting it off, just because I know I ought to do it, I believe. That petticoat was not so very horrid to do, and yet I let every thing put me away from doing it, till at last you know the consequence." "Miss Ashton praised your petticoat very much, anyhow," said Maggie. "She said you had done the most of it, and it was all _well_ done." "She praised Maggie's part too," said Bessie, unwilling that her sister should not receive her full share of credit, "and she said the button-hole was even better than that on Maggie's own petticoat." "Practice makes perfect, you know," said Maggie. "Miss Ashton said not one piece of work was better made than that petticoat, except Nellie's apron, and that was the best of all. Miss Ashton seemed quite surprised at it, it was so very nice. And I don't mean to tell tales about Gracie, but you would hear about it, I suppose, when you go back to school, so we may as well tell you, 'cause you want to know about every thing." And between them, first one taking up the tale, and then the other, Lily had soon heard a full and particular account of all the occurrences of the morning. "And did not any one say hateful things about me when Miss Ashton read my letter, and they knew I had not done what I was so sure I would do?" asked Lily. "No indeed," said Bessie. "We wouldn't have listened to them if they had wanted to; but then no one would say an unkind thing about you when you were so honest and true, Lily. They were only sorry for you, and didn't seem to think you were naughty one bit." "But I was," said Lily, "and I'm never going to boast myself again, for I do feel too ashamed when I think how sure I was that I would do so much. I don't believe I ever will cure myself of procrastination, do you?" "Why, yes," answered Bessie, "if you try enough." "I'm sure I did try," said Lily, "but it was no use. If I did not forget so easily, I think I would not have so much trouble from procrastination; but, you see, sometimes I leave a thing just for one moment, at least I mean to come back in a moment, and then I never think any thing more about it. That was the way the puppy found my petticoat lying on the floor, and dragged it about till it had to be washed before I could sew on it, and then it was too late." "I used to be just as careless as that," said Maggie; "and though mamma says I have improved a great deal, and am pretty neat and careful now, yet I find it hard work still, and I have to make a rule for myself not to leave a thing one moment after I know I ought to do it, or else I am almost sure to forget. I don't always keep that rule yet," she added, rather remorsefully, "but it helps me, and makes me better than I used to be." "Is that what cured you of carelessness? for I don't think you are much careless now," said Lily. "Yes," said Maggie, slowly, "that--and--and"--here she fell into a sudden fit of bashfulness at her own confession, and Bessie had to help her out of it. "Partly that, and partly because she asked Jesus to help her," said the little sister. "And He did, 'cause He always does if we really and truly ask Him. Did you ever ask Him to help you, Lily?" "What, about putting off?" said Lily. "Why, no, I never thought much about it--and--besides--it seems such a queer thing to pray about, and to ask Jesus to help you in. It is not a sin, you know. It does make me sin sometimes," she added, thoughtfully, as she recalled various naughtinesses into which her sad habit had led her. "Oh, if you knew something it had made me do, you would think I was too horrid!" She was thinking of the way in which she had spoken to her mother but a few days since. "Well, then," said Bessie, tenderly, "isn't that a reason for asking Him? I don't b'lieve Jesus thinks any thing is no matter if it makes us do something that is wrong, and I don't b'lieve He thinks even a bad habit is a little thing, and I'm sure He'll help you if you only ask Him." "Sometimes when I was praying, I have thought maybe I had better ask Jesus not to let me put off," said Lily, "but I did not think _much_ about it, and it hardly seemed worth while, and I generally thought I could do it some other time." Lily said these last words in rather a shamefaced manner, as if she were mortified to recollect and confess that she had allowed her failing to come even between her and the Great Helper. "But you will ask Him now, won't you?" asked Bessie anxiously. "Yes, I will," said Lily earnestly, and as if she really meant it; and I am glad to say that she kept her resolution, and "put off" no longer asking the help which could not, and would not fail her. And receiving what she sought, as all shall do who seek it in truth, and in the right spirit, and continuing also to strive with the temptation of the moment which bids her postpone the duty before her, our Lily is gaining the victory over the enemy which brought her into so much trouble, and had more than once led her so far astray. [Illustration] Cambridge: Press of John Wilson and Son. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. 
63160	----	* * * * * BOOKS BY SAME AUTHOR. ELM ISLAND STORIES. Per Vol., $1.25. _LION BEN OF ELM ISLAND._ _CHARLIE BELL, THE WAIF OF ELM ISLAND._ _THE ARK OF ELM ISLAND._ _THE BOY-FARMERS OF ELM ISLAND._ _THE YOUNG SHIP-BUILDERS OF ELM ISLAND._ _THE HARD-SCRABBLE OF ELM ISLAND._ PLEASANT COVE SERIES. Per Vol., $1.25. _ARTHUR BROWN, THE YOUNG CAPTAIN._ _THE YOUNG DELIVERERS OF PLEASANT COVE._ _THE CRUISE OF THE CASCO._ _THE CHILD OF THE ISLAND GLEN._ _JOHN GODSOE'S LEGACY._ _THE FISHER BOYS OF PLEASANT COVE._ THE WHISPERING PINE SERIES. Per Vol., $1.25. _THE SPARK OF GENIUS._ _THE SOPHOMORES OF RADCLIFFE._ _THE WHISPERING PINE._ _THE TURNING OF THE TIDE._ _WINNING HIS SPURS._ _A STOUT HEART._ All Handsomely Illustrated. LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston. * * * * * [Illustration: THE BEAR FIGHT.--Page 238.] * * * * * THE FOREST GLEN SERIES BY REV. ELIJAH KELLOGG. FOREST GLEN. _LEE & SHEPARD, BOSTON._ * * * * * THE FOREST GLEN SERIES. FOREST GLEN; OR, THE MOHAWK'S FRIENDSHIP. BY ELIJAH KELLOGG, AUTHOR OF "ELM ISLAND STORIES," "PLEASANT COVE STORIES," "THE WHISPERING PINE SERIES," ETC. Illustrated. BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS. NEW YORK CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM COPYRIGHT, 1877, BY ELIJAH KELLOGG. PREFACE. The story here presented not only grasps those terrible vicissitudes in which the frontier life of our forefathers was so prolific, but at the same time conveys many useful lessons and incentives to manly effort, and much curious information in relation to a period in the history of Pennsylvania, when her soil was occupied by a population comprising many different races and religious sects, having little in common, and held together by the fearful pressure of an Indian war. Here we behold the strange spectacle of the Quaker tilling his land, and pursuing his ordinary duties, while his more belligerent neighbor sleeps with the rifle within reach of his hand, sits in the house of God with the weapon between his knees, goes armed in the funeral procession, which is often attacked, the mourners killed, scalped, and flung into the grave of the corpse they were about to inter. The noble response of the Delawares to the appeal of the Quakers evinces that the red man is no less sensitive to kindness, than implacable in revenge; capable of appreciating and manifesting the most tender and generous sentiments. Our breasts throb with sympathetic emotions, as, after having noted with interest the progress of the strife, we see this determined band emerge in triumph, with thinned ranks but courage undiminished, from the terrible ordeal. CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER I. THE BREWING OF THE STORM 11 CHAPTER II. THUNDER FROM AFAR 22 CHAPTER III. FOREWARNED 30 CHAPTER IV. PREPARING FOR THE WORST 43 CHAPTER V. THE STORM BURSTS 56 CHAPTER VI. GATHERING COURAGE FROM DESPAIR 73 CHAPTER VII. A CONTRAST 83 CHAPTER VIII. TREADING OUT THE GRAIN 91 CHAPTER IX. A LITTLE SUNSHINE 102 CHAPTER X. LIBERTY IS SWEET 115 CHAPTER XI. THE RAFT 129 CHAPTER XII. A DAY OF UNALLOYED PLEASURE 143 CHAPTER XIII. CANNOT GIVE IT UP 156 CHAPTER XIV. THE BEAN-POT 167 CHAPTER XV. THE SURPRISE 177 CHAPTER XVI. THE DAWN OF A LIFE-PURPOSE 193 CHAPTER XVII. SELF-RELIANCE 209 CHAPTER XVIII. FRUITS OF PATIENCE AND PERSEVERANCE 226 CHAPTER XIX. TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT AND INGENUITY 246 CHAPTER XX. UNCLE SETH'S SURPRISE 264 CHAPTER XXI. NED RANGELY 273 CHAPTER XXII. CARRYING THE WAR INTO AFRICA 294 CHAPTER XXIII. THE QUAKER'S APPEAL TO THE DELAWARES 309 CHAPTER XXIV. THE RETURN OF THE CAPTIVE 323 FOREST GLEN; OR, THE MOHAWK'S FRIENDSHIP. CHAPTER I. THE BREWING OF THE STORM. Our story opens at that period of the year when summer is fast verging to autumn. As the wind that had blown fresh during the night diminished, about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, to a gentle breeze, the heat in the valley of Wolf Run, hemmed in by mountains, became excessive. Corn-blades rolled up, pitch oozed from the logs of which the houses were built, all broad-leaved plants wilted, and the high temperature was adapted to produce an unusual sluggishness. Stewart, who held the day-watch at the fort, seated on the platform over the gate, was sound asleep. Half a dozen sheep lay in the shade of the walls, panting, with mouths wide open. Not a person was to be seen in the vicinity of the houses or in the fields. Not a rooster had sufficient courage to crow, or even a dog to bark. The windmill inside the stockade made one or two revolutions; but, as the wind died away, gave up with a groan, and remained motionless. The profound silence was rudely broken by the successive discharge of fire-arms. The sentinel awoke, and grasped his rifle; but, after listening a few moments, settled back in his corner, and was soon once more asleep. Two of the sheep rose up, but in a few moments lay down again. The firing continued at intervals for more than an hour, no notice being taken of it by the sentry, who, in the mean time, finished his nap. If our readers will go with us in the direction of the river, we will endeavor to find out what it is all about, and shall perceive that the settlers were improving the leisure interval between hay and grain harvest, in making preparations for future exigencies. On a level plat of ground, not far from the bank of the river, were assembled a band of lads from twelve to fifteen years of age, engaged in firing at a mark, while several of the settlers were seated on the grass, looking at them. The fearful peril of their position, together with their inferiority in numbers, had compelled the parents to train their children to arms, even at that tender age; and, though unable to hold out a gun steadily, they were no mean marksmen when shooting from a rest. These little folks had organized themselves into a company, with the ferocious title of "The Screeching Catamounts," in rivalry of the older boys, who styled themselves "The Young Defenders." They had hewn the bark and sap-wood from a lone pine, and a black spot in the centre of the white wood served as a target. Eighty-five yards was the distance for a smooth gun, while for rifles, with which some of the boys were armed, it was a hundred. A rest was made by driving two stakes into the ground, and putting a withe across for them to fire over. Sam Sumerford, Archie Crawford, and Tony Stewart hit the black circle, though neither of them in the centre, but not varying half an inch; several touched the edge of it; and no one missed the tree, although one or two put their balls in the bark, outside the white spot, or "blaze" as it was called in frontier phrase. They next engaged in throwing the tomahawk; after which, forming ranks, the band marched to the fort, and deposited their arms. It is needful briefly to inform those who have not read the previous volumes, of the circumstances of the settlers to whom they are rather abruptly introduced, and the probable nature of those exigencies in view of which they had long been making preparations. When the Indian war broke out, the Provincial government gave up the original frontier, from which nearly all the settlers who survived the Indian attack had already fled, and established a line of forts nearer the old settlements, behind which it was supposed the savages would not penetrate, and where the fugitives might cultivate the land in comparative safety. This system of defence had, upon trial, proved utterly inadequate. The greater part of the money raised for that purpose was expended at the very outset in building, arming, and provisioning the forts; and even then they were but scantily provided, either with arms or ammunition. A commissioner reported that in one of them he found but four pounds of powder. Flints were often wanting; many of the guns were unfit for use, the locks in some instances being fastened on with strings. So great was the poverty of the Province, that a man who brought his own gun and blanket was allowed a dollar per month for their use above his pay. In addition to this, the forts were eight, ten, sixteen, and even twenty miles apart. The great cause of all the destruction of life and property that took place arose from the want of any military organization. The original population of Pennsylvania were entirely opposite in all their views and practices to the settlers of Virginia, Maryland, and the New-England States, who came armed and prepared for self-defence or conquest. But the government of Pennsylvania was based upon the principle of non-resistance. The Quakers came unarmed; and, as they made no resistance, so they gave no offence. They did as they would be done by, while the savages on their part did as they were done by; and thus matters went on smoothly for nearly seventy years. In process of time, other races came in, and people with other views. The Scotch and Irish settlers, and those from Maryland, Virginia, and the New-England States, who were by no means careful of giving offence, looked upon the natives as vermin to be extirpated like the wolves and bears, to make room for others. Though in a minority, they inflicted injuries upon the Indians, and stirred them up to revenge. But the bulk of the population were Quakers, Germans, Swedes, and English. The Germans only desired to till the ground, with no wish to fight, unless compelled to in self-defence. The English and Swedes were much of the same mind. Thus while the Indians, through a series of years, had been irritated, there was in the Province no militia-law: the inhabitants were incapable of acting in concert; and, when the storm long brewing burst, were, as a whole, defenceless, unarmed, and divided in sentiment, and ran at the attack of the Indians like sheep before wolves. It was from such a population that the majority of the men to man the forts and protect the country must be drawn, the hunters, trappers, and Scotch-Irish preferring to defend their own families, or to go on scalping-expeditions, which were vastly more profitable than serving for the small pay given the soldiers, and there was no law to _compel_ service. When the forts were built, it was supposed that the garrisons in them, by patrolling from one to another, would keep back the savages. It was also made the duty of the commanders in the several forts to detail a certain portion of their men to protect the farmers while planting and gathering their harvest, as well as promptly furnish a refuge to which the inhabitants might flee in case of an invasion. We shall now see how comparatively useless this method of defence was, because there was no militia-law, and in the population none of the spirit which such a law creates. Forts are of little use without suitable soldiers to defend them. A few facts would set this matter in a striking light, and afford our readers a clear view of the situation. The commissioner appointed to examine the condition of the forts reported: At Fort Lebanon he called out the men, and put up a mark for them to fire at eighty yards distant, and but fifteen out of twenty-eight could hit within two feet of the bull's eye. At Fort Allemingle, he put the mark on a tree eighty-five yards distant; and only four out of twenty-five hit the tree, and not one the bull's eye. So much for the marksmanship of these fort soldiers: now for their courage. It is on record that Hugh Micheltree was attacked by Indians within speaking distance of Patterson's fort; and though he begged the men in the fort to rescue him, telling them there were but six Indians, they had not the courage to leave the fort, but permitted the savages to take him off before their eyes. Forts were often built at gaps of mountain-chains for the purpose of commanding these passes. Those might have been formidable obstacles to regular troops encumbered with baggage and artillery, but not in respect to savages. Every place is a pass to an Indian with a little parched corn in his pouch, and armed with rifle and tomahawk: he sets forth, and neither swamps, mountains, nor rivers bar his progress when on the war-path. He can eat ground-nuts, mice, frogs, wood-worms, or snakes: nothing comes amiss; or, if afraid of discovering his whereabouts by discharging his rifle, he can kill game with the bow. Noiselessly as the gliding snake they passed between the forts, easily eluding the scouts posted on so long and thin a line, and were often butchering the inhabitants in one direction while the scouts were looking for them in another. The history of that period records that in several instances while a band of soldiers from the forts were guarding farmers gathering their harvest, the Indians have crept up, shot the soldiers, and afterwards butchered the farmers thus left defenceless. The Indians, whom nothing escaped, often improved the opportunity, when the number of a garrison was reduced by details, to attack the forts. Ascertaining that there was but a small supply of ammunition in Fort Granville, they attacked and took it, when twenty-three men, three women, and several children fell into their hands. After promising to spare the lives of the garrison if they would surrender, they fastened to a post the very man who opened the gate for them, and thrust red-hot gun-barrels through his body. A very different sort of people from those just described, were the settlers of the Forest Glen; rough-handed, high-spirited men of the frontier, who could plant the second bullet in the same hole with the first, and drive it home. Disdaining the aid of soldiers whom they held in utter contempt, they had thus far, though suffering fearful losses, held their own, inflicting more injuries than they received, and had been busily employed for a few weeks in putting themselves in a posture of defence preparatory to gathering the harvest. Rifles had been put in order, tomahawks ground, the roofs of the buildings fresh plastered with clay mortar as a protection against the fire-arrows of the Indians, and gun-flints manufactured from Indian arrow-heads by Holdness to eke out their scanty supply, and the woods and ravines carefully examined every day to detect signs of lurking savages. Though the settlers were living in their own houses, for the greater convenience of harvesting, the cattle were driven at night to the garrison. Notwithstanding their preparations for a stout defence, the settlers could not avoid anxiety, in view of the fact that the savages had during the last few months changed their method of attack. Finding that the log houses of the whites, when resolutely defended, bade defiance to the efforts of their scalping-parties, consisting usually of but twelve or fifteen, they had latterly come in bodies of seventy and even a hundred, often led by French officers, with French soldiers in their ranks, and bringing field-pieces. There were, however, no signs of perturbation, and whatever anxiety they felt was manifested only in increased watchfulness; and many of them, having completed their preparations for defence, occupied themselves in clearing land for future crops, a portion keeping watch while the rest labored. Others devoted the time to rest, perhaps considering it very doubtful if the isolated settlement survived the attacks that were to be expected during harvest. We trust that what has been said will render the story that follows intelligible to those not familiar with the other volumes of this series, or the history of the period. CHAPTER II. THUNDER FROM AFAR. Perhaps many of our readers would like to know how Mr. Seth Blanchard (who was the only man in the Glen not possessed of fighting qualities) was busying himself all this time. They doubtless recollect that when, after a desperate effort, the mill was nearly completed, the settlers placed the upper stone on the spindle by fastening a hide rope to wooden pins in the edge of the stone, and then putting a long lever into the bight of the rope. In a regularly constructed mill, this is done by means of an iron bale or crane, and an iron screw working in the crane, or by a tackle attached to the crane. The stone, being lifted from the spindle in this manner, can be easily swung off by moving the crane, and turned over in the bale in order to pick the under side. They had used up every particle of iron in building the mill, and been reduced to the greatest straits for want of that necessary article. When, after much labor and contrivance, the stone was safely landed on the spindle, Mr. Seth said,-- "By the time this stone needs picking, I'll make a bale to take it off and put it on without an ounce of iron." Honeywood, who was a blacksmith, laughed at him, and said it was impossible; to which Mr. Seth replied,-- "A man who has always worked in iron has very little idea of what can be done with wood." He was now leisurely at work, redeeming that pledge. Having procured from the woods a rock-maple tree of suitable shape, he made a crane of proper size and shape to swing over the stone, hewing the timber to a proud edge, and working it smooth with adze and plane. In that portion of the arm that when the crane was set up would come directly over the centre of the stone, he made a five-inch hole, perfectly smooth and plumb, and cut a screw-thread on the inside of it with a rude machine of his own invention. His next labor was to make a screw to work in this arm; and he made it from a piece of timber that he had blocked out when the mill was built, and put away to season. While thus engaged, Mr. Seth had the company and heartfelt sympathy of all the children of any size in the Run, and most of their elders, as there were but very few in the settlement who had ever seen a screw-thread cut, or even a wooden screw. When the crane was put in its place, the screw entered in the arm, and Mr. Seth turned it up and back again, that the spectators might see the working of it, those who had said, and at the time firmly believed, that it was impossible for him or any one to make a wooden bale that would take off a mill-stone, began to change their opinions. Tony Stewart probably expressed the general sentiment when he exclaimed, "Zukkers! a man what can do that can do any thing! Can't he, Sammy?" With his usual consideration for the wishes of children, Uncle Seth fastened a two-bushel basket to the screw, and, packing it full of children, turned up the screw. The mill floor was quite large; and the children had plenty of fun riding in the basket, and pushing the crane round by turns. After waiting till the children had screwed up and swung each other round on the crane a while, Mr. Seth left the place, telling them they need not come to the mill any more, as he should not begin on the bale at present. The next morning Mr. Seth and his brother Israel ground their axes, and started for the woods to fell trees for a burn, expecting to find other neighbors there, and a guard. They had gone but a little way, when Mr. Seth said,-- "Israel, I sha'n't be able to go, at least this forenoon. See yonder wind-clouds: there's quite a breeze now; and I've several grists in the mill that the neighbors want ground. I must go to the mill." It was soon known in the neighborhood that the mill was going; and persons were seen approaching it from different directions, some because they had business there, and some to talk over matters of common interest with others whom they expected to find there. Most of them were the older members of the community; the young men being on the scout that day, or guarding those chopping. "Neighbors," said McClure, seating himself upon a bag of meal, with his rifle across his knees, "have you heard the news?" "Where should we get news, who are a hundred miles from anywhere, and cut off from all the rest of mankind?" said Proctor. "I spoke to Honeywood as I came along. He was out on the scout yesterday: he told me he met Dick Ellison and sixteen men. Dick has been one of the Black Rifle's men. Dick told him the Indians had murdered twenty-eight people at Shamakin; that they took their trail, but couldn't overtake 'em, they had so much start." "Then they must have been in strong force. I wonder how many Indians 'twould take to kill twenty-eight men like us?" "'Twould take five hundred, if we had a fort overhead, Proctor; but you can't judge of their numbers by the people killed: most like, there wasn't more'n ten or twelve Indians, and the people they killed were German farmers with some old gun,--the lock too weak to throw the pan open,--or only a pitchfork to defend themselves with, and skeered ter death at that, or else they were fort soldiers, that ain't better'n our children would be, nor half so good, only let 'em have a rest to fire from." "What else did Dick say?" "He said the governor had offered a bounty for sculps. For every Indian man, or boy over ten years old, one hundred fifty dollars; for every squaw, or girl over ten, one hundred thirty dollars; for the sculp of every Indian man, or boy over ten, one hundred thirty dollars; and for every squaw's or girl's sculp, fifty dollars. Dick reckoned there wouldn't be many prisoners taken on that lay." "Of course there wouldn't. What a fool a ranger would be to take an Indian prisoner, have to feed him and watch night and day, run the risk of his getting away, or of being killed by him in the night, and have to carry him perhaps a hundred miles to a government fort to get one hundred fifty dollars, or one hundred thirty if 'twas a woman, when he could get one hundred thirty or fifty for their sculp that are nothing to carry, and could hang fifty on 'em to your belt, and no trouble 'cept to knock 'em on the head, and take the sculp off!" "Honeywood," continued McClure, "thinks, after hearing this news, we ought not to wait to get the harvest, but go into the garrison right off. He says, and it's a fact, that McDonald and his family were all murdered last year, just by staying out one day too long." "Did he say where the Black Rifle was?" asked Armstrong. "At his cave in the mountain: he's going ter stop there quite a while." "Then we sha'n't be troubled with Indians as long as he's round." "Don't be too sure of that: they've found out that it don't pay to come as they used to, in small numbers; and now it's said there are from seventy to a hundred and fifty Indians under one of their chiefs." "There were five hundred French and Indians at the taking of Fort Granville. Such a crowd as that wouldn't pay much attention to the Black Rifle," said Wood. "We've given them cause enough to dread and hate, and want to wipe us out. They've driven all the other settlers out of the valley, or butchered 'em. They know very well that we are planted out here beyond all help, or hope of it; and I believe our turn'll come to take it worse than ever before during this harvest time," said Mr. Seth. "The women," said Proctor, "hate mortally to go into garrison. It is hot in the block-houses, they have no place to keep their milk, the children torment them to death, and they're afraid of the garrison-fever at this time of year. I think, however, 'tis better to go into the fort than to be listening for the war-whoop, or looking to see if the fire's not flashing out 'twixt the rafters, all the time you are harvesting." "Well, neighbors," said McClure, "all here are agreed about it, and I have spoken to the others: they think as we do, and we kalkerlate to go inter the fort day after to-morrow at the outside; and I'm going ter leave my grist in the mill, then 'twill be here." Mr. Seth had finished grinding; and they all left the mill to prepare for the worst, except Proctor, whose turn it was to keep guard that night. One man was kept on guard at the mill, even when the settlers were in their own dwellings, to open the gate, and fire the alarm-gun in case of need. CHAPTER III. FOREWARNED. When the settlers left the fort in the spring, Honeywood moved into the house of his father-in-law, Israel Blanchard, his own dwelling being at a greater distance from the fort than any other at the Run. He, however, became tired of going so far every day to his work, and chose to go back to his own home when he had recovered from a wound received in a skirmish with the Indians in hoeing-time. His family consisted of himself, wife, and two children; the eldest boy about six, the other a little child. Cal Holdness had come over to take supper with them; and, having despatched the meal, they were variously occupied. The mother was undressing Eddie, and the youngest child was asleep in the cradle. Cal's rifle was out of order; and he had brought it with him, that Harvey might repair it. He laid the weapon across his knees, and proceeded to take off the lock, Cal holding a lighted sliver of pitch-wood to give him light. It was a sultry night, and the house, built of hewn timber, excessively warm. The doors and bullet-proof shutters being closed, there was no ventilation except by means of the chimney, and the loop-holes which were only large enough to admit the barrel of a rifle. Honeywood, noticing the drops of perspiration on the face of his wife, said,-- "Sarah, I've a good mind to open the door: see how that child in the cradle sweats, and you are well-nigh roasted. If I open the door 'twill make a good draught up the chimney, and cool the house off for the night." "Don't, husband, I beg of you: it's just the time of year when Indians are most likely to come; we've just heard that they've been killing people at Shamakin. It's not long since they took Fort Granville, and killed all the garrison but one; and this very day you've been telling the neighbors that we ought to go into the fort, and not wait to reap the grain first; and now you want to open the door, and there may be a dozen Indians around it. Have you forgotten that this very last spring Mr. Maccoy's family were sitting one evening with the door open, and an Indian was creeping up to it, when the Black Rifle shot him, or they would all have been murdered? I know it's warm, but I had rather bear the heat than have you open the door." "I don't think there's any danger: there's two of us here." "My rifle can't be depended upon," said Cal. "But there's two more loaded in the brackets, and two smooth-bores; and we're not obliged to sit near the doors." "Oh, don't, husband! an Indian always seems to me just like the Evil One: you can't hear or see him till he is upon you. They may be lurking round the house this moment." She had scarcely finished when there was a loud rap on the door. Cal, placing the pine sliver in a stone made to hold it on the hearth, took a rifle from the wall. Honeywood said, "Who is there?" "Wasaweela," was the reply in the unmistakable tone and accent of a savage. "We shall be murdered," cried Mrs. Honeywood, catching the sleeping child from the cradle. "O Edward! fire right through the door, and kill him." "I shall do no such thing: he's an old friend of mine;" and he instantly began to unbar the door. His wife ran into the bedroom with the child in her arms, little Eddie following in his nightgown, holding fast to his mother's clothes, and screaming lustily in concert with his brother. Cal Holdness, on the other hand, a true frontier boy cradled amid alarms, restored to the bracket the rifle he had held ready to fire. As the door opened, an Indian stepped in, so very tall (though he stooped considerably as he entered) that the single feather on his scalp-lock brushed the lintel. He was not painted for war; naked except a breech-cloth, and his only arms were the knife and tomahawk in his belt. His moccasons and leggings were torn, and his whole body reeking with perspiration, as though he had undergone great and prolonged exertion. He, in the language of the Mohawks, greeted Honeywood, who replied in the same tongue. After drinking some water, he took the seat offered him, and remained silent some time, either to collect his thoughts, as is customary with Indians, who are never in haste to speak, or perhaps to regain his breath; while Honeywood, familiar with the customs of the savages, waited till he should see fit to speak. Mrs. Honeywood was a woman of fortitude, reared on the frontier; but the news of recent murders by the Indians, the knowledge that her husband, a most resolute man, had warned his neighbors that no time should be lost in getting into garrison, coupled with the sudden appearance of the Indian, all conspired to excite her fears till they were beyond control. She had also been brought up with such prejudices, that it was almost impossible for her to believe that any confidence could be safely reposed in a savage. But observing that the Indian was not in his war-paint, but partially armed, that he manifested no concern when her husband barred the door, thus placing himself entirely at the mercy of him and Cal, also recollecting that she had seen him at her father's, and how faithfully he at that time performed an engagement, her fears subsided, and she began to soothe the terrified children. Meanwhile every feature of Cal's countenance manifested the intense desire he felt to know the meaning of this singular and abrupt visit, for it was evident enough that his was no idle errand; neither could he sufficiently admire the noble proportions of a form in which strength and agility were so happily blended. At length rising to his feet, he said, "Brother, listen. We have eaten of each other's bread, drank of the same cup, and spread our blankets at the same fire. Though the Great Spirit has made us of a different color, we are one in heart." Extending his hand as he uttered these words, it was grasped by Honeywood. He then proceeded, "Brother, open your ears. Your king and the French king have dug up the hatchet. The Delawares, Shawanees, Monseys, and some other Indians, have joined the French. They have struck the English very hard, and killed their great chief who came over the water. The Delawares and Shawanees have taken the scalps of a great many of your people, and driven them from the land that the Delawares say belongs to them, and that your people took and never paid for. Is it not so?" Honeywood made a gesture of assent. "The Six Nations do not like the French. We have struck them very hard in days that are past; but we do not wish to interfere in the quarrel between the thirteen fires and the Delawares, though the Delawares are our nephews. "We cannot always keep our young men in subjection: therefore some of them may have gone with the Delawares and the French. This we cannot help: we did not send them; if you take their scalps, it is no cause for quarrel between us. "Brother, open your ears. The Delawares and Shawanees have struck your people, and you have done the same to them, and struck the Delawares much harder than they have struck you; you are great warriors. The Six Nations do not think it right or just that the pale-faces should take the land of the Delawares without paying them for it: therefore they look on, and let them strike you. You are my brother; I know you to be a just and brave man, though you live among very bad people: therefore I've run a great ways and very fast to tell you that the Delawares are coming to take your scalp and the scalps of all your people, that their young men whose scalps your people have taken may rest in their graves." "I thank you, brother. When will the Delawares come?" "At break of day, after the sun comes and goes." "How many of them?" The Mohawk took from his pouch seven kernels of parched corn, placed them in a row on the table, and spread out his fingers over them, saying,-- "So many Delawares." Then, taking away all but two of the kernels, he again spread his fingers, saying, "So many Shawanees," and then signified that there would be the same number of Monseys. Honeywood then inquired if there would be any French officers or soldiers with them, to which the Mohawk replied that there would not. "It is well, brother: we will be ready." While all were attentively listening, the little child had left the mother's side (who was too much occupied with the fearful tidings to heed his motions), and, venturing farther and farther, at length crept to the feet of the Indian, and began playing with his leggings, which were of a bright red color. The little creature, gradually becoming more bold, at length stood up on his feet by holding the lacings of the leggings, and looked proudly around, crowing and laughing, no doubt thinking himself the central figure of the group, and the object of universal attention. "One hundred and ten raging Indians! Our time has come: we shall all be murdered!" exclaimed the mother. Honeywood set food before the Mohawk, then took off his moccasons, which were worn, and his leggings, and gave him some water for his feet. The Indian signified his wish to sleep till within an hour of daybreak. Honeywood spread blankets on the floor, promising to watch, and rouse him at the proper time. Wasaweela, wrapping himself in a blanket, was asleep in a moment. The others retired to the bedroom, where they conversed in low tones. "Sarah, you've heard your father say many times, and you, Cal, have also heard your father say, if an Indian war should break out, that this Mohawk who then hunted with me, and was apparently so friendly, would be the very first to take my scalp and those of my family. Now you see what he has done,--travelled through woods and swamps, forded or swum rivers, much of the time on the run night and day, to save the life of one (and the lives of his family) who had merely treated him kindly." "Isn't he a noble-looking man?" said Cal. "Isn't he handsome, beautiful? What an arm and leg he's got! and his breast, and so tall--just as straight as a pine-tree. Didn't you see him smile when the baby stood up and held on to his leggings? and what a pleasant smile it was too! Oh, I wish I was such a man!" Cal's conception of beauty lay in thews and sinews. "But, husband, what will become of us? A hundred Indians, only think of it!--seventy Delawares, twenty Shawanees, and twenty Monseys; and the Delawares are the most bloodthirsty of all. It seems to me that you or Cal ought to go this moment, and rouse the neighbors, and get into the fort before morning: you might both go, but I couldn't be left alone with this Indian." "Not after he made such efforts to save you and the children's lives?" "No: I suppose I ought not to feel so, but I cannot help it." "There's no cause, wife, for alarm, nor for haste. There are no Frenchmen coming, and of course there is no artillery. The fort is well prepared for a much longer siege than is to be apprehended from Indians. It is well provided with water, provisions, and ammunition; and we are all at home, and every man fit for duty, not a disabled man amongst us. There's time enough to move after daylight." "Most of our provisions are in the fort now," said Cal; "never have been taken away. Every family can move in three hours." "If," continued Honeywood, "they could have come upon us by surprise, and caught each family in their own home, our case would have been a desperate one; but, forewarned and prepared, it is entirely another matter. Now, wife, you and Cal had better try to get some rest, for to-morrow will be a busy, trying day." "I can lie down; but as for sleeping, it's no use to think of it." "Well, lie down, then: 'twill rest you." "I'll divide the watch with you, Mr. Honeywood," said Cal; "and when I think by the moon it's twelve o'clock, I'll call you." Honeywood went to bed, and slept as soundly as though no danger threatened him or his. Such is the result of strong nerves, and familiarity with peril. His wife, on the other hand, lay sleepless; or, if for a few moments she dozed, would awake with a start, imagining she heard the sound of the war-whoop. At midnight Cal woke Honeywood, but, instead of going to bed, lay down on the floor, as he wished to be at hand when the Mohawk left, and to witness the parting. He was unwilling to lose any opportunity of contemplating a being who by his splendid physical proportions, and the noble qualities of his heart, had quite won the affections of the enthusiastic youth. Honeywood woke the Mohawk, and placed food before him, of which the latter partook heartily; he also presented him with a new pair of moccasons and leggings, to replace his that were so much torn, also a pipe filled and lighted. After smoking, apparently with great satisfaction, he rose, drew his belt round him, and, extending his hand to Honeywood, said,-- "Brother, be strong: the Delawares are many, but they are cowards; we have put the hoe in their hands, and made women of them. If they master your scalp, your people will revenge your death. Farewell." With the noiseless step of a savage he left the house, and disappeared in the shades of the forest. CHAPTER IV. PREPARING FOR THE WORST. It was fortunate for these settlers, that, in view of contingencies, they had made thorough preparations for defence. By noon of that day their household effects had been removed to the fort, troughs filled with water to extinguish fire, and the cannon in the flankers loaded. "Neighbors," said Honeywood, "there are too many of them for us to meet in the field. If we wait in the fort for them to attack us, they'll first burn our houses and barns, kill the cattle, tread down or pull up the corn: that is too green to burn, but the grain is not. And we shall have to look on and see it done. Rather than do that, I counsel we ambush their advance: it is possible we may rout them altogether; and, if not, we can fall back to the fort." "I," said McClure, "like Honeywood's plan, and I don't like it: there's much to be said on both sides. I know very well that if we don't make any fight except behind the walls of the fort, they'll destroy every thing outside of it; but suppose they do: we're not going to quite starve. It's no great to build up the log houses again. A good part of our hay is inside the stockade, and we could get the cattle through the winter on browse; we've considerable of last year's corn, grain, and pork, in the garrison; we can drive the hogs and cattle inside; and, though it would be a dreadful calamity to lose our corn and grain, we could keep life in us by hunting. "Now as consarns ambushing, we of course should take but part of our force, and leave the rest in the fort; and that part would be so small, that if there's as many Indians as the Mohawk said, they would be surrounded and killed without making much impression on the Indians; and that would leave a very weak garrison to hold so large a fort." "Indians," said Armstrong, "always march in Indian file, except they're going to attack, or apprehend danger, when they come two abreast. They'll be likely to come now in Indian file till they cross the river, 'cause they expect to surprise us. In that case there wouldn't be rifles enough to kill many, 'cause you can't take aim right in the night, and firing at men in a long line is not like firing into a crowd, when if you miss one you'll hit another. They would know by our fire that our number was small, and would take trees till daylight, and then surround us." "What do you say, Brad?" inquired McClure, appealing to Holdness. "I'm in favor of the ambush. You see, they're coming down here with a force large enough to divide, and then attack every house at once. The Mohawk says there are seventy Delawares. These Delawares were driven off from here: they know every inch of the ground, every house and every man, and can guide the rest. It would be a great backer ter 'em when they expected ter find us all in our houses unprepared, and ter wipe us out as easy as a man would snuff a candle, and pay off old scores, ter be ambushed themselves, and met with a rattling volley; and they might break, and give it up." "But, neighbors, that's all _perhaps_: there's another thing that ain't. One hundred nor five hundred Indians can't drive us out of this fort; and in it our families are safe if we are there to defend it. If we were all single men, I'd say, Ambush 'em; let's have a right up-and-down fight, and try their mettle: and I'm for it now, if we can reduce the risk for the women and children in any way." "The greatest difficulty 'bout an ambush," said Blanchard, "is, we don't know which way they'll come. The Mohawk told Honeywood they would start from their town Kittanning; but whether they'll take either of the war-paths, or come through the woods where there is no path, we can't tell." "Whichever way they come in the daytime," said Armstrong, "when at night they come near to us, they'll take the path that leads direct to the ford. There's so many of 'em, they'll be bold: they won't hesitate to take the water at the regular fording-place, because they know the country is all their own, and that they've killed or driven off all but us." "Why not lay an ambush there, where we cannot be flanked, because we shall have the stream at our backs, nor be so far away but what we can fall back and reach the fort?" "We must of course fall back if the Indians don't," said Grant; "and then we shall be exposed to their fire while we are crossing the river, when they'll be under cover, and probably but very few of us would get across. I should like to have one slap at 'em. They'll take very good care to keep out of rifle-shot of the fort; and all we can do will be to stand on the platforms and grind our teeth, while they are burning our houses and destroying our crops." "I see there's but one feeling among us," said Honeywood: "that is, to preserve our crops if it can be done without risking the lives of our household. Suppose we do this: Let one party lay in ambush at the ford among the bushes and drift timber on the edge of the bank on the side next the fort, and another party lay in ambush on the opposite bank in the woods; then both parties hold their fire till a good many Indians are in the water crossing, and then open fire on them. It will be a great deal lighter on the river than in the woods, as there will be part of a moon; and, looking out of the darkness into the light, we can see them better than they can see us. So heavy a fire as both parties can throw will stagger them; and in surprise they will fall back, as Indians always do when they lose men. Then the party on the western side can recross, join the others, and we can hold the ford, or retreat to the fort, as we think best." "I like that," said Holdness: "then the party on the western bank can be protected while crossing by the fire of the others, if the Indians attack 'em in the water." "Harry Sumerford," said Grant, "you seem to have something on your mind, and we would like to hear it." "I think there are people here whose opinions are of much more value than mine, Mr. Grant. I was going to say that Dick Ellison told Mr. Honeywood that the Black Rifle was at his place in the mountains, and was going to stay there quite a spell. Now, he generally has ten or a dozen men that he can lay his hands on when he wants 'em for a scalping-scrape, and perhaps they might help us. They are men to be depended upon, or the Black Rifle would have nothing to do with them." "I'll go," said Nat Cuthbert: "I know the road." "Take my horse," said Armstrong, "and ride for your life, and all our lives: if you kill him, no matter." "What shall I say to him?" "Just tell him a hundred Indians are on the road from Kittanning, to attack us at daybreak to-morrow morning. He'll know what ter do; and he'll want no coaxing ter come ter such a party, I kin tell you," said Holdness. "If I ain't back by midnight, you may know he's coming, and that I'm coming with him." "Where were all our wits, that we could none of us think of that," said Honeywood, "when Dick told me, and I told the rest of you, that the captain was about getting up a scalping-party? God grant they may not have started before Nat gets there!" "He may be alone," said Grant; "may not have got his party together yet." "If he is alone," said Holdness, "he'll come: and his war-whoop is worth a dozen men. There ain't an Indian this side the Monongahela, but knows the Black Rifle's yell, for it don't sound like any thing else in this world; and, when they hear it, they'll think their game is up." The settlers now proceeded to make their final arrangements. To Honeywood were assigned Harry, Alex and Enoch Sumerford, Ned Armstrong, Hugh Crawford, jun., Stewart, James Blanchard, Cal Holdness, Andrew McClure, and nearly all Harry's company of the "Young Defenders." This was done because these youth had been engaged together in several sharp conflicts with Indians, had been accustomed to act together under the command of Harry, and had always come off victorious. They were also greatly attached to Honeywood, and reposed the most implicit confidence in his judgment and courage. The other party consisted of Holdness, McClure, Grant, sen., Ben Rogers, Wood, Holt, Maccoy, Armstrong, Proctor, and Heinrich Stiefel. Israel Blanchard was left in command of the fort. With him was his brother Seth (who was of no account as a fighting man), Daniel Blanchard, and the boys who had been drilled to fire from a rest, had participated in several actions, some of whom had been wounded, of which they were sufficiently proud. This band comprised all the "Screeching Catamounts." These two parties, who were to meet a hundred and ten Indians, all picked men, were in the proportion of more than five savages to one of the settlers: yet so high was their courage, and so inured were they to danger, that when they might have remained behind their defences, and repulsed the foe, they hesitated not to take the fearful risk, rather than see their grain destroyed when almost ready for the sickle. "I have thought of another thing," said Holdness, as, after having selected the place for ambush, they were returning to the fort. "You know for the last year we've been taking more or less smooth-bores and rifles from the Indians we've killed; then we've all got more than one gun apiece that we had before the war broke out; and, when we went after the salt, we bought more: now we kin take two rifles, or a rifle and a smoothbore apiece, and then leave extra arms in the fort for the women ter load or use if worst comes ter worst; and that will be almost the same as doubling our forces, at any rate for the first fire." "If," said McClure, "instead of coming, as we expect, before or about the break of day, they should not get along till after sunrise, they would stop short, hide in the woods, and put off their attack till the next morning before daybreak; but then they would send scouts ahead, who'd creep round and find that we had left our houses and gone ter the fort, and discover our ambush." "Well, I'll send Harry and Ned Armstrong ahead," said Honeywood, "to watch their motions, and give us notice; and then we must retreat to the fort, and let them burn and destroy; for it's no use for us to think of fighting such a host, except we can surprise them; for if we stay here, and they discover us, as they certainly would in the daytime, they would find ways to cross the stream and surround us. But I think they will be here at the very time the Mohawk said. Indians are not like a regular force, that are liable to be impeded by a thousand things, under the command of several officers. Nothing stops an Indian on the war-path: there is but one leader and one mind among 'em." As they assembled in the kitchen of the fort that night for supper, it seemed well-nigh certain that some of those seated at that table would never eat together again; yet the men ate heartily, and even cheerfully. But it was a solemn parting, when, soon after nightfall, they moved silently from the fort, in Indian file, to take up their positions. The mothers and children stood at the gate watching the departing forms of their kindred till they could no longer be distinguished, and when the great bars that closed the entrance were dropped into their mortises with a dull thud, it reminded more than one of the fall of clods on the coffin-lid. There were but two men left in the fort,--Israel Blanchard and Mr. Seth. As for the negro, he had not been seen since the inhabitants went into garrison. "What a pity Scip is such a miserable coward! He is an excellent shot, and might do good service at the loop-holes. I suppose he's hid somewhere," said Israel Blanchard. In this state of things, the boys held the watch; and, as there were so many of them, they stood but an hour each, Blanchard keeping guard during the two hours before daybreak. The women were busily employed scraping lint, preparing bandages and ointments, the virtues of which they had learned from the Indians, or by long experience had found to be efficacious in the case of gun-shot wounds. It was a season of anxious foreboding: none cared to converse, and they plied their labors for the most part in silence. The only exceptions were to be found among the boys, who, confident in the prowess of their fathers and brothers, elated with the idea that they were holding the fort and intrusted with guard-duty, seemed raised far above all perception of danger or possibility of mishaps, and were in a state of most pleasurable excitement. It increased the sadness of their parents to see them thus, and often the tears sprang to the mother's eyes as she thought of the terrible fate that awaited them, should those who had gone out to engage in such an unequal conflict be overcome. Under the influence of these depressing anxieties, all that they could do being done, Mrs. Honeywood proposed that they should go into the schoolhouse, and spend a season in prayer. Upon this Israel Blanchard said to Mr. Seth, who looked pale and anxious,-- "Brother, you had better go with the women." "You mean, Israel, that I am good for nothing else." "I did not say that; for, if He who made you has denied courage, he has given you grace. You're a better man than I am, Seth,--better fitted either to live or die. Go with them; for we need divine aid now, if we ever did since we broke ground here." The settlers had now reached their positions, where they were concealed not merely by trees and underbrush, but by large quantities of drift-wood brought down by the floods, and left on the banks by the falling of the water. Having set their watch, the rest lay down and slept as coolly as though their own lives and the lives of those they held most dear were not at stake. "Ned," said Holdness to Honeywood, "they pay us a fine compliment, coming a hundred and ten against twenty, for these Delawares know about what our number is." "True: they have a pretty thorough knowledge of what they may expect at our hands." CHAPTER V. THE STORM BURSTS. It was little past midnight when Holdness, who held the watch, espied two persons coming from the garrison, who, to his astonishment, proved to be Tony Stewart and Sam Sumerford. "Who sent you here?" he exclaimed. "Where's my father?" inquired Tony, instead of answering the question. "On the other side of the river, with Mr. Honeywood." "Where's our Harry?" said Sam. "He's over there with 'em." "You won't tell Tony's father nor our Harry that we are here, will you, Mr. Holdness? 'cause we've both of us got rifles, and we want to kill Indians. You know Tony killed an Indian; and I want to kill one, and he wants to kill another. We ain't no good in the fort, the Indians won't come there: we want to be where the Indians come." "Well, now, do you start right back just as quick as you kin go, or I'll take my ramrod to you. Why, your mothers'll be worried to death about you. How did you get out of the fort?" "We came out when all the rest did." "Where have you been all this time?" "We went into Mr. Armstrong's barn, and went to sleep on the hay." "Well, go right back: you're no use; you'll only get killed, and won't do any good, but in the fort you will. Don't go up ter the gate till daylight, for Blanchard'll shoot you. Go back to the barn, and sleep till sunrise." Slowly and sulkily the boys started off in the direction indicated by Holdness. "What little tykes they are! if that ain't grit, I'd like ter know what is." Honeywood, perceiving by the moon that it was not far from daybreak, roused his men. Scarcely had he done so, when Harry and Ned Armstrong, who had been sent in advance, returned to report that the Indians were coming along the ordinary path, but at some distance. Now ensued a period of intense expectation: every ear was strained to catch the faintest sound that might betoken the approach of the foe. But the mighty forest was silent as the grave; not a breath of wind stirred the foliage; not even the howl of a wolf, or the cry of a night-bird, was heard. The light murmur of the stream among the rocks that here and there strewed the shallows of the ford alone broke the silence of that lovely morning, that seemed made for repose, not slaughter. The day was now breaking fast; and, even amid the dim shadows of the forest, objects near at hand could be distinguished: still no foe appeared. At length the cracking of a dry stick was heard, but so faintly as only to be perceptible to the trained ear of the frontier-man; and the long line of dark forms came gliding along the path noiselessly as the panther steals upon his prey. The foremost Indian stooped as he reached the bank, examined the ground, and listened intently. The least sound--a loud breath, the click of a gunlock, or even the least footprint in the soil--would have alarmed the keen senses of the savage. There was neither sound nor sign; for Honeywood and his party well knew with whom they had to deal, and had not crossed at the ford, but at some distance above. The leader now touched with his finger the warrior next him, and that one the next. When the signal had thus passed along the line, the last man marched to the front, thus bringing them two abreast, in which order they entered the water, keeping close. Six had mounted the opposite bank, and the rest were following, when the deep stillness of nature was broken by the roar of fire-arms; and the greater part of those forms but an instant before instinct with life, and breathing vengeance, sank beneath the wave, or, after a few convulsive struggles, were borne away by the rapid current; and the rays of the rising sun gleamed on waters red with blood. Another volley instantly succeeded, completing the slaughter; two only were seen to crawl on their hands and knees, sorely wounded, to the shelter of some bushes that grew on the water's edge; but, ere they could reach the covert, Armstrong rushed down the bank, tomahawk in hand, and despatched them. [Illustration: THE AMBUSCADE.--Page 59.] Elated with the success of their ambush (for the two volleys had swept away the Indians on the borders of both banks and those in the water, while, being under cover, the settlers had received no harm from the fire that the Indians in their surprise returned), Holdness and his men instantly dashed across the ford, and joined Honeywood, resolved to follow up their advantage. Although meeting with a severe loss of men and a severe resistance, when they had expected to surprise their foes, the savages did not retreat, but took trees, and, confident in their superior force, renewed the contest. Holdness now had reason to regret, that, under the impulse of the moment, he had not acted with his usual caution in thus crossing the stream; for, although the river protected the rear of the little band, the savages, by occupying the bank both above and below them, could command the ford; and thus they were prevented from retreating without being exposed to the fire of the Indians while crossing the stream, while the latter would be under cover. In another manner they made their superiority in numbers tell to the disadvantage of the settlers. Behind some of the largest trees, two Indians stationed themselves, one standing, the other lying flat on the ground; and whenever a settler, knowing that the Indian opposed to him had fired, incautiously exposed himself to load, he was liable to be hit by the other. Before this stratagem was discovered, three of the settlers were killed, and several wounded. An Indian was stationed behind a large sugar-tree within half rifle-shot of Harry Sumerford, and they had long been trying to kill each other. At length the Indian fired, but missed; and Harry, knowing his rifle was empty, stepped from behind his tree to take better aim, and would have been shot by another (who, unbeknown to Harry, was lying behind the same tree), but at that moment a rifle cracked, and the savage fell over, shot through the head; and a well-known voice cried,-- "Zukkers! I've shot another Indian!" Looking round in surprise, Harry espied Tony Stewart, on his knees behind a windfall, his rifle resting on it, the smoke yet rising from the muzzle, and Sam also crouching behind the same tree. "You little plagues!" exclaimed Harry, "what sent you here right into the thickest of the fire?" "If I hadn't been here," retorted Tony, "you'd 'a' been killed; for, when I shot that Indian, he had his finger on the trigger." "Is that so?" "Yes," said Sam; "and there's two Indians behind most every tree." It came out, that, after being sent home by Holdness, they sauntered off in that direction till beyond his notice, and then went along by the bank of the river. There they found the raft on which Honeywood and his party had crossed, and which they had set adrift. They sat down on the raft, and waited till the conflict began, and the Indians had fallen back; when, no longer able to resist the temptation, they crossed on the raft. Once across, they crept along beneath the high bank near to where the settlers were posted, and, concealing themselves among the drift-wood, lay unnoticed till the Indians, returning by degrees, had obtained such positions as to command the ford. There was now no such thing as sending them home; and well they knew it, and no longer hesitated to show themselves and take part in the conflict. Great was the alarm of the parents at home when Sam and Tony did not make their appearance at the breakfast-table, and when they found their beds had not been slept in. Their fears were by no means allayed when (after the most searching inquiries of the other boys, mingled with threats of summary punishment if they refused to tell) they ascertained, partly from Ike Proctor and partly from Archie Crawford, where they had gone. "Did ever anybody in this world see such children?" said Mrs. Sumerford. "That's what comes of letting them have rifles, tomahawks, and scalping-knives, and bringing them up like wolves, as Mr. Honeywood says." "It's a sair thing, nae doubt, to hae the weans sae greedy for fight when they've nae come till't; still I ken there's nae knowledge mair needfu' than the knowledge o' fighting in these waefu' times, for it's just kill or be kilt," said Mrs. Stewart, who took a more practical view of the matter. It was a source of great mortification to Sam Sumerford, that he had never yet been able to kill an Indian, although Tony had killed two; and he was prepared to incur any risk to accomplish that feat; and, after long waiting, the opportunity was presented. The Indians are extremely dexterous in carrying away their dead, and even during the time of action will generally contrive to remove or conceal their bodies. Tony saw a savage conveying away the body of another who had been shot by Holdness. Having fastened a line to the head of the corpse, this savage, lying flat on the ground, taking advantage of every inequality, was worming himself along, and almost imperceptibly drawing the body after him. Sammy crept along after him, gradually drawing near, till within short range. The body at length came in contact with a log: and, the Indian cautiously raising himself from the ground to lift it over the obstacle, Sammy, firing, killed him. Entirely occupied in endeavoring to accomplish his purpose, he had crawled much farther than he was aware. The next moment an Indian, rushing out of a thick clump of trees, caught the boy, and, holding him before him as a protection from the fire of the settlers, began to walk slowly backwards. A cry of horror arose from the ranks of the whites; while the Indians filled the air with yells of exultation, and increased their fire to prevent rescue. The Indian was within a few feet of the clump from which he had issued, slowly retreating amid the silence of friends and foes, all intently watching his progress, when the report of a rifle rung through the forest, and the savage fell, shot through the very centre of his forehead. "God bless you, Mr. Honeywood!" shouted Harry: "you had help to do that." "I asked for it," was the reply, as he leaned against the tree behind which he stood, pale and weak with emotion. The savages endeavored to shoot the lad as he lay on the ground; but the noble fellow pulled the body of the savage over his own, thus sheltering himself till Harry and Alex, rushing forward, rescued him, Harry escaping unharmed, and Alex with a slight flesh-wound. "They are not such shots as Honeywood, or neither of you would have come back," said Holdness. "Hope you've got enough of it now, youngster," said Harry as he put the boy down. "I want to kill another Indian, and I mean to, 'cause Tony's killed two." The settlers now found themselves in a position of great peril, being too few in number to advance, while, at the same time, they could not recross the ford without exposing themselves to the same fearful slaughter which they had inflicted upon the Indians. The latter soon made it evident that they were fully sensible of their advantage. With great skill and promptitude they made a raft which they covered with brush, and on it placed their arms, then, swimming alongside, pushed it across the stream, and, seizing their arms, took the most direct route to the fort. "They'll capture the fort, and massacre our families," said Armstrong. "We must brave their fire, cross the river, and go to the rescue at whatever cost of life." "Not so," said Holdness. "If the fort was empty, they couldn't enter it in a hurry. There's a choice man in command, who has no flinch about him: the boys'll do good service at the loop-holes, and so will the women, and the cannon rake the walls. We'll hold our ground till night, and, if we must fall back, do it under cover of night." The Indians who remained now increased their fire, accompanied with fearful yells. Their yells, however, went for nothing with the settlers; and having, in consequence of detailing a part of their number to attack the fort, reduced themselves to one man at each tree, they were deprived of the advantage in shooting they at first enjoyed, and inflicted no injury upon the settlers, while they, who never fired at random, frequently brought the death-yell from some savage. Finding they were losing ground, and fruitful in expedients, some of the Indians swam the stream, and brought over the raft that had been used by their comrades, and, placing their arms on it, crossed to the other side. Having rifles which had been furnished them by the French, and the stream being narrow, they intended to attack the settlers in the rear by firing across it, while sheltered themselves by the trees that grew along the bank. In this manner they hoped soon to destroy their stubborn and implacable foes, while the others should capture the fort. Concealed from the frontiersmen by a bend of the stream, they were making their preparations. Holdness (versed in Indian wiles) suspected their design by seeing a number of the warriors going in one direction. "Boys," said he, "one of you climb that bushy hemlock, and see what these redskins, so many of them, are going over that knoll arter. They're working some plot to circumvent us." Detecting by this means the intentions of their enemies, they quickly threw up a breastwork of drift-wood and saplings, which they cut with their tomahawks; and, when the Indians attained their position on the opposite bank, they found the frontiersmen effectually intrenched, and, foiled where they had counted on success, they hastened to aid in the capture of the garrison. The Indians possessed quite an accurate knowledge of the number of men in the Run, and knew by the firing and observation that there could not be more than two or three men left in the fort, and felt no apprehension in approaching quite near the walls. But they did not know there was a large number of boys, who, firing from a rest, were as good or even better marksmen than themselves, were most of them armed with rifles, that many of the women could shoot, and that they were under the command of a man who was not inferior to themselves either in subtlety or vindictive feeling. Observing the approach of the savages, Blanchard placed the boys at the loop-holes, and with them Mrs. Honeywood, Joan, and Mrs. Holdness, Mrs. Grant, Lucy Mugford, Mrs. Sumerford, Mrs. Stewart, and Maccoy's wife, with orders to be ready, but not to put the muzzles into the loop till they received a signal to fire. The large gun in the flanker, that raked the whole side of the fort on which was the main entrance, and that was loaded with bullets and buckshot to the muzzle, and concealed by a bundle of straw flung over it, was given in charge of Will Grant, one of Harry Sumerford's "Young Defenders," a cool, resolute young fellow, in his nineteenth year. Thus there was no show of defence visible from without. Blanchard said by way of encouragement, after counting the number of the Indians: "Neighbors, there's no cause for alarm, not a mite: the ambush was a raal thing, and give the imps a downright raking, I know by the death-yells; and our folks are holding their own now, or else they would have spared more Indians to come here; and, if I don't teach 'em a lesson that'll stick, my name's not Israel Blanchard, and I wasn't born in the Eastern woods." The Indians, confident that the inmates of the fort were nearly all women, and still more confirmed in the opinion by observing no guns at the loop-holes, nor any persons on the platforms (for Blanchard had ordered every one to keep out of sight, but to be ready at a moment's notice), and a bundle of straw in the embrasure of the flanker, approached the walls without the least hesitation, and one of them made signals for a parley. Blanchard accordingly mounted to the platform over the gate, and asked the spokesman what he wanted. "Pale-face let Indians come in, Indian no hurt him. Pale-face make fight, then Indian take the fort, kill him." "You can't take this fort soon: we can hold it till our people come back." "Your warriors never come back: most all dead. Delawares all round 'em, shoot 'em down just like one pigeon." "You lie. I know the ground and the men; I can see the smoke of the guns; they've got a good cover, have killed many of your people, and will hold their own." Finding that he could not deceive the frontiersman in this way, the savage changed his ground. "S'pose good many Indians keep your warriors good while: we take the fort soon, then we kill squaw, pappoose, all, every one, burn some. S'pose you give up, no hurt you." "We can kill a good many of you before you can take this fort, and if we give up you'll kill all the same when you get us: so be off with you," grasping his rifle. "Indian no hurt you," persisted the savage. "What will you do with us?" "Let you go to the Susquehanna. You no belong here: this Delawares' land." "Will you let us take our cattle and mules and goods and arms?" "Every thing." "You told the people at Fort Granville if they would surrender you wouldn't hurt 'em; and then you roasted the man who opened the gate to you, butchered and scalped all but one, and would have killed him if you could." "We killed them because they killed a good many of our people: you no kill us, we no kill you." "Well, I'll open the gate." Blanchard made a great show of removing bolts and bars, the Indians meanwhile eagerly crowding up to the gate and walls; and, perceiving through a crevice in the timber that they were compact together, he made a signal to Grant, who applied the match. "Ay!" cried McClure as he listened to the firing, "as pretty a volley as one would want to hear, and the cannon too. That tells the story: some of the sarpents have caught it. Israel Blanchard's not the man to waste powder himself, nor to let anybody else." Israel threw the gate open, and went out to look at the dead. "What makes you open the gate, Mr. Blanchard?" said his wife. "It might as well be open as shut: not another Indian will you see round this fort to-day. They'll not come here agin in a hurry. A pretty sprinkling of deed Indians: there's more money value in the scalps lying here than in our whole harvest." He now proceeded coolly to tear the scalps from the heads of the slain. CHAPTER VI. GATHERING COURAGE FROM DESPAIR. The few savages who escaped fled in the direction of the river, where they were met by the band coming to re-enforce them; and, being by no means disposed to make another attempt upon the fort, they carried the news of their defeat to the main body. Wrought up to frenzy by such repeated failures, and thirsting for revenge, the Indians rallied all their energies for one decisive blow. Their numbers were now increased by the return parties; and, by holding the edge of the bank both above and below the settlers, they were able to command the ford with a cross-fire which seemed sufficient to insure the destruction of any party that might attempt to cross. They were favored in their plans by the shape of the shore, the settlers being in the centre of a curve, while they held the two extremities, the ford lying between. The wind, that had been gradually rising during the morning, now blew a gale in the direction of the ford, and right across the position occupied by the settlers. It was a period of drought, and the woods were full of combustible material as dry as tinder. "What's that?" cried Holdness as he smelt the smoke. "They've set the woods afire," said McClure; "and we can take our choice,--be burnt to death, or cross the ford in the face of their fire. They've trapped us with a vengeance." A bright flame was now seen rising in several places, and creeping along the ground behind the Indians' line, that now began to open right and left as the flames came on rapidly before the wind, heralded by the exulting shouts of the savages, who now felt their long-sought day of vengeance had come, and began to mass their force along the bank as the flames came on. Gathering courage from despair, the settlers prepared to dash across the ford in a long line, hoping in this manner, and by the swiftness of their passage, to escape in some degree the enemy's fire. "Follow me, neighbors!" shouted Honeywood: "there's death behind, and no mercy before." His voice was drowned in a rattling volley, followed by the death-shrieks of Indians, while far above the din rose the wild, exulting, peculiar war-whoop of the Black Rifle, like nothing else in the world as Holdness said, and which was instantly recognized both by the settlers and their foes. This was immediately succeeded by the blast of a conch, by which he directed those who from time to time followed his lead. Israel Blanchard, who was perched on the roof of the block-house, listening anxiously to every sound that came from the battle-ground, saw the flames rising, and understood but too well the object for which they were kindled. Hard upon this came the volley, and the blast of the horn. "It's the Black Rifle and his men: Nat's got 'em," shouted Blanchard. He flung open the gate, and rushed to the scene of conflict with all the lads at his heels, whose yells justified abundantly their cognomen of the "Screeching Catamounts." "I do believe Israel has lost his senses," said Mr. Seth, as he shut and barred the gate his brother had left open in his headstrong flight. "Then he's lost a good deal," said Mrs. Sumerford, who heard the remark. They were too late to join in the conflict; for when they reached the spot the Indians had fled, pursued by the Black Rifle and his band. From the scattered hints to be gathered from history and tradition, it appears that there were quite a number of men very much like McClure and Holdness, who were at any time disposed to follow the lead of the Black Rifle, and to make up a scalping-party to kill Indians of whatever tribe, although for the most part he preferred to go alone. Revenge was so sweet a morsel to this singularly constituted being, that he was seldom willing to dilute by sharing it with others. The governor having offered a large bounty for Indian scalps, twelve men were camping in the woods near the cave of Capt. Jack, waiting for others who were to join them, and make up a party of twenty to start on a scalping expedition; and, when Nat Cuthbert brought tidings of the expected attack at Wolf Run, they marched on the instant. Their leader, discovering by the sound of rifles the exact position of the Indians (whose attention was fully occupied with the enemies in front), gained their rear unperceived, and poured in a fire every bullet of which told. This most unexpected blow; the fearful slaughter at the fort, which caused them to fear there were soldiers in it who might at any moment bring a re-enforcement to the settlers, added to the terrible presence of the Black Rifle, who the Indians believed bore a charmed life, effectually discouraged them; and, though picked warriors, they sought safety in flight. The losses of the settlers were less than might have been expected from the duration of the contest, and the overwhelming odds against which they fought. Heinrich Stiefel, David Blanchard, and Wood were killed; and all except Harry Sumerford, Ned Armstrong, and Stewart were wounded, but most of them slightly. "If this Indian war holds on much longer," said Holdness, "I shall have to be made over; for I sha'n't have a square inch of flesh without a scar, or a single bone without it's callous." Sammy Sumerford was found lying beside the dead body of the second Indian he had killed, and was wounded. He instantly became an object of envy to all his mates, who crowded around him. Stewart now for the first time became aware that his boy had been in the action, Tony having been very careful to keep out of his father's sight. Though several recollected having seen him during the conflict, he could not be found. Stewart was very much moved; for, notwithstanding his rough ways, he was a man of warm affections, ardently attached to Tony his only son; and, though often vexed by the mischievous pranks of the lad, was excessively proud of him; and instantly commenced an eager search, assisted by his neighbors. "Dinna ye ken wha hae became o' my bairn?" said he to Sammy; "for I ken richt weel ye canna be sundered by ordinar mair than soul and body. I trust he's come by nae skaith." "He was down there by that log," said Sammy, pointing behind him, "and said he was going to crawl to a spring he knowed about, and get a drink, and wanted me to go too; but I didn't want to, because this Indian was behind a little small tree, and I wanted to shoot him, 'cause Tony shot two Indians, and I wanted to. He went to the spring, and I didn't see him after that." Stewart went in the direction pointed out by Sammy, found the spring, the rifle of Tony, and the prints of his knees in the soft ground where he had knelt to drink; but neither the lad nor his body could anywhere be found. The spring was not far from the position occupied by the Indians, and it was concluded that he had been seen and carried off by them: but there were so many wounded, that pursuit was impossible; and it was thought that the Black Rifle's band would be more likely to rescue the lad than any party that could be sent from the Run. Holdness and others scalped the dead; and McClure told Stewart (without thinking of what he was saying) to scalp the Indian Tony killed. "I winna he did nae want it done: I maist like'll nivir see him mair. I hae been strict wi' him mayhap ower muckle, and I winna do it nor let it be done." He then proceeded to cover the body with rotten wood, brush, and leaves, McClure and Holdness helping him. As for Sammy, though his moccason was full of blood from a flesh-wound in his thigh, he would not consent to be moved until he obtained a solemn promise from Harry that neither his two Indians, as he termed them (those he had shot), nor Tony's, should be scalped, but covered up with brush; "because," said Sam, "me and Tony and most of my company of the 'Screeching Catamounts' don't believe in taking scalps. We feel just as Mr. Honeywood does: he says it's a mean thing, and 'tain't right." Harry gave the promise. "Tony's father covered his Indian up, and wouldn't have him scalped," said Johnny Crawford; "and we'll help cover up yours." Grant had a heifer that he was fatting, intending to kill her when the weather became cool enough. This creature had been overlooked when the rest of the cattle were driven into the stockade. The Indians, finding the animal, killed her, meaning, no doubt, after butchering the settlers and setting the buildings on fire, to have had a grand dance and feast of victory. She was dressed, the meat taken to the fort, and formed a meal for the settlers. It was a singular assemblage: nearly every one had received some injury. One had a patch on his head, where a bullet grazed; another carried his arm in a sling; the hands of several were bound up. Grant and Maccoy sat with their legs extended on stools, one being wounded in the foot, the other in the thigh. There were three who were wounded in such a manner, they had to be fed by others; and, in the majority of the cases, the blood from the wounds had come through the bandages. Nevertheless they were in high spirits at having defeated the savages and saved their crops, and were resolved to enjoy themselves. "It's a sore thing ter have our neighbors killed by our side," said Holdness; "and there's no one of us but feels for those who are mourning the loss of husbands, fathers, and children; but we ought certainly ter feel thankful it's no worse. It's a sad thing for neighbor Stewart and neighbor Blanchard to lose their boys. A smart lad was Tony, and David was a nice, likely young man, and had good larnin'; but Stewart and his wife shouldn't be too much cast down. The Indians won't kill Tony, that's sartain: they seldom do a boy of that age; they've lost a great many men in this fight, and they'll adopt him to fill up some gap, and treat him just like their own children." "The Black Rifle's people may rescue him," said Proctor; "or, when the war is over, he can be redeemed." "I wad be loath our misfortune should mar the joy we a' suld feel, and gratitude to One above," said Stewart, "seeing there's good ground for hope in respect to the bairn. It's not like finding him on the field with a tomahawk in his head, or a bullet in his breast." CHAPTER VII. A CONTRAST. The next day was devoted to the burial of those killed in battle. Directly afterwards, with that recklessness so characteristic of all frontier population, they left the fort to occupy their own dwellings; although, now that their wounds had become stiff, it was necessary to haul some on sleds, and there were not able-bodied men enough to furnish a scouting-party, nor to gather the harvest. But the frontier-women were equal to the exigency, and able to assist the men who were well or slightly wounded. Most of the women, especially those of Scotch descent, could handle the sickle. The children likewise did their portion of the work, the boys in the field, and the girls doing the housework while their mothers were harvesting. Frontier life is one of sharp contrasts, constituting, perhaps, its charms for rugged natures. It was a clear day of bright sunshine: the women and every man who could manage to work were busily employed. Mrs. Grant was singing at her work; and the cheerful notes of the harvest-song floated up over fields that but two days before echoed to the roar of cannon and the war-whoop of the savage. "Indeed, neighbor McClure," said Mrs. Sumerford, wiping the sweat from her brow, and laying the sickle over her shoulder as the horn blew for dinner, "I don't mind the hard work nor the hot sun one mite: it's far better to be reaping and getting bread for the children than to be making shrouds for the dead, and putting dear friends and neighbors in the grave, as we've been doing so often for the past year." "I dinna mind the work a windle strae," said Mrs. Armstrong. "I hae reaped mony a bushel o' sowin' in my ain countrie, and whiles I like better to be in the field than to do housework. Ay, I've reaped mony a long day for sma' wages, and gleaned and wrought sair; but I like better to be reaping my ain grain than ither people's. Is it not sae, Jean Stewart?" "Indeed it is. We wad hae reaped nae grain of our ain had we bided in bonnie Scotland, though oftenwhiles my thoughts will travel back among the lochs and the braes where I first drew breath. I could na' keep the tears frae running down my cheeks while Maggie Grant was singing; for many's the time I've heard my auld mither sing those same words owre her sickle, when I a wee bairn was gleaning after her." Sammy Sumerford could not bear to stay in the house with Jane Proctor, who had engaged to mind the baby while Mrs. Sumerford was in the field, and also to get dinner; and so persuaded his mates to carry him to the field, and set him up against a stook of grain. They then brought him some long coarse grass, of which he made bands to bind the grain. Here he found at work Holdness, whose chin was ploughed by a bullet that had taken the skin and flesh to the bone. The wound, though not dangerous, was extremely sore and sensitive. He could not reap, because the heads of the grain that were very stout, brushing against his chin, kept constantly irritating the wound. He therefore bound up the sheaves, while Sam made bands for him; and, as both were wounded, they frequently left off work to rest and talk. "Mr. Holdness, didn't you like Tony?" "Yes, I liked him much: he was a brave boy. I'm right sorry for his loss. It's a loss ter all of us, as well as ter his father and mother." "I loved Tony: he's played with me ever since I can remember. I can't remember the time I didn't play with Tony. I know I never shall love another boy as well as I loved Tony. What will the Indians do to him, Mr. Holdness? will they kill him?" "Kill him! no. I'll tell you. A good many of the Indians we killed the other day were quite young men. When they get Tony to one of their towns, some of the fathers or mothers of them what's killed will take him for their own, in place of the one they've lost. That's the Indian fashion." "Then they won't kill, scalp, nor roast him alive?" "No, indeed! If they could get hold of me or McClure, or Tony's father, or Mr. Honeywood, they would torment us all they knew how; but, as for him, they won't hurt a hair of his head: though if the Black Rifle should overtake them, and they found they couldn't get away, they'd tomahawk him in a minute before they would let the Black Rifle get him." "What do Indians want a white boy for?" "They want ter make an Indian of him. They'll be just as good ter him and treat him just as well as they do their own, and larn him every thing they know themselves. He won't get the lickin's he had at home, for the Indians never strike their children." "When he gets bigger, he can run away and come home." "They'll watch him at first; and it won't be long afore he'll forget his father and mother and everybody he knew, and turn into an Indian. He won't have any thing white about him but his skin, and hardly that; for they'll grease him, paint and smoke him, and he'll go half naked in the sun and wind, till he's about as red as themselves. He'll come ter have Indian ways and feelings, and never will want to leave 'em." "Oh, Mr. Holdness! Tony will never forget me and his father and mother and sister. Mr. Holdness, Tony hates an Indian: he's killed two on 'em." "I tell you he'll turn into an Indian, just as a tadpole turns into a frog, and like 'em just as much as he hates 'em now, and love his Indian father and mother better than he loves his own father and mother, and like their miserable way of living better'n the way he was brought up in." "I don't see how it can be." "Neither do I; but I know it will if he stays among 'em any length of time, which I hope to God he won't do, because every boy, or girl either, that goes among the Indians at his age, does just so. But you can't make a white man out of an Indian, any more'n you can make a hen out of a partridge. But don't tell his folks what I've said, 'cause it would make 'em feel bad." Holdness now took up a handful of bands, and went to tie up wheat. The boys talked the matter over after he was gone. Sammy appeared sad: the tears stood in his eyes as he said,-- "Mr. Holdness never told me any thing before that I didn't believe every word of: but I can't believe Tony could forget me; I'm sure I never shall forget him." "I don't believe Tony will ever forget his sister Maud. He would do any thing for Maud: he loved Maud more'n he loved himself," said Jim Grant. "I don't believe he'll forget Alice Grant neither," said Ike Proctor: "'cause don't you know, Sammy, when we were going to have the party down to Cuthbert's house, and you and I didn't want to have the gals, he stuck up for havin' 'em, and 'twas only 'cause he wanted Alice Grant to come." "I should think," said Dan Mugford, "they'd want to kill him, 'cause he killed one of them; but perhaps they won't know as 'twas him who killed him." "Mr. Holdness says they'll like him all the better for that; 'cause it shows he's brave, and knows how to shoot, and they'll know he'll make a great chief," said Johnnie Crawford. The boys could not possibly bring themselves to believe that Tony could or would forget parents, playmates, kith and kin; and, the more they discussed the matter, the more confirmed they became in their previous opinion. The subject of conversation was now changed at the approach of the girls, who, having done up their housework, had come to assist in the field. "If they ain't going to have scouts out any more," said Dan Mugford, "and the Indians have got scared and won't come any more, then why can't they let us go swimming in the river?" "Yes: and we can have our bladders that we've been keeping so long, and swim with 'em; and when the acorns, chestnuts, and walnuts are ripe, we can go nutting," said Sam. "We can go with you, and have nice times, same as we did before the war," said Maud Stewart. "There was ever so much powder in the Indians' pouches, and Mr. Holt turned it into a basket: I saw him," said Ben Wood. "Maybe they'll give us some; and then we can kill deer and coons, and all of us could kill a bear." "I don't believe they'll let us go where we are a mind to," said Jim Grant: "all the reason they don't send out scouts now is 'cause they can't. There's so many wounded, there ain't enough men to go on the scout, and get the grain too; and they've got to get the grain, 'cause if they don't we won't have any thing to eat next winter." Thus the children speculated respecting the future, and lightened their toil by building castles in the air. CHAPTER VIII. TREADING OUT THE GRAIN. During the past season, wheat and other grain had assumed in the eyes of the settlers a greater relative importance than ever before. Wheat, oats, and barley could be raised abundantly on the burnt land; but hitherto there had been very little inducement to raise either of those grains, because they could not make use of them as articles of food to any extent, and they did not pay when carried to market. Corn had heretofore been their main dependence: that they could pound, and make into bread. With corn they could keep and fatten swine; and, in time of peace, hams paid when carried to market on pack-horses; and pork was also the staple article of food. But the Indians and the mill had effected a complete revolution. The different grains were now of more value to them than Indian corn, because they could grind the grain. The Scotch could have their oatmeal; and the others, wheat flour, barley, and rye, to mix with their corn-meal; and they were delivered from the drudgery of the hominy-block. It was less work to sow grain than to plant corn and hoe it: therefore there was less exposure to Indians while doing it. Grain was not so much exposed to the depredations of crows, blue-jays, coons, squirrels, deer, and bears. Deer could be kept out by fences, but birds, bears, coons, and squirrels could not. When a bear enters a corn-field, he goes among the corn, sits on his breech, stretches out his paws, and, gathering between them all the corn he can reach, lies down on the heap, and munches the ears that lie on top; then going along, breaks down more, thus destroying a great deal more than he eats. The coons make up in numbers what they lack in size, and are often more destructive than the bears. There is nothing, except honey, that bears and coons love so well as corn in the milk: the grain does not possess such attraction. There was still another reason that diminished the importance of corn in the opinion of the settlers at this juncture of their affairs. Corn had obtained its paramount importance because it was the best, and, indeed, was considered the only food suitable for fattening swine; and pork, beef, and corn-bread were the great staples of life. But neither pork nor beef could be preserved without salt, and salt could be procured (while the country was filled with hostile Indians) only with great labor and at the risk of life. In the grain, however, that the mill enabled them to make use of, they found a substitute; and so much less pork and other meat was required, that, with what salt they had on hand, they could, by securing a good grain-crop, preserve meat sufficient to carry them through the winter. In this condition of things the settlers had planted but little corn, and kept but few hogs, but had sown a large breadth of wheat, rye, oats, barley, and pease, and planted a good many beans; intending to eat more bread and less meat, as cattle and hogs were liable to be killed by Indians, and hunting and fishing could only be prosecuted at the risk of life. The harvest was abundant; and the settlers were making the most strenuous efforts to secure it, although many of them worked in misery by reason of their wounds. Those who had the use of but one arm brought the sheaves to the stacks with the other. Those who had the use of both arms, but were wounded in the leg, made bands for the binders; or going about the house on crutches, with a child to help them, superintended the cooking while their wives and mothers were at work in the field. Some who were wounded in the head or trunk of the body managed to rake together in bunches for the binders. Our young people will thus perceive the importance of the grain-crop to the settlers, and likewise why they were willing to incur so fearful a risk to preserve it, when they might have remained behind their defences, and repulsed the foe with safety to themselves. When the wheat was put in stooks, the other grains housed, and the pease and beans secured, the wounded and the women were excused from labor. There was still, however, much to be done; for so long as the grain was in the stack, or even in the barns, it was liable to be destroyed by Indians, and even more so, as it was more compact. In order to be secure, it must be inside the fort. Threshing with flails was hard work, in which the wounded could not engage, and it was a slow process. It was necessary to lose no time, as they might be attacked again. When the mill was built, some plank were left; and with a whip-saw Israel Blanchard and Seth manufactured some more, and laid a platform on the ground near the fort, within rifle-shot, and built a fence around it. On this platform they laid a great flooring of grain; and having kept the horses and mules without food over night, and exercised them beforehand to empty their stomachs, turned them into the enclosure, and drove them over the grain with whips. When one flooring was threshed they put on another, and thus beat out the grain much faster than they could have done it by hand, had they all been in a condition to labor. The grain, chaff and all, was carried into the stockade, and put on the floor of the block-house and flankers in heaps. It was now safe from foes and weather. Afterwards, as the wind served, it was carried out and winnowed on the same platform. The mill afforded an excellent place in which to store it, being dry, and well ventilated by loop-holes. The settlers now obtained the rest so much needed; and the greatest care was bestowed upon the wounded, who had evidently not been benefited by the labor absolute necessity had compelled them to perform. Such is the life of a people living on the frontiers during an Indian war. Wherever you go, and whatever you are doing, it is necessary to be armed and on your guard; for life is the forfeit of negligence. You can never commence any work with the certainty of finishing it. When you lie down at night, the weapon must be within reach of your hand. The human mind possesses a wonderful power of adapting itself to circumstances, and becoming reconciled to those apparently calculated to produce prolonged torture. Surrounded by too many _real_ causes of anxiety to concern themselves about _imaginary_ ones, these people, when not under the pressure of actual suffering, were cheerful, patient in trial; and no one entering their families would have suspected from appearances that they were at any moment liable to be called to struggle for their lives, and also perfectly sensible of it. During the stormy times we have described, Scipio was nowhere to be found. It was in accordance with the usual course of things for Scipio and Mr. Seth to retire from action in times of danger. It was taken for granted that the negro had concealed himself somewhere, and would appear when the danger was past. During the season of greatest peril, all were too much occupied to waste a thought on the matter; but Scipio was an excellent reaper, and when they began to cut the grain the black was both missed and needed. "Boys, what has become of Scip? Hunt him up. He's hid away somewhere," said his master. "We have hunted, Mr. Blanchard," said Archie Crawford, "in the potato-hole, under the pig-pen, in the flankers, and everywhere we knowed; and can't find nothing on him." "Perhaps he's hid away in the old Cuthbert house." "No, sir: we've looked there and in the mill." The matter was dropped for the time; but when the harvest was gathered, and no Scip made his appearance, there was a general anxiety manifested, for the negro was a valuable member of the little community. He was a good mechanic, his master having taught him the use of tools. He was very strong and good at any kind of farm work. Unlike most slaves, he was not indolent, and would allow no man to outdo him. He was a great wrestler, and could jump and run with the best; he was also an excellent shot at a mark, any small game, or deer, but was too much of a coward to face a wolf or bear. He was an excellent cook, and a great favorite with the good wives. Nobody could bring the butter so quick, or tie a broom to the handle so fast, as Scip: and he was a capital basket-maker, a lucky fisherman, could sing and play on the jew's-harp, and beat a drum. Scip loved the children with all his heart; and they returned his affection with interest, and shared whatever they had with him, though they sometimes amused themselves by working on his dread of the Indians. Scip had two prominent failings,--he would steal eggs, and lie to cover the theft. It was not at first thought possible that the black, who cherished a chronic fear of Indians, would leave the fort, a place of safety; but, when every part of it had been searched in vain, Israel Blanchard said,-- "It's plain he's not in the garrison: he's taken to the woods, and got lost; or else he's got into the river to hide, and the current's carried him off, and he's drowned." "He may have got lost in the woods," said Holdness, "that's likely enough; but there's not water enough in Raystown branch to drown that darky: he swims like an otter." "I'll tell you what to do," said Mrs. Honeywood: "take something Scip has worn, a stocking or shirt, let Fan smell of it, and set her to seek; she'll find if he's above ground, or, if he's under ground, she'll find where he's buried." "It's too late, wife: the scent's all gone, long ago. The slut can't track him." "Well, then," said Harry Sumerford, "we boys'll take all the pups and the old slut to boot; and, between them and ourselves, we'll find him." Harry, the young men, and all the children started with no less than seven dogs, and went in different directions through the woods, the dogs being divided among them. Cal Holdness and Harry were together, accompanied by Fan; the slut running through the woods, and then returning to them. At length they heard her barking at a distance in the woods. "She's treed something," said Harry,--"most like a bear or a coon. A bear ought to be in decent order now." Following the sound, they found Fan sitting at the butt of a great pine. As they approached, she began to bark, whine, and scratch the dead bark off the roots of the tree. "A bear wouldn't be denning this time of year. I'll wager it's Scip," said Harry. The tree was nearly dead; had a short butt, that, after running about eighteen feet, divided into three large branches; and an ash, uprooted by the wind, lay in the crotch. After quieting the dog, Harry, standing at the foot of the tree, began to call Scip by name, and tell him that the Indians were gone. For some fifteen minutes there was no answer; but at length Scip's woolly head appeared in the crotch of the tree, and by degrees was followed by his body. Harry and Cal always contended that he was pale. "Come down here, Scip," shouted Cal: "the Indians are gone." "Won't dey come back?" "Not without they come from another world: we've killed most of 'em." "Hab dey killed Massa Blanchard and all de rest but you?" "No: they haven't killed but three,--Mr. Stiefel, Wood, and David Blanchard. Come down." Scip, now satisfied, quickly descended along the trunk of the windfall, to the great joy of Fan, who almost flung him down, jumping on him, and licking his black face. "How did you know about that tree, Scip?" said Harry. "How'd you know 'twas hollow?" "Massa McClure kill a bear dere last fall." When Scip heard that more than a hundred Indians were coming to attack the fort, he felt sure they would take it, and determined to flee to this tree, taking provisions with him. When asked how he came to take that course, he replied that he recollected when the Indians killed Alexander McDonald's family, that his nephew Donald was at some distance from the house, in the woods, and, by hiding away there, saved his life; and so he thought it best to hide in the woods, for he knew the Indians would take the fort. CHAPTER IX. A LITTLE SUNSHINE. A week had passed since the occurrence of the events just narrated. It was a sunny morning; and Mrs. Sumerford was busily employed in weaving, having in the loom a web of linen. The dwelling of this motherly woman, so much beloved by her neighbors and especially by all the young fry, was a log house of the rudest description; still there was about it that air of neatness and comfort that a thrifty woman will create under almost any circumstances. The walls were of rough logs, and the openings between them stuffed with moss; but it was driven as hard as the oakum in a vessel's seams, and trimmed at the edges with a sharp knife. The bullet-proof shutters were hung with wooden hinges from the top, and, instead of sliding, swung up to the chamber floor, that was made of peeled poles. The kitchen presented one feature not precisely in keeping with the rest of the house; namely, a nice board floor, which, after the advent of the whip-saw, Harry had substituted for the original one of flattened poles (or puncheons). In one corner was a bedstead; for the room served the different purposes of kitchen, sleeping-room, and place of common resort. At the windows were curtains of bulrushes; the floor was white and sanded; and the bed boasted a linen spread, beautifully figured. In a side room was the loom at which Mrs. Sumerford was weaving. All the clothing for four boys and herself was spun and woven from flax and wool, and made up by this goodly, pains-taking woman, who, though extremely sensitive in respect to any danger that menaced her family, did not hesitate, as we have just seen, to handle the rifle in their defence. Stretched at full length on the hearth, lay a white-faced bear sound asleep, with his right paw on his nose; and between his hind and fore legs was the baby, also sound asleep, his head pillowed on the bear, and his right hand clutching the creature's fur. Sammy, with his wounded leg resting in a chair, was making a fancy cane, by peeling the bark from a stick of moose-wood in a serpentine curve, and so as to show the white wood in contrast with the dark and mottled bark. Alex and Enoch were dressing each other's wounds, and permitting the dog to lick them; the tongue of a dog being considered, by the frontier folks, a wonderful specific for healing gun-shot wounds. Harry was on his knees in the corner of the fire-place, running bullets, and melting his lead in a wooden ladle. Somebody may wonder how he could melt lead in a wooden ladle. Well, he made the fire inside, with bits of charcoal; and, as the coal was lighter than the lead, when the latter melted, the charcoal and dust floated on top, and could be blown off. The ladle burned up after a while, but not very speedily; and it cost nothing but a little work to make another. All were busily engaged; and there was little to break the quiet of the morning, save the monotonous sound of Mrs. Sumerford's loom, as she sprung the treadles, and beat up the filling with the beam, when a great clamor of voices was heard outside, and a whole flock of children, girls and boys, rushed in at the open door. The dog began to wag his tail, and rub up against the children for recognition. The bear took his paw from his nose, and gaped, showing his white teeth; but, as the baby did not wake, went to sleep again. "Well, well, what's in the wind now?" said Mrs. Sumerford. "Don't you think, Mrs. Sumerford," cried Bobby Holt, "they've given us some of the powder what the Indians that was killed had in their pouches; and we're going to shoot wild pigeons, and go in swimming: we hain't been in swimming this year." "Us girls," said Maud Stewart, "are going after blueberries on the mountains, while the boys are gunning and swimming." "I wish I could go," said Sam. "We'll bring you some pigeons, and you can go with us when you get well," said Archie Crawford. "I don't know about you children going in the woods. Who told you you might go?" said Mrs. Sumerford. "Mother said we might go," said Jane Holt. "Father said I might go," said Ike Proctor. "Did Mr. Holdness, or McClure, or Mr. Honeywood, know you were going?" "I don't know as they did; but father said the Indians had had such a browsing lately, they'd be shy of meddling with Wolf Run folks for a spell." "That wouldn't hinder them from prowling round, and snapping you up. Only think of Prudence Holdness. There hadn't been an Indian sign seen anywhere, and she only went out to pick a few herbs for her sick father, and was carried off; and it was of God's mercy, and of the Black Rifle, that she ever got back." "We've got guns, we know how to shoot, and we'll shoot 'em," said Archie proudly, "if they come near us." "Oh, my! hear the roosters crow. You won't be behind the loop-holes down there in the woods.--What do you think of it, Harry?" "Let 'em go, mother: I don't think there's any danger. Only look at it: these children were cooped up in garrison all winter; in the spring they had but little liberty, for since Prudence Holdness was carried off they have been kept in; and it's a hard case." "Well, Harry, I sha'n't have one minute's peace if they do go." "Well, mother, let 'em go; and, if you feel so, I'll get Mr. Holdness and Nat Cuthbert, and we'll take our guns and follow 'em. You know we haven't got so many hogs this year as usual, and the pigeons help out the pork-trough. I think we ought to kill all the game and catch all the fish we can." "O mother!" cried Sammy: "you've got flour now; and won't you make some berry-pies, and a pigeon-pie with crust, for me, 'cause I'm wounded and can't go? Won't you, ma'am?" "Yes; but I don't feel, I can't feel, it's what ought to be, for all these children to go into the woods, even if the men do go. Three of 'em can't have their eyes everywhere, and watch so many; and they may shoot each other, so many guns in children's hands." Mrs. Sumerford sat down to her loom in a frame of mind far from quiet. "We wanted Scip to go," said Jim Grant, "and Mr. Blanchard said he might: he was dying to go, but he was so scared of the Indians! but if Mr. Holdness, Harry, and Nat go, he won't be. I'll go and get him, and come after with him and the men." Whatever Mrs. Sumerford's opinion might be in respect to the capabilities of the children, she knew very well that Harry would not come home empty-handed. So after an early dinner, she got out the sieve (a moose-hide punched full of holes with a burning-iron) and flour, and mixed the dough ready for use when needed. First came the girls, with their pails full of berries; then the boys, each with a load of pigeons slung on his gun; finally Harry came with as many as he could carry, saying he believed there were half as many pigeons in the woods as leaves on the trees. Sammy wanted all of them to stay to supper, especially Scip. Mrs. Sumerford, who could never have too many children round her, was as desirous to have them stop as was Sammy; but she said it would never do, because they would want to stop and play a while after supper, and their parents would think the Indians had carried them off. Didn't Mr. Crawford go out to shoot pigeons, and come within one of being shot by an Indian, and would have been, hadn't the hog took at the Indian? The children wanted so much to stay, and Sammy was so anxious to have them, that Nat Cuthbert, who came in with Harry, said he would get on the horse and take some pigeons (as there were ten times as many as they could eat), and give to the families around, and tell them the children were safe. "Well, Scip," said Mrs. Sumerford, "if you are going to stop, you may make the pigeon-pie, and I'll make the berry ones." This announcement was received with shouts by the children, for they well knew Scip had no rival for getting up a savory mess. After he had washed his face and hands, Mrs. Sumerford put an apron on him, and he set to work. The girls picked over the berries, and the boys plucked the pigeons. There were many hungry mouths, and Scip made corresponding preparations. There was no oven: but Scip lined a kettle with crust, put in his pigeons and other things, and put on the upper crust; then, putting a large iron bake-pan over the mouth of the kettle, set it on the coals, and filled the pan with hot coals. Mrs. Sumerford's plates were all either wood or pewter; but she was better off than some, for she had one large earthen pan for milk, and one smaller one. She made her pie in the small one, and baked it in the Dutch oven which she borrowed from Mrs. Honeywood for the occasion: she also made a berry-cake, and baked it on a board set before the fire, with a stone behind to hold it up. Potatoes were baked in the ashes. Notwithstanding the lack of the customary utensils, and more than all of an oven, she made a capital pie: it was not only good, but a good deal of it. Scip was equally successful, and made a glorious pie. "Dere, chillen [setting it on the table in the kettle], he good stew ebber man put in his mouf: under crust done, upper crust jes brown." The very dog began to lick his chops as he inhaled the savory smell. After the repast they decorated the house with boughs of sassafras, locusts, wild flowers, and the pods of the cucumber-tree, and Scip played on the jew's-harp. You would have thought they had just got out of prison, they were so wild and full of tickle; and in one sense they had, having been confined to a limited circle around their homes, kept hard at work in the field, or set to fight for their lives with the Indians. None of the inmates of the garrison, old or young, were so supremely happy as Scip; and before they separated he hugged the children all round, and they hugged him, and Dan Mugford made the philosophical reflection, that if the Indians had killed them all, Scip never could have made that pie, nor could they have enjoyed the pleasure of eating it. The children now naturally supposed that the bars were all to be taken down, and that they were to enjoy their old-time liberty: therefore the next morning, the moment the chores were done and the cattle turned to pasture, they were about to set forth on a fishing expedition, when, to their no small surprise and grief, they were told that this liberty had been granted them because of their long confinement in close quarters, and also to show how highly their good behavior and pluck (when the fort was threatened by the Indians) was appreciated, but that they could not go again for a week at least. It would be useless for me to attempt to describe how slowly and wearily the hours dragged along for some days. The settlers were restricted from hunting as much as usual, on the account of the risk of life and scarcity of powder and lead. They had raised a less number of cattle and hogs, because the animals were liable to be killed by prowling Indians in the pasture, and there was a lack of salt with which to preserve pork and beef. In this condition of affairs, the settlers, ever fruitful in expedients, hit upon another method to supply themselves with food, namely, by rearing a great number of fowls. These could be kept on grain, of which they had an abundance, and, in the event of their being compelled to live in garrison, could be kept very well inside the stockade; and the eggs and flesh would afford a constant supply of food. The children were therefore encouraged to raise chickens and other kinds of fowl; and they engaged in the business with a will. They set every hen, duck, and turkey, that wanted to sit, and a good many that did not; fastening them on the nests with baskets and boxes of birch-bark, and even tying them on with strings. When, as was often the case, two hens had each a small brood of chickens, they gave both broods to one hen to bring up, in order that the other might go to laying; and the same with turkeys and ducks. The greatest rivalry took place among the boys, each anxious to carry off the palm. Cut off from their ordinary sources of amusement, they gave their whole soul to this work, till fowl increased to such a degree that Holdness said, "You can't step without treading on eggs or chickens, nor go into the hovels to look for any tool, but a sitting hen will fly up in your face." Those were glorious days for Scip: he could steal all the eggs he wished to; there were so many, no one suspected him. Archie Crawford had reared a noble flock of ducks, of which he was excessively proud. He took great delight in watching them, as, after being let out in the morning, they waddled off to the swamp in Indian file, the bright colors on the necks of the drakes glistening in the rays of the morning sun, returning at night in the same manner. Three of those dreary days had passed; and, on the morning of the fourth, Archie had fed and was watching his ducks as they ate up the corn. With him were Bobby Holt and Ike Proctor. The faces of the boys were clouded, and they added to their discontent by talking about the hard experience they were just then undergoing. Their conference was interrupted by the loud "quack, quack," of the old drake as he started for the swamp, the ducks and young drakes falling into line behind him, with responsive but more subdued quacks. "Wish I was a duck!" said Archie moodily. "What do you want to be a duck for?" said Ike Proctor. "'Cause I could go to the swamp or the river, go a-fishing or frogging, or anywhere I had a mind to, then; but, 'cause I'm only a boy, I have to stay in prison." Hugh Crawford, who was putting a handle to an axe before the door, heard the remark. The disconsolate tone in which it was uttered touched him; and he said,-- "You shall go fishing, Archie; and Ike and Bobby too. I'll take my rifle, and go with you, as soon as I put this axe-handle on, and wedge it." The boys ran to get their lines and bait, and were soon following the trail of the ducks. CHAPTER X. LIBERTY IS SWEET. The wounded men were now rapidly recovering; and, in proportion as their means of defence increased, the anxieties of the settlers diminished; and, feeling that it was hard treatment of the children to deprive them altogether of going upon these excursions, so dear to the young, they followed the example set by Hugh Crawford. First one and then another would take three or more children with them into the woods and to the river, shooting pigeons, picking berries, and catching fish; and this all helped the food supply. Very little powder was expended in killing pigeons, they were so numerous; and thus it was felt that the operation paid. Thus, also, in respect to the powder given to the children: they were allowed but a small quantity; if they wasted it, and did not make good shots and bring home either the powder or an equivalent in game, they got no more, and had to content themselves with the bow and arrow, with which weapon they could kill pigeons, wild turkeys, coons, and even fish in shoal-water. This tended to make them accurate marksmen, a matter of vital importance to the settlers; and therefore they seldom begrudged the powder and lead given to the children. This arrangement operated very well for a time, it was in such pleasant contrast with the previous rigorous confinement; but it soon wore threadbare, and the children began to complain that they didn't have any good times. They didn't want to go out two or three together, under guard, they didn't like to fool afore the men; but they wanted to go out by themselves, just as they always did. When the majority of those who were wounded had recovered, a strong scout was sent out, as formerly; and the children (with many misgivings on the part of the anxious mothers, and abundance of cautions that were forgotten the next moment) were allowed to go. At the welcome announcement, boys and girls rushed whooping to the pastures, bearing guns, tomahawks, and baskets, in addition to which each boy carried, tied to his person, a number of inflated bladders. The extravagant spirit of boyhood vented itself in various ways; some procured sticks, and, getting astride of them, pranced and neighed like horses; some rolled over on the grass, turning somersaults; others played with the dogs that accompanied them; while a few found great enjoyment in simply shouting to imaginary Indians to come on. "There'll be something going on now, you may depend," said Mrs. Mugford, as she looked after the party, "since Sammy Sumerford has got well of his wound, and is among 'em." The jubilant troop kept together till near the river, where they separated, the girls going to a high bluff where berries grew, and the boys to the river, as they said, to go in swimming, although none of them, except Sam Sumerford, Fred Stiefel, and Jim Grant, could swim more than half a dozen strokes. There was a short bend in the river, quite narrow, in the middle of which was a deep hole. Those who could dive amused themselves by seeing who of them could dive to the bottom and bring up two handfuls of mud as an evidence of success; and the stream in this place was so narrow, that, with two or three strokes, they could reach shoal-water. The others began to float and try to swim on bladders. Ever since the previous winter, these boys had been imagining what a great time they would have swimming on bladders whenever they were again allowed to be at liberty, and had added fuel to the fire by talking it over amongst themselves; but, after all, it did not prove upon trial such excellent fun as they had anticipated. They could, to be sure, float about as long as they pleased; but it is necessary to lean forward to swim, and the bladders held them perpendicularly in the water, like a spindle buoy on a ledge; and they found it hard work to make any progress in the water. They therefore soon became tired, and abandoned them for logs that they could push wherever they liked. As the bladders had not been as useful as they expected, nor productive of so much amusement, Sammy proposed to make a raft of them. This suggestion was unanimously approved. They selected dry logs from the drift-wood, and lashed several of them together with cedar bark; for these boys were apt scholars, and had learned from their elders the backwoods arts. The raft was long in proportion to its breadth, and held together by crossbands about two feet apart. They had brought more than thirty bladders, nearly all belonging to the last year's crop of hogs, some from hogs killed the year before, a few having been given to their mothers to put lard and bear's grease in, and others to be used as syringes for cleansing wounds. The bladders were secured to the poles by strings made of bark stripped very fine, and which while green is quite strong. After fastening them to the upper side of the raft, they turned it over, thus bringing them underneath. It was a magnificent affair, twenty feet long by ten wide, and floated as light as a feather, although the poles were of small size, because buoyed up by the great number of bladders that were placed under the ends. They had made it large enough to carry themselves and the girls, who were to dine with them, and whom they intended to give a sail on the raft. The boys were exceedingly proud of their workmanship, and often exclaimed,-- "Isn't it nice? Wouldn't Tony Stewart like to be here?" Ike Proctor and Archie Crawford now went to shoot pigeons; others built a fireplace, and brought wood and clay in which the birds were to be enveloped and baked. The girls, who were expected to cook the dinner, had brought bread, salt, spoons, and knives. Birch-bark furnished plates, and likewise drinking-cups that were made by folding the bark in a peculiar way, and sticking thorns at the corners. This is a very nice way to make drinking-cups or a vessel to hold sap in; it is done in a moment, but it is not easy to describe. While this was going on, Sammy and Will Redmond cut long poles with which to move and steer the raft. All was now ready, and they shoved off, holding in their hands boughs to catch the breeze; and away they went before the wind and current, laughing, shouting, and enjoying themselves to the top of their bent. No such good time as that could the older people have got up for them. Children are best by themselves, even if they do meet with head-flaws once in a while, and pay the penalty of rashness. Experience must be obtained in this way, to a greater or less extent. They had a splendid sail down stream, but were obliged to push the raft back with setting poles, and against the stream. However, it was not very hard work, as they kept near the bank where the current was not very strong, and in some places an eddy-current setting up stream. They had just commenced another voyage, and were discussing a proposal of Jim Grant to coax their mothers to make them a flax rope, or, failing in this, to persuade Uncle Seth to make a bark one for them, in order that they might be able to anchor their raft, and fish from it, when all at once the bladders under the after end of the raft floated out, the bark strings that fastened them having become slippery by being wet; and they went souse into the stream. They, however, regained the raft, and held by the forward end that was supported by the bladders, and managed to keep their heads out of water. In this shape they drifted along towards a large rock that rose in the middle of the stream, and upon which they made out to scramble just as the raft came to pieces, and the logs and bladders went drifting down stream. Though safe, they were not in a very enjoyable position. The rock was so far from either bank, that no one of them felt equal to the task of swimming to the land in order to obtain help for the rest. In plain sight on the bank lay the pigeons and all the preparations for cooking. The girls would soon be along to get dinner; and they were cooped up on a rock in the middle of the stream. "Mr. Holdness," said Will Redmond, "has got a dug-out behind his house, what they sometimes go down to Mr. Honeywood's place in; and they'd come and get us, if they only knowed we were here." "Let's screech," said Ike. They did screech: the "Catamounts" never screeched louder; but the wind was blowing against them, and they screamed themselves hoarse, to no purpose. The wind, however, that carried the sound from the fort and the dwellings, bore it to the ears of the girls, who, terribly frightened, dropped their pails and baskets, and ran to the nearest house, which happened to be Armstrong's, with eyes full of tears, panting, and screaming that Indians were killing the boys, and then ran to spread the tidings. Armstrong, his son Ned, and Will Grant (who happened to be there), seizing their rifles, hastened to the river, and, when arriving where they could see the boys, slacked their speed, much wondering how they came on that rock. The next moment the alarm-gun at the fort sent out its summons; and Stewart, Holdness, Harry Sumerford, and McClure came running to the spot. Harry was sent round to stop the women who were fleeing to the fort; and Ned Armstrong crossed the ford to tell the scouts who were seen in the distance, hastening home, that it was a false alarm. They were now in no haste to relieve the boys. "Let 'em screech," said Holdness: "it's the best place for 'em. I don't know but 'twould be a good thing to leave 'em there all night and to-morrow, to supple 'em a little." After some little time, the dug-out was hauled down, and the boys brought to the bank. They begged hard to be allowed to keep the dug-out; but the parents were so much provoked with them on account of the alarm and anxiety they had occasioned, that the entreaty met with a stern denial. Congratulating themselves that they were not ordered home and shut up (as they fully expected to be when they saw how angry the old folks were), and joined by the girls, who sympathized with them, they made the best of their misfortune. Some of the boys kindled the fire, others brought the berries from the mountain (the girls having dropped their baskets when they heard the screams of the boys), and Maud Stewart and Jane Proctor began the cooking. They had an excellent dinner, and the best time imaginable, eating, lolling on the grass, drying themselves in the sun, talking over their mishap with the girls, and telling them all about it, and that they were going to give them a sail after dinner if the raft had not come to pieces. "Let's go pick up the bladders, and make another," said Sam. "If we do," said Dan, "maybe 'twill come to pieces; and we don't want to get the girls on it, and have it come to pieces, and drown 'em. I think we've made fuss enough for one day." "Why don't you coax Uncle Seth to make one? then it won't come to pieces," said Maud. "He's so frightened of Indians, you never could get him to come down here. I'll coax mother to get our Harry and Knuck and Elick to come here, and shoot pigeons, and guard him; then he'll come," said Sam. "My mother'll do most any thing for me now, 'cause I've been wounded; and so my brothers will, 'cause they know I haven't got Tony to play with me any more, never." "Oh, how I do wish this Indian war would be done!" said Alice Proctor; "then we could go anywhere without being afraid, and our mothers wouldn't be all the time worrying. I think it's awful: seems as though, if it keeps on, we shall all be killed, because we keep having fights, and, every time we have a fight, somebody's killed. There's more of the Indians than there is of us; and so they'll keep coming till we are all killed." "If it wa'n't for the Indian war, we shouldn't have guns of our own, and so much powder and lead," said Jim Grant. "They wouldn't think so much of us, neither," said Fred Stiefel. "We wouldn't be nothing but boys: now they count on us. Didn't they set us to hold the fort, and stand watch? and didn't we kill a lot of Indians? I tell you, we'd 'a' got an awful lickin' to-day if it hadn't been for what we did this time and the other time, when the Indians tried to take the fort." "I know Mr. Armstrong wanted to lick us, and Mr. Holdness said we all ought to have a good beating; and we'd got it, if 'twa'n't for our fighting so well. I'd ruther kill Indians than pull flax," said Sam. "I'd ruther fight, and be wounded too," said Archie Crawford, "than knock sprouts off the stumps, and pull fire-weed all day." "Fightin' ain't so bad," said Sam. "I love to fight. When it's all still, just afore they begin, and the Indians come, lookin' so savage, all painted, a body feels kind of bad; but when the Indians begin to yell, and you begin to yell, and the rifles crack, and Mr. Blanchard or Mr. Honeywood sings out, 'Now we'll see who's a man and who's a mouse! fire!' then the bad feelin's all gone. Nobody wants to be a mouse: and you don't care one bit after the first of it." "If it hadn't been for the Indian war," said Archie Crawford, "my father wouldn't have been killed, and Dan's father, and Fred's." "They might have died," said Sammy. "They couldn't have died, if they hadn't been killed nor hurted." "Yes, they might: folks die 'cause they're sick." "I don't believe that nobody in this Run ever died 'thout they was killed. How can anybody die, 'cept they're killed or drownded? they can't, I know." "I tell you they can: they'll be took sick, and grown all pale, and their flesh'll all go away, and they'll go to bed, and grow weak; and bime-by they'll get so weak they can't live. I've heard my mother say how her father died. Mr. Holdness might have died. Mother says the rheumatism what he had kills folks sometimes." "I had a little sister," said Will Redmond, "that her throat all swelled, and she couldn't breathe, and she died." Archie still being incredulous, Maud Stewart said,-- "Why, Archie, there is a man buried in the graveyard that the Indians didn't kill,--Mr. Campbell. I've heard mother tell how he is all the one in this Run who ever died, and wasn't killed by Indians. Don't you know the reason Mrs. Sumerford wanted to move out of the fort was because she said that so many in a small place, all stived up, and cattle round, might breed the garrison-fever? and she told my father that would be as bad as the Indians." No one of the children had ever known one of their number to die of disease. All their knowledge respecting the matter was obtained from their parents; and nothing could more strikingly illustrate the perilous life the settlers led than the fact that Archie Crawford considered death by the rifle, tomahawk, or some violence, the natural end of mankind. He had never been out of the Run; there was not an old person there, and he had not the least conception of death by decay of nature. Just below the scene of their mishap, the stream was so crooked that it resembled very much a bean-vine encircling a pole. Here they found the greater portion of the bladders, which they valued somewhat. CHAPTER XI. THE RAFT. The children prevailed upon Mr. Seth to make the raft, with much less difficulty than they had anticipated, and likewise obtained the aid of Harry, Alex, and Enoch. Mr. Seth stipulated, however, that but one of them should go pigeon-shooting at a time, thus leaving two to guard him. The boys also took their guns, and thus he was protected by ten or twelve rifles. "Well, Uncle Seth," said Harry, "I'll take my broad-axe along; for, if I am to stay by you, I might as well help." They found many cedars that had been killed by forest fires, and dry on the stump. Some of them had large hollow butts. They plugged up these ends, thus making air-chambers that rendered the logs very buoyant: therefore there was not the least need of bladders, though the boys insisted on having a number enclosed in the logs. These logs were hewed on the top and flattened on two sides, brought close together, and then confined by cross-ties at each end and in the middle. These cross-ties were treenailed to each log, thus making it impossible for any log to work out, or the raft to get apart; and the water could not slop up between the logs, they were so closely jointed and bound together. Long pins were driven at the four corners, by which to fasten the raft. To crown the whole, they made proper setting-poles and an oar to steer with, and drove two stout pins in the centre of each end, between which the oar was dropped to confine it. Mr. Seth, who now entered into the matter with as much interest as the children themselves, told Sam and Ike to go and tell his brother Israel to send him a bark rope that he had made several months before, and put in the corn-crib. He said he would give them the rope to fasten their raft to the shore with, and made them a fisherman's wooden anchor to hold the raft when they went a fishing. When they came back with the rope, they were accompanied by Mr. Honeywood, whom they had persuaded to come and see what Mr. Seth and Harry were doing for them. When Mr. Seth had finished making the anchor, he put it on the raft with the rope, and said, "There, boys, there you are: that raft won't drown you if you only keep on it." With joyous shouts, the boys leaped on it, jumping, capering, and yelling like wild creatures, and, seizing the poles, pushed off into the stream. After looking at them a few minutes, Mr. Seth picked up his tools, and went home; but Mr. Honeywood and the others sought game in the woods. When they came back, the boys had been some distance down the stream, and returned, and were in the middle of the river. "Shove the raft in here, boys," said Honeywood, "and I'll show you something." They did so, and Honeywood took the steering-oar, put it between the pins, and began to scull the raft against the current at a great rate. This was something new to the boys: they were mightily pleased, and wanted to try their hands at it. Honeywood instructed them in a short time. Sam, Ike, and the older boys, learned the motion, were able to keep the oar under water, and move the raft, and kept at it till it was time to go home. If Mr. Seth before he made the raft (to quote an expression of the lamented Tony) "was the goodest man that ever was," his goodness now must have been beyond the power of language to express. The boys lay awake half the night, telling each other of all his goodness, and planning as to what they should do, now they had got the raft. The next forenoon was all taken up in learning to scull, there were so many of them to practise; then they had to talk, and fool, and fuss so long about it. Every few minutes the oar would slip or come out of the water while some boy was doing his "level best;" and he would fall flat on his back, receiving a poult on the nose from the end of the oar, that would make him see stars. Archie Crawford was trying his hand, when Ike, who was looking at him, exclaimed,-- "Oh, pshaw! what sculling that is! let me show you how it's done." Seizing the oar, he made several mighty strokes; the raft was moving lively, when one of the pins broke, and away went Ike into the river. They now anchored the raft at a little distance from the shore, as far as they thought they could swim, and then, diving, made for the shore. The diving, being in a slanting direction, carried them a good part of the distance to the bank. After practising in this manner a while, they moved the raft a little farther from the bank; and, thus doing, they learned to swim faster than by any other method. Those who could not swim a stroke were not afraid to dive in the direction of the shore, when, as they came up, they could feel the bottom with their feet; and in this way they became sensible of the power of the water to support them, and that it was not easy to reach the bottom while holding their breath. It was a great deal better method than wading in. The next move was to fish from the raft; and while thus engaged they amused themselves in a manner by no means to be commended. It must be considered, however, that they were frontier boys, and their training had not been of a character to cultivate the finer feelings and sympathies of humanity. We remember that they had resolved never to take a scalp, though most of their parents believed and taught them that scalping an Indian was no more harm than scalping a wolf. Bobby Holt proposed fastening two of the largest fish together by their tails, and then tying a bladder to them, which was no sooner proposed than done. The fish would make for the bottom, and for a while succeed in keeping there; but, becoming tired, up would come the bladder, and the fish after it. Again, the fish would swim with great velocity along the surface of the water till exhausted, then turn belly up, and die. Others would swim in different directions till they wore one another out. Probably the words of Holdness, McClure, and Israel Blanchard did not produce much impression upon the minds of the children; but those of Honeywood did, who told them they were as bad as the Indians, who took pleasure in torturing their captives, and that it was wrong in the sight of God, who did not give mankind authority over the animals that they might abuse them. He went on to say, that cruelty and cowardice were near of kin; and that many a man would run at the sound of the war-whoop, and turn pale at the sight of an Indian alive, tomahawk in hand, who would be mean enough to scalp the unresisting dead, or torture a helpless fish. The reproof of Uncle Seth, however, cut the deepest, who said that if he had once thought they would do as they had done (as he had heard they had done, for he could hardly credit the story), he certainly would not have made the raft. He made it for them because he loved them, that they might amuse themselves; but how could he love boys that were so cruel? Upon this Sam Sumerford got up in his lap, and said he was sorry, and would never torment a fish or any other creature again; so they all said, and would not be satisfied till he told them that he truly forgave and loved them as aforetime. I never knew a boy who didn't like to play in water, and paddle about on a raft, even if it consisted of only two or three boards or parts of boards, whose floating capacity was not sufficient to prevent the water from washing into his shoes, with a mud-hole for a pond, or an old cellar partly filled with rain-water. Therefore it may well be doubted whether Mr. Seth could have constructed any thing out of which those boys would have obtained more fun and innocent amusement than they contrived in various ways to get from that raft. From it they could dive; on its smooth floor, could leave their clothes while bathing, bask in the sun to dry off, and run about barefoot without getting splinters in their feet; and they could move it to any spot where the depth of water and quality of the bottom suited them. Borrowing an auger and gouge from Mr. Seth, they made a three-inch hole in the cross-tie at one end of the raft, and another in the middle tie. Into these holes they put two large hemlock bushes as large as they could possibly handle, and sailed under them before the wind at a great rate. The return was not quite so romantic, but they contrived to extract amusement even from that. They took down the bushes, kept near the shore, and the trip afforded an excellent opportunity for learning to scull. After making their trial-trip, they invited the girls to sail with them, and fish from the raft. Satisfied with sailing, they began to fish; and rocks, sheep's heads, catfish, sunfish, and at times a trout, were flapping on the raft. In order that what follows may be intelligible to transient readers, it is necessary to inform them, that, some months before the period under consideration, Sam Sumerford and Tony Stewart captured three bear-cubs, and brought them home. One of them, that had a white stripe on his face, was instantly appropriated by Mrs. Sumerford's baby, and went by the name of baby's bear. The other two were the boys' pets. One of them proving vicious, they were both killed. Baby's bear, however, was as mild as a rabbit, and when small used to lie in the foot of baby's cradle. As the bear grew larger, the child would lie down on him and go to sleep. There were seven or eight large wolf-dogs belonging to different neighbors, savage enough, and prompt at any moment to grapple with bear or wolf; but when pups, and while the settlers lived in the fort, they had been reared with the cubs, and always ate and slept with them. No one of the dogs ever had any difference with baby's bear, though they often quarrelled with each other. The boys were very fond of these dogs, and always at play with them. It chanced on this particular day, that Tony's dog (who, since the loss of his young master, had been very lonely) started off on a visit to Archie Crawford's Lion, and the twain went over to make a friendly call on Sam Sumerford's Watch. They snuffed round a while, poked their noses into every place where they imagined their friend and his master might be; and, not finding him, began to feel lonesome and disappointed. After a while, Lion lighted upon Sammy's track, and of some of the other boys who had come to Mrs. Sumerford's to start with Sammy, told his companion what he had discovered, and proposed that they should follow the trail. Off went the two dogs with noses to the ground, and tails in the air, and soon came to the river; and, sitting down upon the bank, they began to bark and whine. They were soon joined by Sam's Watch, who, missing his master, had been looking for him in another direction, and, hearing the others bark, came to the stream. "Look," said Archie, "there's Sammy's Watch, my Lion, and Tony's Rover, all sitting on the bank." When the dogs started, baby's bear was half asleep in the sun on the door-stone, and hardly noticed them when they came and smelled of him. After they had gone, he roused up, stared round, and shook himself, and, feeling lonesome too, moved along after them. Instead of sitting down as the dogs had done, when he reached the bank, he entered the water, and swam towards the raft. "Oh!" shouted Sammy, "only look at baby's bear coming to see us fish: isn't he good? we'll have him on the raft with us." "Yes, and the dogs are coming too: won't it be nice to have 'em all?" said Maud. It proved, however, not to be so very nice, after all. The raft was already loaded nearly to its capacity; and when the bear (which weighed three hundred pounds when dry, much more wet) put his fore-paws on the raft in order to mount, he pressed it to the water's edge. The girls began to scream, and the boys to kick the bear, and pound him on the head, to make him let go. And now came the dogs: the bear was resolved to get on the raft, and the dogs too. In this exigency the boys all jumped into the water, holding by their hands to the raft, in order to lighten it, upon which the dogs relinquished their purpose, and kept swimming round the boys; but not so the bear, who, scrabbling on the raft, shook himself, drenching the girls with spray; and, seating himself in the middle, cast approving glances round him from his wicked little eyes. It was found that the raft would bear part of the boys; and Sam and Ike Proctor, getting upon it, pulled up the anchors, and sculled to the shore; the bear meanwhile regaling himself with fish, thus making it evident why he was so anxious to get on the raft. There was no harm done: the girls, to be sure, were pretty well sprinkled, but it was no great matter, as they were all barefoot. After reaching the shore, the girls concluded to go on the mountain, and pick berries in the hot sun till their clothes were dried. Mrs. Armstrong had sent word for the boys to catch some blood-suckers (leeches) to apply to her husband's wound that was inflamed. The boys, therefore, thought best to get them while the girls were berrying, and while they were wet. They all went to a frog-pond near by, stripped up their trousers, waded into the water, and, when the blood-suckers came to fasten on their legs, caught them in their hands, and put them into a pail of water. Some of the boys, who wanted a new sensation, would permit them to fasten on their legs, and suck their fill till they became gorged, and dropped off of their own accord. Sam Sumerford had no less than three on his right leg, and was sitting on a log with his legs in the water, patiently waiting for the leeches to fill themselves, with his head on his hands, half asleep. Suddenly he leaped from the log, with a fearful yell, and ran out of the water, dragging a snapping turtle after him, as big over as a half-bushel, that had fastened to his right foot. They all ran to his aid. "He won't let go till it thunders," said Dan Mugford: "they never do." "Cut his head off, then: cut him all to pieces," cried the sufferer. "If you can bear it a little while, Sammy," said Jim Grant, "till we pry his mouth open easy, we can keep him, and have him to play with, and set the dogs on him." "I guess, if he had your foot in his mouth, you wouldn't want to bear it, Jim Grant: kill him, I tell you, quicker!" Archie held the turtle, and Ike pulled his head out of his shell, and cut it off. Even then the jaws were set so hard that it required some force to open them. The injury was above the roots of the great and second toes, and severe enough to wound the flesh and cause blood to run freely; but the resolute boy plastered some clay on it, and went berrying with the rest. Before starting for home with the leeches, they consulted in respect to the manner in which they should amuse themselves the next day. This, of course, implied that they should do something with the raft. "We've sailed, fished, and learned to scull; and now we want to do something we never did do," said Ike. "Then let's sail up to the leaning hemlock," said Mugford, "where there's plenty of fish; and get clay and flat stones, and build a fire-place on the raft, borrow Mrs. Honeywood's Dutch oven, get potatoes, pork, and fixin's, and have a cook on the raft." CHAPTER XII. A DAY OF UNALLOYED PLEASURE. The boys flattered themselves that they had made all their arrangements for a good time the next day; but on the way home they met Mr. Seth, who said that he and Israel were going to junk and pile logs on a burn the next day, and he must have all of them to nigger off logs. "We can't to-morrow, Uncle Seth," said Sammy; "'cause we're going to make a fire-place on the raft, and have a cook, and have the Dutch oven, and have Scip, and the biggest time we ever did have." "But you can't have Scip, because he'll have to chop with us; but you can have a first-rate time niggering logs: you can have a fire in a stump, and roast potatoes and ears of corn." "We ought to help Uncle Seth, 'cause he's the goodest man ever was, 'cause he's made us the raft," said Sam. "So we will help, Uncle Seth," said Will Redmond; "and we'll let you see what we kin do." "That's good boys; and we'll have a long nooning; and I'll tell you about Mr. Honeywood, how, when he was a little bit of a boy, he went to sea on a tree, and was picked up by a vessel." "What's a sea, and what's a vessel?" said Bob Holt. "I'll tell you all about it; and, when we get the piece ready to sow, I'll ask Israel to let Scip go with you on the raft. But you mustn't tell him Indian stories, nor say any thing about them; for, if you do, he won't be good for any thing for a fortnight." "No, Uncle Seth, we won't, and we won't scare him for fun as we used to," said Ben Wood. These frontier boys had never seen a vessel, nor even a tug-boat; all the craft they were acquainted with was a birch canoe or a dug-out; and they wondered much what Uncle Seth meant by the sea for though some of them had read some pieces at school, in which references were made to vessels and the ocean, yet as they had never seen a map, and could only read by spelling many of the words, they had no definite conception in regard to the subject. The next morning the boys took their guns and provisions with them to the field. The place was not far from the fort; there was a strong party on the scout; and the boys were able to persuade Mr. Seth to say, that, when noon came, he would eat with them in the field. Mr. Seth, Israel, and Scipio now began to cut into proper lengths the large logs that the clearing-fire had spared, and the boys went to niggering. They placed a large stick across a log, put brands and dry stuff beside it on the log, and set it on fire, in order to burn the log off, until they had twenty or thirty logs on fire at once, which kept them running from one to the other tending the fires. In this way they rendered good service, and niggered off logs faster than the men could chop them in two; and they liked the work right well. Mr. Seth had brought bread and butter and some slices of bacon. Scip brought a jug of milk; and the boys roasted eggs and potatoes in the ashes, and ears of corn before the fire; and, after dinner, Mr. Seth told them what happened to Mr. Honeywood; then he described the ocean, and tried to give them some idea of a vessel by whittling out a miniature one with his knife. The next day these scorched and half-burned logs and brands (over which the fire had run, burning up all the limbs and tops) were to be piled up and entirely consumed. The men and boys came to the field, dressed in tow frocks and trousers. Maccoy and Grant came to help with oxen; and the logs were drawn together, and rolled up in piles, and all the large brands picked up and flung on top or tucked under the piles, which occupied the whole day. The next morning they set all the piles on fire, and tended them, in order to make a clean burn, throwing in the brands and branches. They were, every one of them, just as black as a smut-coal; and at night they went to the river, washed both their persons and clothes, and put on clean garments. The lads now entered with new enthusiasm upon preparation for their postponed expedition on the river. It is the nature of a well-constructed boy to receive peculiar delight from any thing of his own contrivance. The rudest plaything of his own invention or manufacture is dearer to him than a much better one that is the workmanship of another. Boys who are possessed of any pluck, and are worth raising, delight in the development of their own powers, both of brain and muscle: you may observe it in a little child taking its first steps, and holding the father's finger. The little thing toddles on demurely enough, so long as led; but the moment it leaves the father's finger, and strikes out boldly for the safe harbor of its mother's lap, its eyes are dancing in its head, hands going up and down in high glee, and, screaming and crowing with delight, it tumbles into those extended arms breathless but in ecstasy. That feeling of self-help, so dear to the child, is no less so to the boy or to the man, of whom the child is the father. Therefore, though the boys were under great obligations to Mr. Seth for putting the raft into their hands, and to Mr. Honeywood for teaching them to manage it, and thus contributing to their amusement, they were under still greater obligations to them for opening before them such a field for contrivance, furnishing them with resources, and placing them in a position that stimulated their own energies. They commenced operations by boring two holes with an auger into the cross-tie at the centre of the raft, into which they drove two crotches some five feet in length. Clay from the frog-pond, and sand from the river, were mixed together and well worked, and wooden trowels made to handle it with. Several of the boys made use of the shoulder-blades of moose, which made very good substitutes for steel trowels. The shell of the snapping turtle, and pieces of pine and hemlock bark, were used to carry the mortar on. Plastering the floor of the raft with this mortar to the depth of a foot, they bedded flat stones in it to form a hearth, then built up a fireplace with three sides but open in front, plastering the stones with clay both inside and out. A stout green stick was laid in the crotches, and a withe fastened to it to hold the Dutch oven. Leaving their work to dry in the hot sun, they cut dry hard wood in short pieces, and, going to the burn, brought from thence in a basket some hard-wood coals and brands to cook with. The object of cutting the wood fine, and procuring the charcoal, was that they might have a hot fire without much blaze that would be likely to burn their crotch pole and withe, which as a further safeguard they smeared with clay. It is evident that all this implies forethought, calculation, and practice. "Don't let us go home for bowls, plates, or spoons," said Johnnie Armstrong: "we can make 'em ourselves." "I and Jim Grant, Dan Mugford, and Johnnie Armstrong can make the spoons and plates," said Fred Stiefel. "We can make square trenchers good enough out of a chip," said Archie; "but we can't bowls: 'twould take all summer." "I know a better way than that," said Sam. "We don't want but one or two bowls, one big one to hold the stew; and we can make bowls and plates out of clay." "That'll be the best fun that ever was," said Archie. "I'd sooner make the dishes than eat the vittles." "I wouldn't: I'd rather do both." Part of them with axes split blocks of proper wood to make the spoons, and shaped them rudely with tomahawks, while others prepared clay for the bowls. They had been accustomed to make marbles of clay, and bake them on the hearth, though it must be confessed they frequently split into halves in baking; they had also made moulds of clay in which to run bullets, and had helped make clay mortar to plaster the chimneys. They treated this clay in the same manner, mixing sand with it. Thus they were occupied till the horn blew for dinner, at which time Archie obtained a crooked knife made to dig out bowls, spoons, and trays, having a rest for the thumb. During meal-time the boys were much questioned by the girls; but they preserved a dignified silence, looking unutterable things, and saying, as they left home, that, if the girls presumed to come peeking and prying round, they shouldn't go with them, not one inch. Fred Stiefel was master workman of the spoon business; and while his gang were seated in the shade, manufacturing those utensils, Sam and his fellow-potters began the making of earthen-ware. They adopted a singular method, originating in the inventive brain of Sammy. Selecting a level spot in the dry, tough clay ground, they removed the turf, picked out the grass-roots, smoothed the surface, and swept off the dust. Upon this surface they laid some of the square wooden plates or trenchers used by the settlers, and cut into the clay, then hollowed the centre with a crooked drawing-knife made to hollow the staves of tubs and pails. This was the mould, and they made numbers of them. Moulds for bowls were made in the same way; and, when the draw-shave did not accomplish the purpose, they worked out the bottom of the moulds, and smoothed them up with the bowl of a horn spoon, the handle of which had been broken off. Into these moulds they put the clay, plastering it on the sides and bottom to a proper thickness, and, removing all superfluous clay with wooden scrapers and the spoon-bowl, pressed and smoothed it with their fingers and a bunch of wet moss, that left the surface smooth and shining. They became more and more interested in their work, and endeavored to excel each other in the shape and ornamentation of their vessels, for they even aspired to that. The square trenchers with their large margin afforded ample space for designs. Archie made a row of sharp points round the edge of his plate, and between each two a round dot by pressing a buckshot into the clay; and also cut his name on the bottom. Ike Proctor made a vine; and outside of that he made quite a pretty figure by pressing beechnuts and the upper surface of acorn-cups into the clay. Sammy Sumerford excelled all the others. In the first place, he traced a vine round the outer edge, and did it quite well; having found in the house the wheel or rowel of a spur he printed it in the clay inside the vine; not satisfied with this he obtained some garnets, and, pressing them into the clay, left them there. "How did you cut that vine so true, Sam?" said Bob Holt, who was admiring the work. "I laid a little small spruce-root, not so large as a knitting-needle, all round the edge, and made all the turns as I wanted to have 'em, and put thorn spikes to keep 'em from moving while I pressed 'em into the clay." It was now time to drive up the cattle; and, dusting their work with sand, they covered it with boughs to keep off the dew. The next morning the plates and bowls were carefully dug out of the moulds, and placed in the sun to dry the outside; then they were put in the fireplace, the top of which was covered with flat stones and clay to keep in the heat; and they were burned as red as a brick. Some of them fell to pieces. All of them were full of small cracks; but they would hold water some time, though it soaked out gradually. The remainder of the day was spent in killing and plucking pigeons, and making preparations for the morrow. Early next morning came the girls and Scip, bringing with them whatever other articles of food or seasoning were needed. The girls were much pleased with the fireplace, and especially with the bowls, spoons, and platters; and the boys were the recipients of compliments that put them in excellent humor. Shoving off, they went up to a part of the stream that was wider, in order to have a better opportunity to sail. They now discovered, that, to all his other accomplishments, Scip added that of an excellent oarsman. He was a Baltimore negro, and was purchased in that place (as most of our readers know) by Israel Blanchard, on his way to settle at Wolf Run; and had been accustomed to go in boats, and scull rafts of lumber on the Patapsco River. He disdained the use of pins or a notch to keep his oar in place, but would scull right on the side of the raft anywhere, shoving his oar perpendicularly into the water and keeping it so, which afforded him a greater leverage in sculling against the stream. With Scip at the oars, and the boys at the setting-poles, they went along lively when returning from a trip and against the wind and current. When tired of sailing, they fished; and then, bringing the raft under the branches of a leaning hemlock, the boys went on shore to pick berries for a dessert, while Scip and the girls were getting dinner. The fireplace worked to a charm, and the dinner proved to be all that could be desired. They enjoyed the pleasure of eating afloat, something new to them, and, with no mishap to mar the pleasure of the day, had the best time imaginable. They also had berries to carry home. On arriving home that night, the boys were told that they had enjoyed a good long play-spell, and that the next morning they must go sprouting. In clearing land the stumps of the trees send up a great many sprouts: these the boys were set to beat off, or cut with hatchets, in order to kill the stumps. When the sprouts become dry they are piled up around the stumps, and burned, which tends still more to kill them; and by doing this a few times the roots are exhausted. The next employment was to cut down the fire and pigeon weed among the corn, and to pull the pease and beans. Then there was flax to pull; and, though only the men and largest boys could do that, yet any of them could carry it off the piece, and spread it on the grass to rot the stalk, and make it separate from the outside skin or fibre, which is the part used to make thread. One thing coming thus after another, it was a long time before they were given another holiday. CHAPTER XIII. CANNOT GIVE IT UP. Occurrences very trifling, in themselves considered, often lead to important results. The boyish whim of making a fireplace on the raft, and constructing dishes from clay, developed a capacity in Sammy Sumerford of the existence of which he was before unconscious; and was productive of most useful results, affecting the entire community in which he lived. The other boys, when they had succeeded in making and burning the bowls, satisfied with accomplishing their present purpose, seemed to have exhausted their enthusiasm in that direction. It was far otherwise with Sammy. At night, morning, and even sometimes at noon, he would steal away by himself to the clay-pit. He also held a good many private conferences with Mr. Seth, going to the mill for that purpose. We will take the liberty to repeat one of them. "Mr. Seth, you know my mother's got an earthen milk-pan, and Mrs. Holdness has got two: where did they come from?" "Baltimore." "Who made 'em?" "A potter by the name of Bickford. He makes pans, jugs, bowls, and teapots, out of clay." "My mother's pan don't leak a drop, not when she puts hot water in it; but we boys made some things out of clay, and baked 'em just as we do our marbles, and the water and soup we put in 'em soaked through." "It didn't soak through faster than you could eat it, did it?" "No, sir; but when we let it set, after a good while, it did. What's the reason milk nor nothing else won't go through mother's pan?" "'Cause it's glazed, and probably burned harder than yours. Didn't you see that the inside was of a different color from the outside, and there was something smooth and shiny all over it? That's the glazing, that makes it as tight as though it was made of glass. That's a secret they keep to themselves; but I believe they burn lead, and mix other things with it, put it on, and then bake it in. But the potter's ware that is not glazed will hold water well enough: the water won't drop, and it takes a long time to soak out; all the trouble is, whatever you put into it soaks in, and you can't keep it so clean as though it was glazed." "Then what made ours leak so fast?" "Were there cracks in it?" "Yes, sir; lots of 'em." "Did you put sand in your clay, just as we do when we make mortar?" "Yes, sir." "What else did you do to it?" "Worked it with the hoe, just as we do mortar." "Was that all?" "Yes, sir." "Well, the potters don't put any sand in their clay as a general thing, and never but a very little: the sand made it leak. You didn't make earthen: you made brick. And they take great pains to work their clay. I think it is very likely there were sticks and grass-roots in yours, and it was raw, and not worked enough; and that made it crack and blow. If you had worked it as much as your mother does her dough, not put in any sand, and baked it harder, it would have done better." "Uncle Seth, I love to make things in clay, and I'm going to try to make a bean-pot for my mother. You won't tell anybody, Uncle Seth. Will you?" "No, indeed, and I'm real glad you are going to try. It's a great deal better to spend your time in trying to make something useful than to be fooling or doing mischief." "You know everybody likes Harry 'cause he's brave, kills Indians and bears, and can foller a trail. Ain't I brave?" "Yes, you're brave." "Folks like Harry 'cause he can do so much work,--make tubs, pails, baskets, and drums. You and Mr. Israel like to have him with you, and let him have your tubs, and mother, she says he's the best boy ever a mother had, may the Lord bless him! "I want to make things too; 'cause I love to, and 'cause I haven't got Tony to play with me any more, and 'cause I don't want everybody to say I'm a plague above ground, and a real vexation: that's what Mrs. Mugford said." "That's right, my lad: if you do that you'll be a great benefit, and everybody will love you. How did you make your bowls and platters the other day? What did you have to make 'em by?" "We made 'em in the ground." "That's the last way I should have thought of," said Uncle Seth, laughing. "How did you get 'em out?" "After they dried, we dug the ground away with our scalping-knives, till we could pull 'em out." "If the ground hadn't been as dry as an ash-heap, they never would have dried in the ground so that you could have taken them out; and, if there had come a shower, they'd been full of water." "What's a better way to do?" "Make a wooden mould, and put the clay on it: then the inside will be smooth, and just the shape of the mould, and you can make the outside just as you like; and when you put it in the fire the wood will burn out. Or you can do as the Indians do,--make a basket, and put the clay on the inside of the basket; and the basket will burn off." Sammy went away, and pondered a long while upon what Mr. Seth had told him; but he thought he could not make a wooden mould very well, nor a basket, and took the funniest method imaginable; but then, you know, he was a Sumerford, and own brother to Harry. He dug his clay, made it as thin as porridge with water, and strained it through a riddling-sieve. "I guess there ain't any sticks or grass-roots in that," said Sammy. After the clay had settled to the bottom, he turned off the water, and worked it with a hoe, then dragged the tub into the woods where the boys would not be likely to see it, and left it, as Uncle Seth had said it ought to lie a while. After the work referred to in the last chapter was done, the boys were given a day to go fishing; but, to their great surprise, Sammy, who was generally the leader in all such enterprises, didn't want to go. The boys were no sooner out of sight than Sammy ran to the clay-pit, dragged the tub from the bushes, and gave the clay another working. Then, hunting among the corn, he found a hard-shelled pumpkin which suited him in shape. The bottom of it was slightly hollowing; but Sammy cut it perfectly square, and likewise cut a piece from the stem end, in order that both the top and bottom might be square. Sammy knew his mother would want a big pot; for there were three strapping boys to eat beans, and, if half the children in the Run happened to be at Mrs. Sumerford's near meal-time, she would have them stop to eat: therefore he had selected the largest pumpkin of the right shape that he could find, on which to mould his pot. Over this pumpkin he plastered the clay, and regulated the thickness by marking the depth on a little pointed stick which he thrust into the clay from time to time. Knowing his mother would be obliged to cover the top of the pot with coals and ashes, it must of course have a cover. He turned his tub bottom up, and, using the bottom for a table, rolled out a strip of clay, and placed it round the edge of the pot on the inside, for the cover to rest on; then, cutting out a piece of birch-bark to fit the top of the pot, moulded his cover by that, punching up the clay in the middle for a handle to take it off by, for he did not know that handles could be made and stuck on to clay vessels when they are half dry. All this accomplished, Sammy was quite delighted, clapped his hands, and danced round his work, exclaiming,-- "I never did feel so good in all my life. What'll my mother say? I guess Harry'll think something. Oh, if Tony was only here to make one for his mother!" He was now seized with a strong desire to ornament his work, which was quite rough, and covered with finger-marks. The first thing needed was a smooth surface on which to make figures. He sharpened a stake at both ends, drove one end into the ground, and stuck the pot on the other, running the stake into the pumpkin to hold it. He then moistened the clay, smoothed it with wet moss and a flat stick, and afterwards with a piece of wet bladder, till it was perfectly smooth and level; and sat down to consider in what way he should ornament the surface. Several methods suggested themselves, none of which were satisfactory. At length an idea entered his mind, that he hastened to carry out in practice. Rolling out a piece of clay on the bottom of the tub till it was a foot square or more, he took a beech-leaf, and, placing it on the clay, pressed it carefully into the surface; then taking it up by the stem, he found the full impress of it left on the clay. Delighted with this, he gathered the top shoots of cedar, and beech-leaves of various kinds, and ferns, and took impressions from all of them, till he had quite a gallery at his command. The large-ribbed, deeply-indented leaves gave the best impression; while the ferns, though very beautiful, afforded an indistinct outline, and the cedar the most marked, the leaf being thick, and going deeper into the surface. After long deliberation, he settled down upon the beech, cedar, fern, and locust, choosing the extremities of the smallest branches, which he pressed carefully into the surface of his pot, and left them there to be burned out when the pot was baked. Sammy now took a thin flat stone, sprinkled it with sand, turned the pot on it, and set it in a hollow tree; intending as soon as the clay had hardened sufficiently, and the pumpkin had become tender by decay, to dig out the meat, leaving the shell to be burned out. He then flatted out a large piece of clay, and began to search round after other leaves and objects of which to take impressions. So absorbed did he become, that he forgot his dinner, taking no note of passing time, and meditated new devices till he was roused by hearing the voices of the boys coming from fishing; and, instantly putting away his implements, ran home. He didn't want the boys to know what he was doing, for fear they would tell his mother; and he wanted to surprise her. Before reaching the house, he met his mother coming after him. "Why, Sammy Sumerford, where have you been this livelong day?" "Down to the river." "Down to the river, indeed! Didn't you hear me blow the horn? I was afraid the Indians had got you. What could you find to do there without any dinner, and all alone?" "I've had a good time, ma'am." "Well, if you have, I'm glad of it; but it must have been a very different good time from any you ever had before: for never since you came into the world could you have any sort of a good time without half a dozen boys round you; and, if there were as many girls, so much the better." The moment he had swallowed his supper, he ran off to report to Mr. Seth; who had a good laugh when Sammy told him he had moulded on a pumpkin, and reckoned he could not dig out till it was thoroughly rotten, without breaking the pot. He was, however, singularly favored in this respect: not being able to visit the place for two days without the notice of the other boys, when he did go he found the pumpkin entirely covered with ants, who had devoured nearly the whole of it. "Good on your heads!" said he. "You can dig it easier and better than I can, and won't break the pot neither." The interior of the old tree was damp; and when the ants had devoured all of the meat, leaving only the shell of the pumpkin, Sam, watching his opportunity, removed the pot to the garret of the house, where it might dry thoroughly. CHAPTER XIV. THE BEAN-POT. Mr. Seth had told Sammy that one reason his bowls and platters cracked was because they were baked too quick: that to bake a potter's kiln required forty-eight hours; that the baking must commence gradually, and be discontinued in the same way. Another reason was, that they were of unequal thickness; and the thin places shrunk before the thicker ones, and pulled them apart. One morning, while the pot was drying, Sam came into the house, and heard his mother up garret. He thought she was making his bed, but, listening a moment, found she was rummaging round. Alarmed, he said,-- "Mother, what are you doing up there?" "Doing? I'm hunting after a 'sley' that belongs to the loom." "Come down, marm, and I'll come and find it." "You find any thing? umph! You can't keep the run of your own clothes. I have to find your hat for you half the time. I expect now I'll have to move half the old trumpery in this garret." Grown desperate, Sammy flung a mug of cold water in the face of the baby, who was sitting on the floor. The child set up a terrible screeching. "Sam, what does ail that child?" "I don't know, marm. Guess he's going to have a fit. He's holding his breath." Mrs. Sumerford was down the ladder in an instant, and catching up the child, who was purple in the face from temper and strangulation, thumped him on the back, exclaiming,-- "Poor blessed baby! was he frightened 'cause his mother left him? Well, mother won't;" and the next moment, "Why, this child's all wet! Sam Sumerford, what have you been doing? Have you been throwing water on this baby?" Sam, who was in the chamber, and had hid the pot in his bed, to change the subject replied,-- "Yes, marm, I--I'm trying to find it." "Well, you look for it. I must go to the barn, and get some eggs for Harry's breakfast." Harry had stood watch in the night at the fort, and was in bed. Taking the child with her, Mrs. Sumerford left the house, when Sammy went and hid the pot in the pasture, in a hollow fence-log on high ground, and where a current of air circulated through that kept it dry. Sammy thought it would be a fine thing to have his mother's name on the pot, or at least the words "For mother," and knew that, though it was dry, he could cut them in. He persuaded Mr. Seth to cut the inscription on a piece of bark taken from a young pine; and then, pasting the bark with flour paste to the surface to keep it from moving, he cut out the letters by the pattern, moistening the clay a little, that it might not crumble at the edge. The bark was quite thick, which served better for guiding the point of the tool with which he worked. New difficulties now arose in respect to the baking. Uncle Seth had told Sammy it took forty-eight hours to bake a kiln of potter's ware, but, where the fire was all directed to one pot, that perhaps one day and one night would be sufficient. Sammy perceived at once that he could not hope to do this without the knowledge of his companions; and, making a virtue of necessity, took them to the pasture, showed them the pot, and told them all his heart. They instantly entered into his plans, promised to keep the secret, and do all they could to help him, and instantly set about preparations. "Where can we bake it?" said Sammy. "We can't do it on the raft; 'cause we've got to keep a fire all night, and our folks won't let us be down to the river all night nor one minute after sundown." "Bake it down to Cuthbert's house, in the big fireplace. Make a kiln right in that," said Mugford. "They wouldn't let us stay there all night." "What matter will it be," said Archie, "if we let the fire be at night, and then kindle it up in the morning? S'pose you put in a lot of hard wood when you left it: 'twould be all hot in the morning; 'twouldn't get cold; then there won't be no trouble." "I don't know," said Sammy. "I'll ask Uncle Seth." Mr. Seth, being appealed to, said he didn't think it would make any difference if they put in wood at night, kept it warm, and started the fire in the morning slowly; that the reason potters and brick-makers kept their kilns burning all night was to save time and wood; that it would require a great deal less wood to keep it going all night, than to let the kiln cool off, and start it again. There was no need of going to the river for clay, as there was a pit in the pasture just back of the Cuthbert house, from which the settlers had dug clay to plaster the roofs of the block-houses. They therefore began to build the kiln with rocks and clay right before Mrs. Sumerford's door, part of them working on the kiln, and the rest making marbles to bake in it. Mr. Seth had told them that the fire must not come directly to the pot: so they built a square of rocks and clay, and in the middle made a place in which to put the pot, marbles, and several bowls and platters that the boys made on the spot. In this little apartment they left openings to admit the heat, having fire on all sides of it: then they covered the top with two flat stones about four inches apart, and left below two holes to put in wood, and plastered the whole all over with clay. They then covered each end of the slit on top with flat stones and clay, except a short space in the middle left for draught, and which could be closed with a stone laid near for the purpose. They had received general instructions from Uncle Seth, and were carrying them out in their own way with the greatest possible enthusiasm. There were quite a number of articles in the receptacle with the pot, that the boys made and moulded from the clay with which the kiln was built; but some of the boys had brought up some of the clay Sam had worked, and made platters and marbles. The piece of land on which they had recently been burning the logs was full of the ends of limbs and half-burned brands, just the thing to make a hot fire and to kindle readily. They gathered many of these, and plenty of other wood; and, their preparations being all made at night, they kindled the fire at sunrise next day. They made a regular holiday of it, roasting corn, potatoes, and eggs in a separate fireplace constructed for the purpose; and Scip came occasionally to partake of their cheer. They borrowed Mrs. McClure's big skillet, and Mrs. Sumerford made bread for them: this was on the second day, when the fire had been burning long enough to make plenty of ashes and coals. They swept the hearth of their fireplace clean, put the dough into the skillet, turned it bottom up on the hearth, and covered the skillet with hot coals. With the coals on top and the hot hearth beneath, it baked splendidly; and they had their dinner before the kiln. Harry shot two wild turkeys, and gave them one; and they baked it, and had a great feast, and kept the fire up three days; and when on the forenoon of the fourth day they opened it, the pot came out without a crack, and baked to a bright red. The little stems of the cedar and beech were baked to a coal; and Sammy picked them out, leaving the impression sharp and clear. He then mixed up some lamp-black that Solomon Lombard, the Indian trader, had given him, and filled the letters that composed the motto, which brought them out finely in contrast with the red ground on which they were cut. The other articles fared quite otherwise: many of the marbles split in halves, some cracked, others blistered or fell to pieces; but a few came out whole and fair. It was found, however, that the marbles and dishes made of clay brought from the river were the ones that stood the baking and were bright red, while the others were lighter-colored. Mr. Seth said they stood the fire because the clay had been worked more, and that the deeper color was due to the greater quantity of iron in the river clay. Sammy had taken his pot to the pasture among the bushes, to fill the letters with black, and was joined by the other boys as soon as they had cleared the kiln. Their conversation, as was often the case, turned upon the virtues of Uncle Seth, without whose advice it was allowed Sammy would never have succeeded in making his pot. "What a pity," said Dan, "such a good man should be a coward!" "He isn't a coward," said Sammy. "Yes, he is. Didn't he shut himself up in the mill when the Indians attacked the fort, scared to death? and didn't his own brother Israel say it was the first time he ever knew a fort saved by a coward?" "What is a brave man, what ain't a coward?" "Why, a man what ain't scared of any thing." "Then there ain't any brave men, and every man in the Run is a coward; for there ain't one of 'em but's afraid of something,--afraid to go into the house where McDonald and his folks were killed. Mr. Holdness nor McClure wouldn't go in there in the night, sooner'n they'd jump into the fire: don't you call them brave men?" "Yes." "Uncle Seth isn't afraid to walk up on a tree that's lodged, and cut it off, and then come down with it, or jump off. He isn't afraid to go under a tree that's lodged, and cut the tree it's lodged on; he'll ride the ugliest horse that ever was; walk across the water on a log when it's all white with froth; and when there was a great jam of drift stuff stopped the river, and was going to overflow the cornfield, he went on to the place, and cut a log what held it, and broke the jam; and there wasn't another man in the Run dared do it. He said he'd lose his life afore the water should destroy the corn." While Sammy was defending Uncle Seth from the charge of cowardice, his face reddened, his eyes flashed fire, his fists were clinched, and he threw his whole soul into the argument, and carried his audience with him. They resolved on the spot that Uncle Seth was not a coward, though _he was afraid of Indians_. They could not endure the thought that an imputation so disgraceful in their eyes as that of a coward should rest upon the character of a man whom they so dearly loved. CHAPTER XV. THE SURPRISE. It is perhaps needless to inform our readers that Sammy did not find the "sley" on that eventful day when he threw the water in the baby's face; but his mother got the baby to sleep, and found it. On the morning of the third day, she had just entered the door of the kitchen with a pail of water in her hand, when she encountered Sammy (followed by Louisa Holt, Maud Stewart, Jane Proctor, and a crowd of boys) with the bean-pot in his hand, which he placed upon the table with an air of great satisfaction. It was some time before the good woman could be brought to believe that Sam made it. She knew that of late he had been much at the mill with Mr. Seth, and supposed he must have made and given it to him; but, when she became convinced of the fact, the happy mother clasped him in her arms, exclaiming,-- "Who says Sammy's fit for nothing but mischief? Who is it says that? Let him look at that pot, as nice a one as ever a woman baked beans in, and a cover too. Harry has made pails, tubs, a churn, and a good many other things; but he never made an earthen pot, nor any man in this place. My sakes! to think we've got a potter among us! what a blessing he will be! There's not another woman in the settlement has got a bean-pot." "Mrs. Sumerford, only see the printing and the pictures on it," said Maud Stewart. "Pictures and printing! I must get my glasses." After putting on her spectacles, the happy mother expressed her astonishment in no measured terms. "'For Mother:' he's his mother's own blessed baby. But did you truly make the letters, and the leaves on there, your own self?" "Yes, mother: I did it alone in the woods; only Mr. Seth made the letters on some bark for me, but I put 'em on the pot." "Now I'll bake a mess of beans in it, just to christen it. Girls, you help me pick over the beans; and I'll put 'em on to parboil afore we sit down to dinner, and have 'em for supper. I want you all to stay to dinner and supper both. The boys can play with Sammy; and the girls and I'll make some buttermilk biscuit for supper, and a custard pudding. "Girls, I'm going to draw a web of linen into the loom; and you can help me, and learn how; play with the baby and the bear: baby's bear'll play real good; he's a good creature. He'll tear all the bark off the tree with his claws; but, when he's playing with baby, he'll pull 'em all into the fur, so his paw is soft as can be. Harry, Elick, and Enoch'll be home from the scout; and what think they'll say when they come to know that Sammy's made a pot, and his mother's baked beans in it?" "Mother, may I ask Uncle Seth to come to supper? I want him to see the pot, 'cause he told me how to fix the clay, and bake it." "Sartain: I'd like to have Mr. Seth come every night in the week. This pot isn't glazed, to be sure; but I'll rub it with tallow and beeswax: I've heard my husband say that was the way the Indians used to do their pots." "Mr. Seth said the Indians used to make pots, mother." "Sartain, dear, the Indians clear back; but now they get iron ones of the white folks, and people reckon they've lost the art. If you look on the side of the river where the old Indian town used to be, where you go to get arrow-heads, you'll find bottoms of pots washing out of the banks, and sometimes half of one." The good woman stuffed the pot thoroughly with tallow and wax, dusted some flour over it, and put it in the beans and pork. Mrs. Sumerford had no oven; but that did not in the least interfere with baking the beans. With the kitchen shovel she threw back the ashes and coals on the hearth, and took up a flat stone under which was a square hole dug in the hearth (the house had no cellar), lined with flat stones. Into this hole she put wood and hot coals till it was thoroughly heated: then she cleaned the cavity, put in the pot, covered it with hot coals, and left the beans to bake; for there never was a better place,--that is, to give them the right flavor. The boys could not leave till this important operation was performed; when, finding the mill was in motion, they concluded to go there, and invite Uncle Seth to supper, and, after having a swim, and a sail on the raft, escort him to Mrs. Sumerford's. The mill had not yet ceased to be a novelty; and they loved dearly to watch the grain as it dropped from the hopper into the shoe, and from the shoe into the hole in the upper stone. It was also a great source of amusement to go up into the head of the mill, and hear it crack, and feel it jar and quiver when the wind blew fresh, and put their hands on the shaft as it revolved. They were more disposed to this quiet pastime, from the fact that they had been prohibited the use of powder and lead for the present. When Harry, Alex, and Enoch came home, nothing was said about the bean-pot, though it was hard work for Mrs. Sumerford, and especially for the girls, to hold in. "Come, mother," said Harry, "we're raving hungry: ain't you going to give us any supper?" "I should have had supper on the table when you came, but Mr. Seth's coming: the boys have gone after him, and I knew you would want to eat with him." It was not long before they all came in; and after putting the dishes on the table, and other provisions, Mrs. Sumerford took from the Dutch oven the biscuits, a custard pudding she had baked from a kettle, and then, placing a bean-pot in the middle of the table, exclaimed with an air of ill-concealed triumph,-- "There! Harry, Elick, Enoch, look at that pot, and tell me where you suppose it came from." They examined it with great attention; and, the more they looked, the more their wonder grew. "It was made by somebody in this place, of course," said Alex; "because nobody has been here to bring it, and nobody could go from here to get it. I guess Mr. Honeywood made it, because he's lived in Baltimore where they make such things." "Guess, all of you; and, when any one guesses right, I'll say yes." "I," said Enoch, "guess Mr. Holt made it, 'cause he came from one of the oldest settlements, where they have every thing; and he made the millstones." Harry, who had been examining it all the while, thought he recognized Uncle Seth's handiwork in the inscription, and said,-- "I think, as Elick does, it must have been made here, because there's no intercourse betwixt us and other people; and no regular potter would have made it that shape; it would have been higher and straighter, like some I saw at Baltimore when we went after the salt: so I guess Uncle Seth made it." "Come, Mr. Blanchard, it's your turn now." "I guess little Sammy here made it." This assertion raised a roar of laughter; and, when it subsided, Mrs. Sumerford said,-- "Yes; Sammy made it." "O mother!" cried Harry, "you needn't try to make us believe that, because it's impossible." Sam had ever been so full of mischief, that it was new experience for him to receive commendation from his brothers; but now it was given him with a liberality amply sufficient to remunerate him for its lack in the past. A proud boy he was that evening; but he bore his honors modestly, and his face was redder than the surface of the pot on which he had bestowed so much labor. When the cover was removed, much to the surprise of Mrs. Sumerford, it was found that the pot had not lost any portion of its contents. "Why, I expected to find these beans dry,--most of the juice filtered out,--'cause it wasn't glazed; but I don't see but it's about as tight as an iron pot, though, to be sure, I rubbed it with wax and tallow, and dredged flour over it." "That pot," said Mr. Seth, "is very thick,--as thick again as one a potter would make,--was made of good clay, quite well worked, and hard baked; and it is no wonder that it would not let any thing as thick as the bean-juice through it. Good potter's ware, if it isn't glazed, will hold water a long time: it won't leak fast enough to drop; it will hold milk longer still; and after a while the pores will become filled up, and 'twill glaze itself, especially if anybody helps it with wax as you have. I wish every woman in this Run had plenty of earthen dishes, pots and pans, if they were not one of them glazed." "If there's so little difference, why ain't the unglazed just about as good?" "Because you can't keep 'em so clean: after a while, the unglazed ware gets soaked full of grease, butter, milk, or whatever you put in it, and becomes rancid; you can't get it out, and it sours and taints whatever you put in it: that bean-pot will after a while; but, when ware is glazed, nothing penetrates, and you can clean it with hot water, scald it sweet. There's another trouble with ware that is not glazed: if you put water in it, and heat it on the fire, the water swells the inside, and the fire shrinks the outside; and it is apt to crack." "Uncle Seth, you said, when we made the dishes down to the river, that we made brick. What is brick?" asked Sam. "It's made of clay and sand worked together; and this brick mortar is put into a mould that makes each brick about seven and a half inches long, and three and a half inches wide, and two and a half inches thick; then they are dried and burnt hard in a kiln; and in old settled places they build houses of 'em, chimneys, ovens, and fireplaces: they don't make chimneys of wood and clay, and fireplaces of any stone that comes to hand, as we do." "Did you ever see a house made of brick?" "Yes, a good many. Israel and I made and burnt a kiln of bricks, and had enough to make a chimney, fireplace, and oven, in our house where we used to live; and, if this terrible war is ever over, I mean to make brick, build a frame house, and put a good brick chimney, fireplace, and oven, in it. Israel's wife misses her oven very much." "I never had an oven, nor saw one; but I've heard of 'em, and I expect they are good things. I think a Dutch oven is a great thing for us wilderness-folks; but I suppose the one you tell of is better," said Mrs. Sumerford. "I guess it is better. Why, Mrs. Sumerford, if you had a brick oven, you could put a pot of beans, twice as many biscuits as you've got in that Dutch oven, a custard, and an Indian pudding, and ever so many pies, in it all at once, and shut up the oven, and then have your fireplace all clear to boil meat, fry doughnuts or pork, or any thing you wanted to do." "It must be a great privilege to be able to do so many things at once: I can't boil and bake more than one thing at a time now, except beans or potatoes, because I have to bake in a kettle." "If you had a brick oven, you could bake a pumpkin, or a coon, or beaver, or joint of meat, or a spare-rib. Why, by heating the oven once, you could bake victuals enough to last a week; and then, any thing baked in a brick oven is as good again as when it is baked in iron. These beans wouldn't have been half so good if they'd been baked in an iron pan set into the Dutch oven or a kettle, because that place in the hearth is what you may call an oven." "What kind of moulds do the potters in the settlements have to make their things of?" asked Sammy; "or do they make 'em in holes in the ground or on a basket?" "No, indeed! they make 'em on a wheel." "Oh, do tell me about it, Uncle Seth! tell me all you know." "That won't take long. What is called a potter's wheel means not only a wheel, but a good many more things with it; but they all go by the name of the potter's wheel. "In the first place, there's a rough bench made; and then there's an iron spindle goes through this bench, and not far from the bottom is a crank; and below this crank, about three inches from the lower end, a wheel is put on it as big over as the bottom of a wash-tub, with a gudgeon at the end that goes into a socket in a timber. Upon the other end that comes up about a foot above the bench, a screw-thread is cut, and a round piece of hard-wood plank is screwed on the top of the spindle about a foot over; on this the potter puts his lump of clay, and smashes it down hard to make it stick fast. "There's a treadle fixed to this crank on the spindle, just as there is to your mother's flax-wheel. The potter puts his foot on this, sets the clay whirling round, sticks his thumb into it and his fingers on the outside, and makes it any shape he wants. After the vessel, whatever it may be, is made, he takes off the finger-marks, and shapes it inside and out more to his mind, with little pieces of wood cut just the shape he wants; then takes it off the wheel, and puts it away to dry." "Does it take him a good while to make a pot?" asked Harry. "No, indeed! he'd make a pot as large as that bean-pot in five minutes, and less too. A potter'd make a thousand of four-inch pots in a day. In their kilns they burn thousands of pieces according to size, of all kinds at once; as it don't take much longer, nor is it any more work, to burn a thousand pieces than two hundred." "That isn't much like me, two or three days making one pot," said Sammy. "Sometimes, instead of having a crank on the spindle, they put a pulley on it, and have the wheel on the floor, and a band run from this big wheel to the pulley; but then it takes another hand to turn the big wheel." "O Uncle Seth! how much you do know, don't you?" "I don't know much about pottery, Sammy, because it's not my business; but I've seen a little of it, and it's the most interesting work to see a man doing, that I ever looked at. I've seen their kilns, and seen them bake their ware, but it was a good many years ago: so you must not take all I say for gospel, 'cause I may have forgotten. I always take notice of what I see, because sometimes it might be a benefit. I've taken more notice of brickmakers and masons: I can make brick; I think Israel and myself could build a chimney, between us, and make an oven and a fireplace. It wouldn't be like one made by a mason, but would answer the purpose, and be a great comfort here in the woods." "We don't know any thing," said Mrs. Sumerford; "and no wonder we don't, here in the woods with wild beasts and wild Indians." If our young readers will call to mind that these frontier people had never seen many of the most common conveniences of daily life, nor witnessed any of the usual mechanical employments, they will perceive at once how intensely interesting the conversation of Uncle Seth must have been to this family-circle, and also how much mankind can dispense with and yet be happy. To no one of the circle was it more absorbing than to Sammy, who longed to know more about the matter, and asked what the glazing was made of, and how they put it on. "As I told you once before, my lad, I don't know much about that; because it's one of their secrets that they don't care to let folks know, though I've seen some put it on. When I was a boy, and lived with my grandfather in Northfield, Mass., afore we went into the woods, I've seen an old English potter by the name of Adams make a kind of glaze that's on your mother's milk-pan. He used to take lead, and heat it red-hot till he made a great scum come on it, which he would skim off till he burnt it all into dross; then he pounded that all fine, and mixed it with water, clay, and a little sand, about as thick as cream, and poured it into the things he wanted to glaze, rinsed it round, and then turned it out; sometimes he put it on with a brush. What little water there was would soak into the ware, and the lead would be on the outside; then he put 'em into the kiln, and started the fire. When the pots got red-hot the lead would melt; and I s'pose the sand melted some too, and run all over the inside, and made the glaze. I don't know as I've got it just right, but that's as near as I can recollect; and I know I'm right about the lead. "He said that in England they flung a lot of salt into the kiln to glaze some kinds of ware; but he didn't, and his glaze was just like that on your mother's pan." "What an awful sin," said Mrs. Sumerford, "to burn up salt!" "Oh, what a worse sin," said Harry, "to burn up lead! I should rather go without pots and pans all the days of my life: I'm sure there are ash and beech whorls enough in the woods to make bowls of." "Indeed," said Mr. Seth, "salt and lead are not such scarce articles in the settlements as they are amongst us, I can tell you." Some who read these pages may think these boys to be very much inferior to themselves, and be almost inclined to pity them; but are you sure, that, considering the advantages both parties have had, they may not be far your superiors? Notwithstanding all your advantages, is it not probable, that, turn you right out in the world, you would either beg or starve? But turn one of them out into the woods, with a rifle, tomahawk, flint and steel, and I would risk him: he would do neither. CHAPTER XVI. THE DAWN OF A LIFE-PURPOSE. After the conversation referred to in the preceding chapter, there was a pause; and Harry, well knowing Mr. Seth's habits, filled a pipe, and handed it to him. While he was enjoying his smoke, Mrs. Sumerford washed up her dishes with the help of the girls, and the boys related to each other the incidents of the scout. Sammy, on the other hand, sat with his hands clinched over one knee, as still as a mouse, occasionally casting a glance towards Mr. Seth; and, the instant the latter laid by his pipe, he leaped from his stool, and, running up to Mr. Seth, cried out,-- "O Uncle Seth! will you make me a potter's wheel, and show me how to make a pot on it, and show me how they fix the glaze, so I can make my mother and all the neighbors bean-pots, bowls, and milk-pans, and glaze 'em just like the potters do?" "I can't, child! I couldn't make a wheel, because there's a crank that must be made of iron, and we haven't got any iron. If I should make a wheel, I couldn't show you how to make a pot on it, for I don't know how myself. A potter's trade is a great trade, takes years to learn it. It's not every one who can learn it; and I have only happened to see them work a few times in my life." "You could make a windmill without hardly any iron; and you're going to make a bail to take off the millstone without one mite of iron, when Mr. Honeywood said 'twas impossible. Everybody says you can do any thing you be a mind to. I should think you might help me." Adopting the method he had ever found to be most effective with his mother, Sammy burst into tears; and so did the girls, who sympathized with him. "Dear me! what shall I do with the child?" exclaimed Uncle Seth, whose whole heart went out to a boy so interested in a mechanical pursuit. "Do help him if you can, Mr. Blanchard. I'm sure if he wants to think about or do something besides killing Indians, and risking his life on rafts, I do hope you'll gratify and encourage him, if it's only for the sake of his mother, and tell him something to pacify him." "Well, Sammy, if I can't make you a wheel nor tell how to use it, there's one thing I can do: I can show you how to mould brick, and you can have a brick-yard and a kiln, and make your mother a brick oven that will be worth three times as much to her as the bean-pot; and she can bake beans, bread, and meat in it." "I don't want to make no brick oven. I wouldn't give a chestnut-burr for a thousand brick ovens. I want to do what the potters do." "Well, I'll tell you all about how the potters work their clay; and then you can make a good pot or milk-pan on a mould as you do now, and I'll make moulds for you. I'll keep thinking about a wheel; and perhaps we may have to go to Baltimore or Lancaster for salt or powder, and can get some iron: then I'll make a wheel; or perhaps I shall think of some way to make it without iron." In this manner Mr. Seth continued to pacify Sammy, who, wiping up his tears, got up in his benefactor's lap, and wanted to know when he would show him how to fix the clay. Mr. Seth replied, "To-morrow morning," well knowing he should have no peace till it was done. Sammy then wanted to know when he would tell him about the glaze; to which he answered that it was no use to think about that till the Indian war was over, as neither lead nor salt could be spared for the purpose, and if the clay was well worked, and the articles well baked, they would do good service without any glaze. Harry, Alex, and Enoch now took their rifles, and went home with the children; but Mrs. Sumerford persuaded Mr. Blanchard to tarry all night. "What do you think has got into this boy, Mr. Blanchard?" said the mother, after Sammy had gone to bed, "that he should set out all at once in such a fury to make things of clay?" "Well, Mrs. Sumerford, almost everybody in this world has a turn for some one thing more than another; and you know that all your boys have a turn for handling tools: Elick and Enoch have, though not so much as Harry." "That's true, Mr. Blanchard; and they take it from their father: he could make almost anything; he would make a handsome plate out of an ash-whorl; and he made me a churn that he dug out of a round log, and swelled the bottom in, then put hoops on; it was the handsomest you ever did see." "The child's got that natur in him; but he's been so full of other things since the war broke out, been stirred up all the time, that it never came out till they began to build that raft. He was the head of that; but when he got hold of the clay, and started the notion of making dishes to play with, he was like a man who is digging a well, and all at once strikes water. He found the thing that suited his turn; and it became real earnest with him, though it was nothing but play to the others. When the rest of 'em wanted to make dishes out of wood and bark, he said, 'Let's make 'em out of clay.' He didn't know what he was fumbling arter in the dark, didn't know he was chalking out his whole life; for, mark my words for it, sooner or later that boy'll be a potter, and no power on earth can hinder it. Mary Sumerford, I believe there's a higher Power has to do with these things; and I verily believe we have our own way least when we think we have it most." "From my soul I believe as you do, Mr. Blanchard, and always did." "I know how it is: he's had a call to do that thing, and you'll see how 'twill be. I know all about it: it's no new thing to me, it was just so with me when I began to work wood. If he could be in the settlements, he would learn a potter's trade in no time; but what we shall do with him here, I'm sure I don't know." "Then you don't think he'll give it up. Boys, and my boys, are apt to take hold of some new thing pretty sharp for a time, and then give it up, and go into something else." "He'll not give it up as long as the breath of life's in him: it's clear through him, in his marrow and in his bones, and must and will come out." "But I don't like to have him down to the river: the Indians might carry him off." "I'll get him to go to the old Cuthbert house: there's good clay there, and the spring where Cuthbert got his water." The next morning Mr. Seth said to Sam,-- "Your mother don't like to have you down to the river: it's too far away; the Indians might come; we don't any of us think it's safe. You must play with your clay at the Cuthbert house: it's near the garrison, and then you'll all be safe." "It isn't play," said Sammy, straightening him self up: "what makes you call it play? It isn't foolish play to make a bean-pot and things for folks to use, and that they have to buy at Baltimore: it's real work. It isn't a bit like making mud-puddin's, cob-houses, or playing marbles or horse, or having a war-post and making believe kill Indians." "Indeed it's not," said Uncle Seth, more delighted than he cared to express, and patting the young enthusiast on the head. "I don't want to go to the Cuthbert house, 'cause it's handsome down to the river; and the raft's there, and the fireplace, and water, and plenty of wood to bake the pots; and the clay down there is real soft, and just as blue as indigo, and feels greasy; and I can cut it with my knife, and it won't dull it one mite." "I know that; but it's not so good clay to make pots as the gray at the Cuthbert house. It will do to make bricks by putting sand with it; but it's liable to crack, blister, and melt in the fire, 'cause there's so much iron in it." "It don't look so red when it's burnt, that Cuthbert clay don't." "Well, then, you can bring up a little of that from the river to color it: 'twon't take but a mite. There's more wood lying round Cuthbert's door than you can burn in six months; then you can have the house to dry your ware in, and to work in when it rains, and the great fireplace to build your kiln in." "What shall I do for water?" "There's a spring on the side of the hill where Mr. Cuthbert got his water; and there's a great trough in the kitchen that he used to salt pork in, and you can have that to put your clay in, and a table. I'll ask Nat to let you have that to make your things on." When Mr. Seth concluded, Sammy expressed himself reconciled. He then told him to dig the clay, and pick out any little sticks or gravel-stones he found, put it in the trough, pour in water enough to cover it, and let it soak till after dinner, when he would come down, and tell him what to do with it. With the help of his mates, Sammy was not long in filling the trough with clay and water when they went to haul wood. The settlers hauled their fire-wood as they wanted it, and did all their work in companies for safety. After dinner Mr. Seth, with all the boys at his heels, went to look at the clay, and told them to strip up their trousers, get into the trough, and tread the clay by turns with their bare feet, while he sat on the door-stone to smoke his pipe. The boys entered upon the work with great good-will; but the longer they tramped, the stiffer the clay grew as it absorbed the water, and the harder the work became. In the course of fifteen minutes they asked,-- "Isn't it trod enough, Uncle Seth?" "Not yet." They then wanted to put more water to it, but Mr. Seth would not permit that. The clay grew more dense: and the boys began, one after another, to get out of the trough. They suddenly recollected that they were wanted at home, till at the end of a half-hour only Will Redmond, Archie Crawford, and Sammy were left. Mr. Seth then looked at it, rubbed it between his fingers, and told Sammy to let it lie till supper-time, then give it another treading, and he would tell him what to do next. When the time came, Sammy could not get a single boy to help him. Their interest in pottery had evaporated. They had the cattle to drive up, chores to do, and plenty of occupation. Not so, however, with Sammy: his enthusiasm lay deeper. He got into the trough, and trod as long as he could see, till his legs ached, and he perceived that the clay became much tougher and finer. Just as he was about to go, he saw Uncle Seth coming from the mill, and they went home together. When Uncle Seth came the next morning to look at the clay, he said,-- "You see, my lad, we always do every thing with a better heart when we understand the reason for doing it." He then took a piece of clay, placed it on the table, and cut it in halves with a knife, and made Sammy notice that there were a good many little holes and bubbles in it, and some little hard lumps, and sometimes he picked out a little gravel-stone. "If," said he, "these air-bubbles are not removed, when the ware is put into the kiln, that air will expand with the heat, and burst the clay; if there are stones, they will crumble; if there are sticks they will make steam, swell, and cause a flaw. The potters work their clay more than a woman does her dough: it is a great deal more work to prepare the clay than it is to do all the rest. After they have worked their clay, they let it lay in a heap to settle together, and break the bubbles, and close the holes: sometimes they dig it a whole year beforehand, and let it lie and ripen, as they call it." "I don't care how hard I work, if I can only make a real good pot." "That's a manly principle. You know how hard we all worked to build the mill; and see what a blessing it is. Every thing, my lad, comes from labor: it's the root and foundation of every thing worth having. The Indians won't work, and see what a miserable life they lead." Mr. Seth now made some of the clay into large lumps, and, taking up one, slapped it down on the table with all his force three or four times, and then kneaded it, and made Sammy take notice that when he kneaded it he folded the dough back on itself so as to keep the grain in one direction; and then cut it in halves, and Sammy saw that the air-bubbles were closed up. He told Sammy, if he just stuck together several lumps, just as an eave-swallow does to make her nest, and made a dish out of it, that when it came to dry it would be full of seams, a seam for every lump. He then gave him a mallet, and told him when he was tired with slapping he could pound it with the mallet. "Why couldn't I put it in Mr. Cuthbert's hominy-block that is right here before the door, and pound it same as we used to the corn? I could get the boys to help, and pound up a lot." "That would be just the best thing that ever was; and get them to help you all you can the first going-off, while it is a new thing, for they'll get sick of that sooner than they did treading the clay in the trough." Sammy found it was just as Mr. Seth said: the boys thought it was nice fun at first; but they soon became tired, and one after another found their folks wanted them, or they had something to do at home. In vain Sammy begged them to stay; but, no, they could not. "You'll want me to go 'long with you some time, and then I won't go," said Sammy, and began to cry. Soon Mr. Seth came along with some tools in his hand, with which he had been working at the mill. "What's the matter, Sammy?" "The boys have all gone off, and won't help me; and I can't lift the pestle. I wanted to pound all what was in the trough, and they ain't pounded more'n half of it." "Don't cry, lad: I'm going to the house, and I'll send Scip to help you." He felt so bad to have all his mates leave him, that he could not recover himself immediately and Scip (with whom Sammy was a great favorite) found him in tears. "What de matter wid my leetle Sammy?" cried Scip, taking the lad in his arms, and wiping off his tears. "The boys won't help me,--Archie won't, nor Will; and I can't lift the pestle." "Nebber mind dem. Scip help you much you want: you tell Scip what you want." Scip was a powerful fellow; and, though he had always avoided the hominy-block before the mill was built, he now stripped himself to the work, and soon pounded what remained of the clay that had been trod in the trough, then carried it into the house. Sam cut it up into lumps with a tomahawk; and Scip would take them up, and slap them down on the table with a force that filled up the pores of the clay, and made it compact. Sammy hugged Scip, and told him he never would scare him again, would give him half of all the maple-sugar he got, make him an earthen mug to drink out of, and give him a lot of his hens' eggs. It is not probable that Sammy would have obtained much help from his companions, except for two reasons; one, that they could not have a very good time without him, and also that he (by his influence with Uncle Seth, and through him with Israel Blanchard) could obtain the company of Scip on their expeditions. Thus it was for their interest to help Sammy, in order that they might have him and Scip to go with them. Sammy knew this, and made the most of it while they were disposed to make the least of it, and help him as little as would answer the purpose. Sammy found that this clay was a very different material from any he had used before: it was fine, tough, and did not stick to his hands in the least; and with a mallet he could flat it out into broad sheets, and roll it with a rolling-pin as his mother did her pie-crust. As Mr. Seth became interested in Sammy's work, he recollected many things that at first did not occur to him, and told Sam that the potters put handles on their wares after they were partly dried; that they rolled out a piece of clay of the right shape, and then stuck it on with a little "slip" (that is, clay and water of the consistency of thick cream), smoothed it with a wet sponge; and after the wares were baked it would not show, but all look alike, and that a rag would do as well as a sponge. Mr. Seth had offered to make moulds of wood for him to mould his vessels on, but Sammy resolved to do it himself; and, as he knew that the quality of the clay would improve by lying, took time to think over the matter, and collected a number of hard-shelled pumpkins, gourds, and squashes, which suited his fancy in shape, boiled them, and scraped out the inside with a spoon instead of waiting for the meat to rot, or trusting to the wood-ants. He wanted to make a bean-pot for Mrs. Stewart, and especially for Mrs. Blanchard, because Uncle Seth would eat of the beans in that, and, in respect to it, wished to do his best. He could not brook the thought of making a pot, that was, in truth, to be a present to Uncle Seth in acknowledgment of favors received, and at the same time ask him to make the mould to form it on. The boy likewise felt, as every one does who has accomplished any thing, that he now had a character to sustain. This is the operation of right and wrong notions and doings with a boy. When he has done one or two good things, he naturally feels anxious to do more, and maintain and add to the reputation he has obtained. On the other hand, when he has done several bad things, and feels that he has lost character, he grows reckless: it becomes up-hill work to get back, and he finally gets discouraged. Thus it happens to him as the Scriptures declare: "For he that hath, to him shall be given; and he that hath not, from him shall be taken even that which he hath." CHAPTER XVII. SELF-RELIANCE. The boys wanted Sammy to go hunting with bows and arrows, as they were not allowed any more powder for gunning at present; but he recollected how they had disappointed him in respect to the hominy-block, and went to the mill, hoping something might drop from Uncle Seth that would aid his thought. The good man having constructed the crane and screw with which to lift the upper millstone, and swing it off the spindle, was deliberating upon the method in which he should make a bail by which the screw was to be attached to the stone. He knew that among the trees that grew on the banks of the stream or among the bowlders on the hillside, where roots of trees were turned from their natural course by various obstructions, it was not difficult to find a root or branch that would form the upper part or crown of the bail; and then, by cutting a mortise in each end, he could attach two strong straight pieces of wood to drop over the edge, and be fastened to it by wooden pins, thus forming a kind of wooden chain similar to the brake on the driving-wheel of the wind-shaft. He knew if such a root or branch was found, it would be a rough affair, not a true curve, would probably be crooked, at least one way; and that it was not at all probable that one would be found large enough to hew to a square edge, and that here and there portions of bark would need to be left on. Should he make the crown from a large, slightly sweeping stick, it would be necessary to cut the wood so much across the grain, there would not be sufficient strength. Mr. Seth was sitting flat on the floor, with his back to the wall, chewing a chip. Sammy, who also had a burden on his mind, seated himself at a little distance, waiting patiently for a proper opportunity to speak. At length Mr. Seth began to talk to himself: "I know what I'll do. I won't get a natural crook; 'twill be rough, crooked, full of bunches, and won't come to the stone as it should. It will look just like cart and sled tongues that I have seen people make out of a crotched tree; and I always despise 'em. I won't make it in pieces either. I'll take a tough piece of wood, and bend it to exactly the shape I want; then I can finish it up smooth. Of course it won't be quite as strong as a natural crook, but I'll make it larger." "O Uncle Seth! how can you bend such a great piece of wood?" "Ha! you there, my little potter? You can do any thing, my lad, if you only have pluck and patience." "Then," thought Sammy, "I can find some better way to make pots, if I have pluck and patience." "Sammy, have you got your rifle with you?" "No, sir. They don't let the boys have powder and bullets now." "Well, I'm going home to get the oxen to haul a walnut-butt: run down to your house, and ask Harry and the other boys to go into the woods with me. Israel'll go too. And tell Harry to bring his broad-axe: I want him to help me." After hauling home a walnut-butt twenty feet in length, Mr. Seth rolled it upon blocks, and began to hew the bail from the large end of it; hewing the wood to a proud edge, and leaving a much greater quantity of wood in the middle, where the screw was going through, than at the ends. Israel Blanchard and Harry began to make a form on which to bend this great piece of timber by treenailing logs together, and hewing them in the form of half the millstone the bail was to lift, or rather little more than half as room must not only be left for the stone to turn easily in the bail, but also for the head of the screw between the bail and the stone, and also at the ends, as the holes for the pins that attached it to the stone could not be very near the end, but space must be left to admit treenails to prevent splitting. On the sides of this form they fastened strong uprights opposite each other, at proper distances, and strong yokes to slip over the ends of them, and fastened by pins through the uprights, that could be put on and taken off at pleasure; and made a number of large wedges to drive under the yokes. It was now sundown; and Sammy, who had been much more interested in watching the work than he would have been in hunting, went home to milk, and reflect upon the matter nearest his heart, having enjoyed some little opportunity to converse about it with Uncle Seth. Sammy did not like the pumpkins and gourds as forms to mould his dishes on; neither did he like a mould of wood, or a basket. He knew the basket would leave the outside rough. He sat down in the yard to milk his cow, and began; but became so absorbed in thought, that the cow put her foot in the pail all unnoticed by Sammy, who kept on milking mechanically. "Why, Samuel Sumerford! are you out of your senses? Don't you see that cow has got her foot in the pail? What in the world can you be thinking of? Now go give that milk to the hogs, and get a clean pail.--I declare, I don't know what has got into that child: he was always tearing round, couldn't live without half a dozen boys round him, always complaining that he couldn't have no good times, till sometimes, betwixt him and that little sarpent of a Tony, I was afraid I should go distracted; and now he goes right down to the Cuthbert house the moment he gets his breakfast, or up to the mill with Mr. Seth; and there he stays. He don't seem to care about company, nor about his hens, nor any play. I don't believe he's taken a bow and arrow nor a gun in his hand this ten days; and seems all the time in a study." "I'm sure, mother, I should think you'd be glad of it," said Enoch: "you couldn't take any peace of your life for him; at any rate, all the rest of us are glad." "So am I, Enoch; but it seems so kind of unnatural!" If the cow did put her foot in the pail, and if while it was there Sammy was leaning his head against her, he got an idea that after sleeping on he resolved to carry out in practice. But scarcely had he despatched his breakfast when several boys made their appearance with bows and arrows, and wanted him to go with them on a ramble. "Can't go." "What's the reason?" asked Stiefel. "Don't want to." "If you don't go with us never, we won't help you tread clay." "I'll go some time: don't want to go to-day." The boys went off; and Mrs. Sumerford said, "Sam, what made you so short with the boys? I know they didn't like it. If you wanted to work with your clay, why didn't you tell 'em that was the reason you didn't want to go to-day? then they would have gone down to the Cuthbert house with you." "I knew they would, marm; and that was just the reason I didn't tell 'em. I didn't want 'em down there: I wanted to be alone to contrive something. Mother, if you was going to draw a piece of linen into the loom, and study out a new figure that you never wove before, would you want all the neighbors in, gabbing?" "No, I'm sure I shouldn't." Sammy went to his workshop; and his mother began to wash the breakfast-dishes, saying, "Well, these are new times: I shouldn't think I'd been talking with Sam Sumerford." The first thing Sammy did was to gather up all the pumpkins, gourds, and squashes he had been at so much pains to select and dig out, and throw them on the woodpile: he had brought with him a piece of ash board (a remnant that was left when Harry made a drum, and had given him), also a large piece of thick, smooth birch-bark pressed flat as a board, and Harry's large compasses. He sat down at the table, and began to talk to himself:-- "I heard my brother say, and tell Jim Blanchard, he didn't want to eat other people's cold victuals, but he liked best to build his own campfire. I don't want to eat anybody's cold victuals neither. I'll make my own moulds: I won't ask Uncle Seth to make 'em. If I can't make 'em, I won't try to be a potter." Sammy had found that the bean-pot he had made for his mother was about the right size, but the shape did not suit: he knew that everybody who looked at it would see that it was just the shape of a pumpkin. To use his own expression, it was too "pottle-bellied;" and the mouth was not large enough to admit a piece of pork the right size. The cover of this pot dropped inside the rim of the pot; and, as nearly all the settlers baked their beans in a hole under the hearth, it was not so good a form for keeping out the ashes, as to have the cover shut over the rim, with a flange on the inside of it. With the compasses he struck out a circle on the table, the exact size of the bottom of his mother's bean-pot, of which he had the measure, and, boring a hole in the centre, stuck up a round, straight willow stick considerably longer than the height of the original vessel. Around this stick and in this circle he built up a mass of clay as high as the stick, and much larger in circumference than the old pot. His object in putting the stick in the centre of his circle was to obtain a guide, a plumb-line centre from which to work. "When they build a haystack," said he, "they always set a pole in the middle, and then they get all sides alike." Having thus provided plenty of material to go and come upon, he ran home, and got his mother's pot, and placed it on the table beside his pile of clay; then with the compasses marked on a piece of bark the size he intended to have the mouth of his pot, and cut it out, levelled the top of the clay, and, making a hole exactly in the centre of the bark, slipped it over the upright rod and downward till it rested upon the surface of the clay; and put some flat stones upon it to keep it in place. He now had the centre of the top and bottom, and by measuring found the centre of the side, and marked it in four places; and with those guides began with his scalping-knife to slice off the clay, form the sides and swell and taper of the vessel, and by placing a rule across the mouth obtained another guide, till he thus formed a model to suit his eye. Sometimes he took off a little too much in one place, and made a hollow: then he filled it with clay and cut again, until he felt that he could make no further improvement. It was of much better proportions than the original, which was manifest as they sat side by side: still the capacity of the vessel represented by the mould was about the same. If it was a little deeper, and had a larger mouth, it was less bulging in the middle, tapering gradually each way. Sammy cleaned up the table, and was walking round it, viewing his pot from different standpoints, once in a while making some trilling alteration, or smoothing the surface with a wet rag, when he was greatly surprised by the entrance of his mother. "O mother! did you come to see me work?" "Not altogether, my dear. Nat Cuthbert said there was a pair of wool-cards in the chamber, that he would lend me. Run up, and look for them." Sammy soon returned with the cards, when his mother said,-- "Had you rather be down here alone, than at play with the boys?" "Yes, marm: I'm having a nice time." "What made you throw all those punkins, squashes, and gourds away, my son, after you had taken so much pains to boil and scrape the inside out?" "'Cause they wasn't the right shape. They had their bigness all in one place. The punkins had their bigness all in the middle, the squashes and gourds at the bottom. They wasn't good moulds, marm." "Wasn't the moulds the Lord made good enough for you to work from?" "The Lord don't make bean-pots, mother; he only makes squashes and punkins and such like: if he did, he'd make 'em right, 'cause he makes the beans, flowers, and every thing right. Marm, there's both pots: now which do you think is the best shape? Truly now, marm." "Well, Sammy, I think this last is the best shape, and it has a larger mouth to take in a good piece of pork. Come, you'd better go home with me. It's only about an hour till dinner-time." "Has the mill been going this morning?" "Most all the forenoon, but the wind is nearly gone now." "Then Uncle Seth hasn't touched his bail; but he'll work on it this afternoon, and I'll see him." He now made a profile just the shape of the outside of his pot, from the thin piece of ash-board, then set it off an inch from the edge, and cut the other side to correspond: thus the inside of the profile gave the outside of the mould, and the outside of the profile the inside of the vessel to be made. He then placed the great compasses each side on the middle of the mould, and by that measure cut out another birch-bark pattern: thus he had the measure of the diameter in three places, bottom, middle, and top. After putting the profile and pieces of bark carefully away, he tore down his mould, flung the clay in with the rest, laid away the stick for future use, and ran home to dinner. He had worked out all his plans in his head and in part with his hands, knew he could do it, and felt easy; could go to the mill now. But to have gone in the morning, and left that idea undeveloped--he would not have done it to see Uncle Seth make a dozen bails. When he came near the mill he met Uncle Seth, Israel Blanchard, Mr. Holdness, Cal, and his brother Harry, who had been to dinner with Israel, coming to help Mr. Seth bend the bail that he blocked out in the stick the day before, and had not meddled with since: there having sprung up a "mill-wind," he had been occupied in grinding. Thus Sammy was in season. A fire was made in the block-house, and water heated. The part of the tree on which the bail was made being covered with straw, hot water was poured on it till it was thoroughly steamed: then all those strong men lifted the whole stick, and put the finished end on the mould between two uprights, put a yoke over, and Uncle Seth drove a wedge between the yoke and the bail, bringing it snug to the mould, and gave the word, "Lower away." They now gradually let down the heavy unhewn end of the stick that was in the air, the great leverage bringing it down easily, for the bail was as limber as a rag. Slowly the heavy timber came down, Uncle Seth meanwhile driving wedges under the yokes, and Sammy pouring hot water on the portions designated by the former, till the end of the stick struck the ground. The end of the mould was instantly lifted, and large blocks that lay ready put under it, which permitted the end of the stick to come down far enough to bend that portion of the bail that formed the crown, the most important part of the whole affair. "Over with him," said Uncle Seth. The whole form that had previously stood on its edge was instantly upset, lying flat on the ground, stakes driven to hold it, and the remaining portion brought to the mould, secured by wedges, and the long end of the stick sawed off. The mould was now again set upon its edge, more water poured on, and a final drive given to all the wedges, and the operation completed. "Indeed, brother," said Uncle Seth, passing his hand carefully over the hot wood, "there's not the sign of a 'spawl' on it: the wood is not strained nor rucked in the least. A smart piece of timber that: I knew 'twas afore I cut it, just as well as I know now. I've had my eye on that tree for more'n a year." "How did you know it?" asked Sammy, who was not disposed to permit any opportunity to obtain information to pass unimproved. "I knew by the way it grew, and the ground it grew on. The limbs came out straight from the tree, and turned down: a tree that grows that way is always of tougher wood about bending than one when the limbs run up like a fir. Then it grew on moist, loamy land; and trees that grow on that kind of land have wood more pliant than where they grow on coarse, gravelly land. "How much more workmanlike that looks than any natural crook full of bunches and hollows! Not that I would say any thing agin nat'ral crooks: they are great things sometimes when a man's at his wits' ends, specially in ship-building and often in mill-work." "What are you going to do to it next?" asked Sammy. "Nothing, my lad, right away: it must remain in the press two or three days, that it may become set so that it won't straighten." When Mr. Seth found that the bail was well seasoned and set, he took it out of press, cut the holes in the ends to receive the pins that were to hold it to the stone, and the large hole in the centre by which it was to be hung to the head of the screw, worked it off smooth, and oiled it. He then made a washer or wooden circle to lie between the shoulder on the head of the screw and the under side of the bail, in order that the screw might turn more easily. Screws of this size are always turned by putting a lever into holes, generally four made in the head of them. There were two objections to this method in the present case: one was, that the bail interfered with turning the screw, another, that it would be necessary to make the head of the screw much bigger, and require a larger space between the bail and the stone than Mr. Seth cared to have. Therefore he left the top of the screw square, and made a lever to fit over it like a wrench over a bolt. It was soon known among the boys that Mr. Seth had got the bail most done, and would be likely to try it. Israel Blanchard and Mr. Holdness were seen by the children going towards the mill; and they followed suit. The hopper, shoe, and covering boards were removed, the stone laid bare, and the crane with the bail swung over it, the pins that confined the latter to the stone thrust in; and Mr. Seth, standing on the stone, turned the screw, and lifted both himself and the stone as easily, Sam Sumerford said, as a squirrel would wash his face. It was then swung over a trap-door in the floor, into which the lower edge of the stone dropped; and they turned it over as easily as a griddle in its bail. No more would have been required to place the stone in a position to be picked, than to have put some blocks beneath it, and turned back the screw. The hole in the floor saved the labor of lifting the stone so high as would otherwise have been necessary, and also required a less length of screw. "This stone," said Uncle Seth, after examining it, "don't need picking, and I didn't expect it did. I only wanted to see how the thing would work. Wonder what Mr. Honeywood'll think about a wooden bail when he comes back from the scout." CHAPTER XVIII. FRUITS OF PATIENCE AND PERSEVERANCE. Sammy now returned with greater interest than ever to his work of experimenting. Having kneaded a lump of clay, he flattened it out on his bench with the mallet, and rolled it with the rolling-pin into a broad sheet of the thickness which he thought desirable for the bottom of his pot, and cut it out of the proper size and shape, and as much larger than the original vessel, as the thickness he intended for the sides. He then sprinkled sand on the bench to prevent the bottom from sticking, rolled out another sheet of dough, and cut it all up into strips a little longer than the circumference of his vessel, thus leaving room to lap; these he rolled into pieces as nearly equal in size as possible, and with them built up the sides of his pot from the bottom, moistening the edges where they came together with clay slip, and placing them one upon another like the coils of a rope. By pressing with his hands on both sides and the surface, he incorporated the different layers into one, so as to obliterate all the marks where they came together. With his two circular pieces of birch-bark he regulated the size, and with the profile the curve, of the side, and made a vessel precisely like his own model. Then, with a roll of clay, he made a projection on the inside to hold the cover, to be put on afterwards when it was half dry. The young potter was now quite well satisfied. He had made a pot far superior to the other, of handsomer shape; and, the clay being properly worked, there was no probability of its coming to pieces in the fire; and, after smoothing the sides with a wet rag, he began to consider how he should ornament his work. Harry was possessed of a great genius for sketching and drawing figures of all kinds on birch-bark, and often did it for the amusement of the children. Sam showed the pot to Harry, and wanted him to draw on it Indians killing white folks, and scalping old people, women, and little children. "I wouldn't do that," said Harry: "that would be very well if you was going to give the pot to Mr. Holdness, McClure, or Mr. Israel; but Mr. Seth don't like any thing of that kind. If I was you, I'd have the windmill: I'll cut that on it, and Uncle Seth right under it, and the year it was built; and on the other side I'll make a man sowing grain." Sammy assented to this, and put a wreath of oak-leaves round the design and inscription by pressing them into the clay: then he put on the handles. Mr. Seth had told him that wet leather would polish a pot: he therefore obtained a piece from Mr. Holdness, who was the tanner of the little community, and had managed, by shaving his bark with a drawing-knife, to tan leather enough for pack-saddles. The grateful boy now resolved to present the offering (that had cost him so much labor), to his great benefactor, carried the pot to Mrs. Israel Blanchard, and with a throbbing heart confided the secret to her. The next day she invited Mrs. Sumerford, Sammy, the families of Mr. Honeywood and Mr. Holdness, to supper. When they were all seated at the table, she put on the pot of beans, setting it directly in front of Uncle Seth, with the windmill staring him directly in the face. Great was the surprise, many and fervent the encomiums; and Sammy was never better satisfied with himself. He had also made a pot for Mrs. Stewart. When she looked at it, and read the name inscribed on it, the mother's eyes filled with tears. "So you put Tony's name on it: you loved your little mate, Sammy." "Yes, marm: I miss him all the whole time. I never shall think so much of anybody as I did of him. I like all the boys, but I loved Tony. If he was here, he'd help me: we should have made a pot for our two mothers; and 'cause he ain't here, I made this for you." "You are a bonnie bairn, an' I trust your mither'll nae ha' occasion to greet for you as I maun for Tony." Sammy could now make earthen vessels with much greater facility. He had a good eye, and could make them without so much measuring as was at first necessary, and without making a model. All he had to do was to determine in his mind the size he would have the vessel, roll out his clay, and cut the sheet long enough to form a circle as large as the circumference of his vessel at its largest place, then cut it into strips, lapping some more and some less, as the sides flared or tapered; and, as he kept his measures of height, diameter, and the profiles of the sides, he soon learned to make a vessel of any size he wished. When it was found that his ware would bear to be put on the fire to boil in, the women wished to use them in this manner; but there was nothing by which to hang them. One day he was digging among the broken pottery under the shelving bank on the site of the old Indian village, and unearthed the upper half of a pot, the edge of the mouth rolled over, making a very broad flange. He took it to Mr. Honeywood, who told him that it was done by the Indian squaws to hold a withe to hang it over the fire by. "I should think it would burn off." "They put clay upon it, and watched it: if the clay fell off, put on more." "Mr. Honeywood, how did you know so much about Indians? and how did you learn to talk Indian?" "I learned to speak the language from two men in Baltimore, who had been prisoners with them a long time: of their customs I learned a great deal more from Wasaweela the Mohawk, with whom I hunted and camped a whole winter." Sammy now went to work, and made some very thick and strong pots, that would hold two pailfuls, after the Indian form, and fastened withes to them. They were very useful, for the women could hang them on the crane, and boil meat or vegetables. They kept a little clay at home to smear them with, which was seldom necessary if the fire was made with judgment directly under the bottom of the pot, and not suffered to blaze upon the sides. Sammy now wished to try his hand at a milk-pan; but his mother discouraged him, because she said the milk would soak into it more or less, and it would not be possible to keep it sweet, and after a while the milk put in it would sour. However, he made one, just to see if he could; and it looked just like his mother's except the glazing. How he wished he could glaze! He made pitchers and drinking-mugs, and put handles on them by forming a roll of clay, and then sticking them on when the ware was partly dry. He would stick the upper end of the roll of clay on the vessel, then dip his hand in water, form the roll into proper shape, and attach the lower end, then smooth with a moist rag. After these unglazed dishes became foul, Sammy purified them by putting them in the kiln, and baking them again. He made another improvement that facilitated his labor. He got Scip to plane and shave a piece of pine perfectly round, two feet long, and three inches in diameter, and split in equal parts with a saw. Scip then hollowed out each part, and put dowels in one half, and bored holes to correspond in the other, which held the pieces evenly upon each other. When he had made a roll of clay about the size, he dipped the mould in water, put the roll in one half, and squat the other on it, and thus made every roll the same size perfectly; and, by counting them up, he knew very nearly when he had cut out enough for his pot. There was one thing he could not prevent his mind from dwelling on: it haunted him night and day; to wit, the statement made by Uncle Seth in respect to the potter's wheel, and with what marvellous celerity vessels could be made on it. That a thousand pots could be made in a day, seemed to him little short of a miracle. He had not forgotten that Uncle Seth had said, that, instead of a crank (of the nature of which he had little conception), the spindle was sometimes moved by a band going over a larger wheel, and passing round a smaller wheel (pulley) on the spindle, and that this large wheel was turned by another person. This was not to him difficult of conception; and he thought Uncle Seth might, if he would, make one of that kind, and cherished a vague notion that he might make such a one himself. With his head full of such thoughts, he was occupied in preparing nests for setting hens, and casting about in his mind which of the boys he should endeavor to persuade to help him, should he adventure upon it. He finally pitched upon Archie Crawford. Archie was quite ingenious, could make a good wooden or horn spoon, a windmill, or a trencher, and manifested more endurance in sticking to any thing he undertook than most of the boys; was of a kindly nature, and willing to oblige. While Sammy was thus engaged, Archie presented himself, accompanied by several more armed with bows and arrows. The bows were capable, when the arrow was drawn to the head, of killing a bear or wolf; and the arrows were most of them steel pointed, the others flint heads, but they were of Indian make and effective. These bows belonged to the larger boys. The one carried by Johnnie Armstrong belonged to his brother Ned; Harry Sumerford had killed an Indian with it. As they had been restricted in the use of powder, they had betaken themselves to the use of the bow; but these boys, by virtue of incessant practice from childhood, would, when the object was near, kill nearly every time. The bows they now had, however, were too stiff for them, and they were not able to draw the arrow to the head. "Come, Sammy," said Archie, "get Harry's bow and arrow, and go with us: we're going to shoot pigeons and coons, and want to shoot fish." The boys were in the habit of shooting fish when they came near the surface in the shoal-water; but they sometimes lost both arrow and fish. Sammy made no objections to going this time, as he had used up all his clay, and knew he should need help from his mates, and that he must gratify them if he desired their aid. "It's no good for me to take Harry's bow. I'll take Knuck's: I'd ruther have that. I can't begin to bend Harry's." As the baby was asleep in the cradle, and could make no objection, they took the bear with them. There were several dogs: Will Redmond had brought Mr. Honeywood's Fan, the mother of the whole litter; Sammy had one; and Tony's had come visiting of his own free will. The boys would have taken them all; but Mrs. Sumerford objected, because, though the dogs and the bear agreed well at home where they had been taught to show due respect to his bearship, it was quite the reverse when they were not under the inspection of their masters, the dogs always being the aggressors. Therefore the dogs were shut up in the house till the boys were gone, when Mrs. Sumerford let them out, and gave them their breakfast. Coons are wont to sleep in the daytime, and forage in the night. A favorite resort of these creatures is the evergreen trees with close foliage, among which it is not easy to see them. There, after a hearty meal, they coil themselves around the tree, lying upon the limbs at their junction with the trunks, and sleeping. The boys were no novices in the art of finding them: one or two would climb the tree, and drive them to the top, or upon the outer limbs, and the others shoot them. They liked best to shoot pigeons when they could find them on the ground, or on low bushes feeding on berries. In shooting into the tops of trees, if they missed their aim, the arrows were likely to stick in a limb or some part of the tree, in which case it was not only some work to recover them, but the points of the flint ones were liable to be broken, and those of the iron ones bent, or if steel they were sometimes broken. They had killed four coons, finding a whole family in one tree, and a partridge, and were now in pursuit of pigeons, creeping on their hands and knees among the bushes; and the bear, as fond of berries as the pigeons, was improving the opportunity, lying down on the loaded bushes, and eating while the juice ran in streams from either side of his mouth. The pigeons were accustomed to bears, had no fear of them, would feed right under their noses. Archie Crawford knew this, and was crawling up to some pigeons, and sheltering himself from their notice behind the body of the bear, when from under a windfall out rushed a wild bear, followed by two cubs, and growling savagely. The civilized bear neither manifested fear nor a wish to quarrel. The boys, on the other hand, strong in numbers, and many of them armed with steel-pointed arrows, were delighted with the prospect of a duel between two such antagonists, and shouted,-- "Go at her, baby! clinch her! you can lick her: we'll back you." While baby's bear was mildly regarding his savage antagonist, the hairs of whose coat stood upright with anger, the white foam flying from her lips, and who was working herself into a great rage, one of the cubs ventured up to baby's bear, who, putting down his nose, smelled of the cub, and licked it with his tongue. The wild bear then sprung upon the tame one, and seized him by the under jaw; upon which the other, being much stronger and heavier, instantly rose upon his hind-legs, and flung her off with so great force, that she not only fell to the earth, but rolled entirely over upon her back, almost crushing one of her cubs. At this decided demonstration, the boys, wild with delight, shouted encouragement; but the tame bear showed no disposition to follow up his advantage, and continue the contest so well begun. Not so with the other, who, springing up madder than ever, kept walking around her opponent, growling savagely, while the latter began eating berries. The boys now, provoked at his lack of mettle, addressed him in another fashion, calling him a coward, lazy, and a fool, because he did not spring upon the other when on her back, and finish her. The wild bear now seized the tame one by his right fore-paw, which she endeavored to grind between her teeth. The other, however, succeeded in withdrawing it, and, now thoroughly mad, uttered in his turn terrific growls; and a deadly grapple ensued between them, to the great delight of the boys, who now had what they desired,--the prospect of a contest of life or death. It soon became evident, that though the tame bear was much the larger, and for a "spurt" the stronger of the two, and by no means lacking in courage, his fat, short wind, and want of exercise, rendered him a poor match for his lean and wiry antagonist. At this juncture of affairs, Ike Proctor, who had the strongest and a remarkably clear, sharp-toned voice, mounting a great rock, called the dogs with all his might. At the same time the others, drawing their bows with every ounce of strength they possessed, sent a shower of arrows at the wild bear, venturing near enough to make amends for lack of muscle. The bear instantly turned upon the boys, struck Sammy's bow from his hand with a blow of her paw, tore his hunting-shirt from his shoulder, slightly lacerating the flesh, broke his belt, and in another instant would have killed him if Jim Grant had not at that moment sent a flint-headed arrow into her right eye, and Archie Crawford fastened a steel point in her left nostril; and Sammy, picking up his weapon while the bear was trying to shake the barbed shaft from her nostril, returned to the charge. "Here they come! Here come the dogs!" shouted Rogers. On they came, full stretch, uttering short barks; the mother, a powerful veteran used to coping with bears and wolves, leading the van. Instinctively avoiding the stroke of the bear's paw, she fastened to the right ear of the brute, one of the pups instantly seizing the left. The bear, enfeebled by her previous encounter and the loss of blood, strove in vain to shake off these ferocious antagonists. Strong as fierce they clung to her, while the remaining dog buried his fangs in the bear's throat, and, rolling her on her back, thrust his sharp muzzle in her vitals. The blood poured out in a stream; the hard-lived animal quivered a moment, and gave up. Excited by the combat, and the smell and taste of blood, the dogs instantly turned upon baby's bear already half dead, and upon the cubs, and killed them in a moment in spite of all their masters could do to prevent it. The boys would have killed the dogs if they had dared, so enraged and grieved were they at the death of the tame bear, and also at the loss of the cubs which they coveted. "What pretty little things these would have been for us to keep!" said Mugford, taking one of the cubs up in his arms. "Baby's bear would have liked 'em; and how handsome the baby and the two little bears would have looked, all three lying asleep together on the old bear!" "They were big enough to eat any thing," said Proctor. "You're crying, Sammy," said Will Redmond, noticing the tears on his cheeks, which he did not try to conceal. "If I be, I ain't crying for myself, but only 'cause baby'll miss his bear, and 'cause my mother'll feel so bad: she loved the bear 'cause he was so good to the baby. I've seen him lay on the hearth after he'd been asleep, and just waked up, and stretch and gape, and stick out every claw on his feet, just like the old cat will sometimes; the baby would see 'em, and creep along to get hold of 'em; and the bear would put 'em all in so they needn't scratch baby. I've seen that little thing try to suck the bear's paw. Oh, he was a good bear!" "I loved him too," said Archie; "and it makes me feel real bad, just like crying. Let's all cry. There ain't anybody to see us: we'll cry all we want to." It needed but this to open the sluices, for the eyes of every boy were brimfull of tears. They had a good solid cry, and, having given vent to their pent-up emotions, felt relieved. They all collected round the dead body of the bear. Sammy, kneeling down, began to pat his head, and talk to him as though he was alive. "Poor beary! we be all real sorry you're dead: mother and the baby'll be sorry too. The dogs always did hate you, though you never did them a bit of hurt, wouldn't hurt a fly." "If you'd been brought up in the woods same as that wild bear, you'd have licked two of her." "The dogs know they've done wrong," said Rogers: "only see how meaching they look, and keep their tails 'twixt their legs." The wild bear was poor, and not fit to eat: so they skinned her. But baby's bear was as fat as a well-fatted hog, but no one of them for a moment indulged the thought of eating or even skinning him. "If we leave the baby's bear in the woods, and cover him up with brush, the wolves will get him," said Sammy. Fred Stiefel and Archie volunteered to go home, and get shovels and hoes; and they soon dug a grave in the soft ground to bury their pet in. "Let's put the cubs 'long with baby's bear. We know he liked 'em, cause he smelt of 'em, and was licking one of 'em when the old bear jumped at him," said Archie. "The wolves sha'n't have baby's bear; they sha'n't pick his bones," said Sammy. The boys brought stones as large as two, and sometimes as large as four of them, could carry, and piled them on the grave to prevent the wolves from digging into it. They put a large stone in the bear-skin; and four carried it, and put on small ones till they made a large pile, resolving whenever they came that way they would put on a stone. When the boys returned home (for they all went home with Sam), bringing with them the bear-skin, four coons, a partridge, and only three pigeons, and with downcast looks made known what had taken place, Mrs. Sumerford expressed much sorrow. "You don't know, Sammy, how much I shall miss that creature. He was so good! He wasn't a mite like any tame bear that ever I saw; and I've seen scores of 'em, first and last. They are always great thieves; but he wasn't; he had principle: he was a good deal honester than Scip. They are mostly great plagues; people soon grow sick of 'em, and kill 'em: but he was not the least trouble. All the tame bears that ever I saw before him were mighty unsartin': they'd take spells when they would snap and strike with their paws." "Tony's bear did: he killed a dog, broke his back at one lick of his paw; and he clinched Mrs. Blanchard, and wanted to kill her," said Grant. "I know he did; but this bear was a great help to me about the child. When I was all alone, and wanted to weave, I could put the baby on the floor with the bear, and they would play ever so long; and when I couldn't get the little one to sleep by rocking, to save me, he'd go to sleep on the bear." While his mother was thus recounting the virtues of the dead, it brought the whole matter to the mind of Sammy in such a light that he began to cry, and the boys with him; and finally the good woman herself was moved by the tears of the children. The baby was sitting on the floor with his playthings, and, not knowing what to make of it, began staring with his great round eyes, first at his mother, then at the others; and finally, not relishing the silence, pounded on the floor with a spoon, and laughed. "If you wasn't a baby, you wouldn't laugh; you'd cry like every thing," said Sammy. "What creatures boys are!" said Mrs. Sumerford. "We've been thinking all the danger was from Indians; but I'm afraid they'll contrive to be killed by bears, or be drowned. They will if they can." CHAPTER XIX. TRIUMPH OF THOUGHT AND INGENUITY. After the departure of the boys, Sammy took up, with greater enthusiasm than ever, those trains of thought that had been so rudely interrupted by the day's occurrences, and after supper sat down in one corner of the room to reflect. His mother, having spun her stint, began to reel up the yarn. As he sat thinking, and occasionally looking at her as she reeled the yarn from the spindle, he communed thus with himself:-- "If a potter's wheel is an upright spindle with a little wheel on it turned by a band that goes over a big wheel, and my mother's wheel is a level spindle with a little wheel on it turned by a band that goes over a big wheel, then what's the reason, if my mother's wheel is turned upside down, the spindle won't be upright, just as Uncle Seth said a potter's wheel was? And then if there was a round piece put on top to put the clay on, and you turned the big wheel, it would turn the clay." "Sammy, don't you feel well?" setting her wheel back against the wall. "Yes, ma'am, I'm well." "What makes you sit there so still, then?" "I don't know, ma'am." "I don't believe you feel very well: you've been through a good deal this day, and you needn't go to milking. I'll milk: the cows don't give a great mess now." Scarcely had his mother left the threshold than Sammy, jumping up, turned the wheel over flat on the floor, with the pointed end of the spindle uppermost. He put a log under the post of the wheel to keep the end of the spindle from touching the floor, and prevent its turning. There was a basket of turnips sitting in the corner: he sliced the top from one of them, to flatten it, and stuck it on the end of the spindle, and getting on his knees turned the wheel round; and round went both spindle and turnip. "There!" said he talking to himself, "if that turnip was a round piece of wood, and if there was clay on it, 'twould be the same thing as the potter's wheel that Uncle Seth told about, that didn't have any crank, only two wheels." The same principle, Sammy meant. "I haven't got any tools, nor any thing to make a wheel of: so I couldn't make one." The tears sprung to the poor boy's eyes; and hearing his mother's step on the door-stone, and not wanting to have her question him about his tears, he opened the window-shutter, leaped out, made for the hovel, and sat down there. He had left in haste; and, as Mrs. Sumerford set down her milk-pail, she saw her wheel upside down, with a turnip on the end of the spindle. "What's all this!" pulling off the turnip. "Samuel, Samuel Sumerford! Did ever anybody see or hear tell of such a boy? It's a mercy that he didn't break the wheel-head. What satisfaction could there be in turning that wheel upside down, and sticking a turnip on the spindle?" The little fellow's reflections were of a sombre cast. "There ain't no good times now as there used to be. I had a bear, and he was killed; Tony had one, and he was killed; and now baby's bear, that was the best most of the whole, is killed too. I had a tame coon, and they killed him; a cosset lamb, and he died; and the Indians have come, and carried off Tony who I loved better than the bear or coon or cosset lamb. The Indians keep coming, and killin' our folks; and Alice Proctor thinks they'll kill us all some time." Sammy's thoughts now seemed to take a sudden turn; for at once he jumped up, and ran at his utmost speed to the Cuthbert house. His mother, looking after him in amazement, said,-- "I don't know about this pottery business: the child don't seem one mite as he used to. I hope he won't lose his wits." Rushing up garret, he brought down part of a flax-wheel; that is, the bench, the wheel, and the posts on which the wheel was hung, the rest having been carried off by Cuthbert. Sammy's spirits rose with a bound: he thought, if he only had a wheel, he could manage the rest. Where should he get boards to make a bench? for boards were precious things in the settlement. He recollected that Mr. McDonald had in his house a meal-chest, and partitions made of boards, and some milk-shelves; and that some of them were used for making coffins to bury the family in, as there was not time to manufacture boards with the whip-saw. But he thought they might not all have been used; the house stood empty, and was rotting down. Away ran the excited lad for Archie, made a confidant of him, and wanted him to go to the McDonald house to see if there were not some boards there, and, if so, get them. "You don't ketch me there this time of day: it's haunted. It's all but sundown now. I'll go in the morning: 'twill be dark by the time we get there." "'Twon't be dark if we run. All I want is just to look in, and see what there is; and, if there is any, we can get them some other time." As usual, Sammy prevailed; and away they ran, reaching the place just after the sun had set. Directly before the door stood the hominy-block on which McDonald and his son were pounding corn when the savages came upon them, and an Indian arrow still sticking in the block. On the door-step was the blood-stain, where little Maggie was butchered. The boys recollected it well, for she was their playmate. They didn't like to venture in; for the bullet-proof shutters were closed just as they had been left when the family were killed, and it was dark inside. They had not forgotten that the floor (on that fearful morning) of the very room in which they expected to find the boards was red with the blood of Grace and Janet McDonald. They tried to look through the loop-holes, but could not see any thing distinctly within. "You go in, Sam." "I don't want to: go yourself." "It's more your place to go than 'tis for me, 'cause you want to be a potter." Urged by his desire to obtain boards, Sammy at length entered the door, and, standing in the passage, looked in. "I see some square pieces of timber, Archie, that would be nice to make the frame of the bench; but I don't see any boards. The partition's all taken down: only these timbers what it was fastened to are left." A slight noise was heard in the room; and Sam tumbled over Archie in his haste to escape, and both ran away. They ventured back, and found that the noise that had alarmed them was made by the fluttering of a piece of loose bark (moved by the wind) which hung by one end to a log; and found there was one short board left in the room, about six feet long. They thought there might be some in the chamber where the children used to sleep, which was not so dark as the rest of the house, because light came through many chinks in the roof. Sam mounted the ladder to look; but, just as he got his head above the level of the floor, he heard a great scrambling, and something went swiftly past him. He either leaped or tumbled to the floor (he never knew which); and they ran home, resolving never again to go to that place in the twilight. Early next morning they went there; and it seemed very different in the daytime. They brought their guns with them; but of what use they supposed fire-arms would be, in a contest with supernatural foes, is not readily perceived: however, they felt stronger for having them. Archie opened the shutters, that had been closed by the hands of Mrs. McDonald a few moments before her death, and the sunlight streamed in. In the chamber they found a wide board twenty feet long, that was planed on one side, and placed between the beds for the children to step on when they got out of bed, as the rest of the floor was laid with poles that were rough with knots and bark. They took down the joist in the room below: these had been sawed out with the whip-saw, by Mr. Seth and his brother, when they put up the partition. They were a great acquisition to the boys, almost as much as the boards; for they could not have hewn out joist accurately enough to frame together. "Mr. McDonald didn't think, when he got Uncle Seth to make this partition, a meal-chest, and milk-shelves (what nobody else in the Run has got, and Mr. Blanchard himself ain't got), that they would take the boards to make coffins for himself and his folks; did he, Sammy?" "Don't let's talk about that here." They yoked the oxen, hauled their stuff to the Cuthbert house, and set about making a bench. "How high and wide and long shall we make it?" said Archie. "Uncle Seth told me it ought to be about as big as this table." Cutting their joist, they halved the pieces together, and made the frame of the bench with a cross-sill at the bottom in the centre to receive the end of the spindle. How they should make the spindle, and what they should make it of, was the next thing to be considered. They went to a piece of land that had been cleared, and the timber burnt, but had not been planted, and had partially grown up again, where were a great number of ash-sprouts, that grew luxuriantly and very straight, as is the habit of that tree; and soon found one to answer their purpose. Two blocks, one much larger than the other, were sawed from the ends of logs,--one for a pulley (wheel the boys called it), and the other for a small wheel to receive the clay; and a hole bored in the cross-sill to admit the lower end of the spindle. Holes were bored, and a square mortise cut in the centre of the two blocks, and the spindle squared near the lower end, and the pulley fitted on to it. The top of the spindle was also squared for the other block. This was done in order that neither the pulley nor the wheel might turn on the spindle: then a score was cut in the edge of the pulley to receive a band. The frame of the bench was now boarded on top, the spindle put in its place, and the upper wheel put on. Their tools were few, and the boys without practice in using them; yet, though the work was rough, the bench was level, and the spindle plumb, although made of an ash-sprout, the bark still adhering to portions of it. The pulley and clay wheel were also true circles, as they struck them out with Harry's large compasses, and cut to the scratch. A serious consultation was now held in respect to the manner in which they should avail themselves of the flax-wheel. After a long consideration, arising from the fact that the flax-wheel was not theirs, and that they could do nothing to unfit it for future use in spinning, Sammy knocked the legs out carefully from the bench, and placed the latter upon its edge, upon the floor, with the wheel and posts attached, and at a proper distance from the spindle; then put under the posts a flattened piece of wood just thick enough to bring it up to a level, and drove into it two pins each side of the post to keep them in place, and short enough for the wheel to play over them. Flat stones were laid against the other end of the bench, to keep it from moving; a band passed round both the flax-wheel and the spindle, and the bearings greased. Some method must now be devised to turn the large wheel; and this was not an easy matter. This wheel had on it a short crank, to which (when the parts of the machine were all in place) the treadle was attached; and on this crank a tang half an inch long, with a button on the end, to keep the treadle from slipping off. This affair, especially the button, was much in the way of putting any thing on the wheel by which to turn it, and was not large enough to be made useful of itself; for it could only be held betwixt the finger and thumb, it was so very short. The rim of this wheel was three inches in depth, and there were sixteen spokes quite near together. Archie proposed boring a hole in this rim, and putting a pin into it; but Sam said that would never do, because it would injure the wheel, and he had promised Prudence Holdness he would leave it as good as he found it. He tried to fit a wooden handle to the tang of the crank, but the button on the end prevented. These boys, it is true, possessed little knowledge of things in general: yet they had read the woods pretty thoroughly, and were aware that the roots of the alder, hazel, and wild cherry, inclined to run for some distance near the surface, and then throw up shoots at right angles with the root from which they sprung. They found a wild cherry nearly two inches in diameter, that sprang up from a long naked root, cut the top off within eighteen inches of the ground, and then dug it up. They now cut one arm of the root close to the stem, leaving the other a foot in length, flattened the under side, placed the end of the root towards the hub of the wheel, and lashed it firmly to a spoke. This was a handle by which to turn the wheel, and did not injure it in the least. They found, by getting on their knees and turning the flax-wheel, the spindle revolved steadily but not very fast. "It don't go so fast as mother's flax-wheel," said Sam. "Not a quarter so fast as my mother's big wheel: the spindle of that'll whirl so you can't hardly see it, when she's a mind to make it," said Archie. The boys now sat down to rest, and contemplate their work with great satisfaction. "Ain't it nice, Archie?" "Yes; and we made it our own selves, didn't we?" There is an important principle developed in this declaration of Archie. They had learned much, and derived a great deal more pleasure from the contemplation of that rude machine that they had exerted all their ingenuity to make, than they would have done had Uncle Seth made a potter's wheel, and given it to them. If you want to bring out what is in a boy, want him to develop original thought, and become possessed of resources within himself, encourage and stimulate him to make his own playthings. How many children there are who have almost every thing given them that a toy-shop can furnish, and yet get sick of their novelties when they have looked them over, acquire but few ideas in the process, and remain children during life! if that deserves the name of life which is useless and barren, both in respect to themselves and to others. They soon tested their instrument by experiment. Taking some sand, Sammy strewed it over the wheel, and put a lump of clay on it while Archie turned. He did this in order that he might be able to get the vessel off, as he knew the clay would stick to the wood; but when he put his hands on the clay the wheel turned round under it, and the clay tumbled to the floor. Finding that would never do, he swept off all the sand, and flung the lump down hard on the wood, where it stuck fast (as Uncle Seth had told him he saw the potters do), put his hands on each side of the clay, and brought it up to a sugar-loaf form, and then pressed it down to break the air-bubbles, then put his thumbs into the middle of the lump, and his fingers outside. The clay instantly assumed a circular form, and became hollow. "Oh, oh! It's doing it!" shouted Sam. "Doing what?" cried Archie, who on his knees could not see what was going on. "It's growing hollow. It's making a pot. Oh, it's growing thinner and thinner!" Indeed it was; for Sammy not only stuck his thumbs into the lump, but kept separating his hands, till, the walls of the pot growing thinner and thinner, both thumbs broke through, and there were only two long, wide ribbons of clay, and no bottom; for he had pressed his hands down so hard as to scrape through to the wood. He uttered a yell of dismay, and Archie ran to look. "Only see there," said Sam, taking up part of the side: "see how smooth it is! I couldn't have made it so smooth the way I did before. Oh, if it hadn't bursted!" "What made it do so?" "Don't know: guess I can do better next time." Next time he succeeded in making something hollow, but it was almost as big at the top as at the bottom; the sides were thick in one place, and thin in another: but the boys thought it was nice till they tried to take it from the wheel, when they found Sammy had poked his fingers through the bottom to the wood. Archie was now to try his hand: the wheel had made but a few revolutions when he shouted,-- "Stop!" He had pressed his hands so close together, that at the top there was a cone of clay, and a round lump on the wheel, without the sign of a hollow. The next time he made something hollow; but the sides were so thin they would not stand, but tumbled down in a heap as soon as he took his hands off. Now it was Sammy's turn again. While turning the wheel for Archie, he had been reflecting upon the causes of his poor success; and this time made a pot that was all right at the bottom, and of a proper thickness, only rather bulging in the middle. They were greatly delighted, but, in trying to take it from the wheel, tore it in pieces. Sammy made another attempt, and met with still better success. They dared not take this pot from the wheel, yet were unwilling to ask Uncle Seth, or let him know any thing about their proceedings till they had made more progress. As it was near dinner-time, they concluded to leave it on the wheel, and inquire of others, supposing that Mrs. Honeywood, Mrs. Blanchard, or Holt's wife, who had lived in the old settlements, might tell them something; but they could not. "I don't believe but Scip would know: he has lived in Baltimore," said Mrs. Blanchard. They applied to Scip. "De potters hab leetle piece of wire wid two sticks on it, to take hold on. Dey pull dat through 'twixt de clay and de wheel; den dey take it off wid dere han's, if leetle ting: if big ting, hab two sticks ob wood put each side, fay to de pot, so not jam it. Me show you, me make you one." The boys looked at each other; for there was no such thing as a piece of wire within a hundred miles, and they had never seen any save the priming-wires that were with some of the smooth-bores. Scip advised them to try a hard-twisted string, which they found to answer the purpose. Sammy kept on improving; but Archie did not, and began to grow tired of pottery. It was hard work to turn the wheel: he perceived that, as he could make no further progress in turning, in the natural order of things, Sammy must be the potter, while he would remain wheel-boy. Sammy, on the other hand, was full of enthusiasm, ever improving. He could now tell the thickness of his pots by the feeling, and made them uniform in this respect; was all the time correcting little defects; and learned by practice how thick the sides should be to stand. He offered Archie a powder-horn if he would turn all the afternoon; but he wouldn't hear a word of it, and said his hands were blistered, and the skin was worn off his knees, kneeling on the hard floor. Sammy offered him a bullet if he would turn long enough for him to make three more pots. Archie said he would the next morning; and here the work ended for the day. CHAPTER XX. UNCLE SETH'S SURPRISE. When this new and exciting employment came thus suddenly to a full stop by the refusal of Archie to turn the wheel any longer, the latter went home with two large holes in the knees of his trousers, albeit they were buckskin: Sammy went over to Israel Blanchard's. He found Scip and his master pulling flax, and instantly took hold with them. Since Sam had become so industrious, he had grown into great favor with Mr. Blanchard, who believed in hard work and also in hard fighting. It appeared in the sequel, that Sammy's motives were not altogether disinterested in thus volunteering to help his neighbor; for, after working lustily till night, he asked Mr. Blanchard if he might have Scip to help him the next afternoon. "Yes, my little potter: I suppose you want him to work clay for you; but it seems to me you use up clay fast." Sammy didn't tell him what he wanted of Scip. The next morning Archie came, true to his word; and they began to work. Mr. Seth found, when he had finished his work upon the bail, that he had about worn up his mallet with so much mortising in the tough wood; and recollecting that, some months before, he had seen a stick of hornbeam about the right size on the woodpile at the old Cuthbert house, took a saw in his hand, and went over to get a piece. Hearing the boys at work inside, he crept up, and peeped through a crevice in the logs. Archie was on his knees on the floor, tugging with his right hand at the wheel, while his left was leaning on a stone placed for that purpose; and Sammy was making a pot. Equally surprised and delighted, he looked on a while in silence; and, as he could not obtain a good view of Sam where he stood, he went to the window that was open. Archie's back was towards him, and Sam was too intent upon his work to notice him. The kindly nature of the old mechanic was stirred to the quick when he saw Sam actually turn a pot of good shape with such machinery as that; and he vowed internally that he would make him a potter's wheel before the lad was a week older, but, upon reflection, concluded it would be better to help him a little, and not too much at once. "So you've made a wheel for yourselves, have you?" said Uncle Seth, showing himself at the window. The wheel stopped. Archie jumped up: Sam colored, his face as red as red paint. "Don't be bashful," said Uncle Seth, getting in at the window. "I think you've done first rate, most remarkable: that pot's as good as a pot need be." "We was afraid you'd laugh at us, Uncle Seth, and so we didn't like to tell you." "Laugh at you! I praise you: you've done wonderful. Now let me see you make a pot." Sammy had turned one pot, and, drawing a string under it, took it from the wheel with his hands; in so doing, he put it a little out of form, but repaired it by pressing it into shape again with his fingers. Sammy turned two more pots, each one being an improvement on the former one; being put on his mettle by the praises of Uncle Seth. He then told him that Archie's contract was completed, but that Scip was going to help him in the afternoon. "What made you put your large wheel flat on the floor? why didn't you set it on the legs?" "'Cause it wouldn't go so: the band would slip right off the little wheel." "Cross the band, then it won't." "Cross the band!" This was a step farther than Sammy's knowledge of machinery extended. Uncle Seth took the wheel from the floor, put the legs in again, crossed the band, and put it on the wheel. "Now you can stand up, and turn: put some clay on the wheel, and I'll turn for you." Uncle Seth turned, and Sam made another pot. The boys could hardly contain themselves, they were so delighted. "How much you do know, Uncle Seth!" said Archie: "we don't know any thing." "You haven't been learning so long as I have. I want you to pay attention, and I'll explain something to you. You see this spindle don't turn very fast,--not near as fast as the spindle on your mothers' flax-wheels; and yet this large wheel is exactly the same kind of a wheel. What do you suppose is the reason?" "We don't know," said Archie. "If that pulley, Sammy, that is on the spindle (little wheel you call it), was just as large as the flax-wheel, and you should turn that, the other would turn just as fast,--just as many times,--wouldn't it?" "Yes, sir: of course it would if they were both of just the same bigness." "Well, then, if you should make the flax-wheel as big again as the pulley, the pulley would turn twice when the flax-wheel turned once: wouldn't it?" "Yes, sir." "Thus you see the reason that spindle doesn't turn any faster is because the two wheels are so near of a bigness. That pulley is so near the size of the other wheel, that it don't turn but three or four times while the large one is turning once. The large wheel is not more than thirty inches, and the pulley is large seven. Don't you know how fast your mother's spindle on her large wheel whirls?" "Yes, sir. It goes so sometimes you can hardly see it." "Good reason for it. The wheel is forty-eight inches in diameter, and the pulley on the spindle is only about an inch. What do you think of that, my boy?--forty-eight inches to one inch; the spindle turning forty-eight times while the large wheel turns once." "We didn't know. All we knowed was, you said they had a big wheel and a little one on the spindle." Mr. Seth took the pulley from the spindle, cut it down more than one-half, and put it higher up on the spindle. "There, my lads, I have made that pulley smaller; and your spindle will turn so much faster that you can make three pots where you made one afore: besides, now that the large wheel is upright, you can turn it as fast again, and much easier than you could when 'twas lying on the floor." Mr. Seth now put a stone on the bench near the wheel on which the vessels were turned, and put a junk of clay on it: through the top of this clay he ran a stick, passing it back and forth in the hole till it would move easily, and be held firm in place when the clay became dry. He then said to Sammy,-- "There's a gauge for you. Run that stick over the wheel, and draw it back just in proportion to the size of the pot you want to make. If you bring the edge of the pot to the end of that, it will regulate the size." It was a rude affair, made in a moment; and yet it answered the purpose perfectly. Mr. Seth also made some half-circles of wood, with handles, and a dowel in one of the halves to fit into a corresponding hole in the other half. These were placed on each side of the vessel, bearing equally all round, and cut to the shape of the side. With them he could easily take his ware from the wheel without marring it. Sammy had already found that he could smooth the sides of his pots by applying the edge of the profile to them. Still, after these improvements, the wheel was a poor affair. There was not sufficient power to turn a pot of any size, and the band was apt to slip; and the spindle, running wood to wood, increased the friction. Mr. Seth, convinced that the pottery business was not a mere boy's affair with Sammy, resolved that at the first opportunity he would make him a far better machine than that. Without saying any thing to Sammy, he took the measure of the bench, that answered the purpose well, and left him to knead clay, and make preparation for the arrival of Scip in the afternoon. Perhaps our readers will wonder where the other boys were all this time, that they took no interest in the proceedings. Well, their parents had work for them to do at home; and every leisure moment was taken up in building a turkey-pen, or trap to catch wild turkeys in, as the time was approaching when it would be wanted. Thus occupied, they were ignorant of the doings of Sammy and Archie; but it was soon noised abroad, and the old house filled with curious boys, who all wanted to try their hands at turning a pot. After experimenting a while, and meeting with about as much success as Archie, they preferred play, or even work. Archie also, after the excitement of making the wheel was over, lost his interest; and Sammy, much to his satisfaction, was left to work in peace, aided by Scip. He also had aid from another source; for, after the improvement made by Mr. Seth in setting the wheel upright, the girls would turn for him, and sometimes also his mother; and, as he could not make large pots on the wheel, he made pitchers and mugs for the girls, bowls and platters; and by practice he became expert in putting handles to his mugs and pitchers. When desirous of making a large pot to hang on the fire, or for any other purpose, he resorted to his old method of rolling the clay, and also when he could get no one to turn for him. CHAPTER XXI. NED RANGELY. It was now time to gather the corn. Sammy was obliged to suspend his operations, and the entire community were busily employed in harvesting and husking. The ears were picked off and husked in the field, and the sound corn put in log cribs inside the fort. A strong scout was sent out, boys placed back to back on stumps to watch while the rest were at work. Every nerve was strained to place their bread-corn out of the reach of the savages; for, this being accomplished, their anxieties in respect to food would cease. The corn-crop and all their crops were late sown and planted, by reason of Indian alarms, and because in the spring they were occupied in building the mill. The last basketful had been placed on the sled; and Honeywood took up his goad to start the oxen, when Mrs. Sumerford exclaimed, "Who's that? I saw a man, I know I did, come from behind the big rock, cross the ford and the little clear spot between there and the woods; and I think he had a rifle on his shoulder." All now stood on their guard, rifle in hand. "It ain't an Indian, that's sartain," said Holdness: "an Indian wouldn't be walking about in plain sight, with a rifle on his shoulder." "Who else can it be? We haven't seen a white face for months. I think we'd better run for the garrison," said Mrs. Blanchard. "I see him," said McClure. "It's a white man, but none of our folks: he's got a pack and a rifle. It's some ranger who has lost his way." Every eye was now eagerly fastened on the stranger, who travelled slowly as though fatigued. "It's Ned Rangely, Brad," shouted McClure, "as sure as the sun is in the heavens: it's Ned, who hunted and trapped with us so many winters at Red Stone, and has been in more Indian fights than any man on the frontier. Don't you see how he carries that left arm: that was broke by an Indian bullet?" "I believe you're right, neighbor." "Right? I know I am: I could tell him among a thousand." They both started towards the stranger, who stopped, and stood leaning on his rifle, evidently fatigued. "God bless you, Ned Rangely! Is that yourself?" cried Holdness, seizing one hand, while McClure laid his hand upon his shoulder. "How are you, old stand-by?" cried McClure. "It does a man good, these ticklish times, to look on your old face. Haven't you come in a good time? We've plenty to eat, nothing to do; and you've got to stay here with us all the rest of your life." "Wish I could; but the fact is, we came on business, and must do it and be off." "Not a word of business till morning," said McClure, clapping his hand on Rangely's mouth: "come, go home with me." "Let him go with me to-night," said Holdness, "because he's tired and foot-sore, and you can come with him: and he can go to your house to-morrow." To this McClure assented. One taking Rangely's rifle, and the other his pack, they marched off, leaving the rest to get in the corn. Holdness did not lack for company that evening; all the young people coming in to listen to the talk of these old comrades, Rangely's in particular, whose whole life had been a scene of perils and hair-breadth escapes. The next day was a leisure one, the harvest being secured. Holdness and Rangely strolled over to McClure's: soon Honeywood dropped in, Maccoy, Stewart, Ned Armstrong, Harry Sumerford, Andrew McClure, and others of the young men. "Now, Ned," said Holdness, "there's a number of us here: we'll listen to your business, whatever 'tis. We've no separate interests, but are like so many peas in one pod, that all touch, and there's no parting 'twixt 'em." Rangely looked round upon this noble group of stalwart men and youth with evident delight as he said,-- "Well, neighbors, I was sent here by those who pretend to know more'n I do, to raise men for a skirmage with these Delawares, Monseys, Shawanees, and what not red trash, that are whooping round, and scalping women and children. They want to raise three or four hundred men, and just wipe 'em out. They want men that can shoot and march, and know how to fight Indians in the woods; and they don't want nothing else. So you see, 'cause they knowed I was acquainted, they sent me up here." "We're much obliged to 'em," said Holdness. "Didn't think the rest of the world knew we was in it, or cared whether we lived or died. Don't s'pose they did, till they happened to want to make use on us. It strikes me, Ned, they sent you on a fool's errand." "I'm pretty much of the same opinion with Brad," said McClure,--"that we've got about enough to do to take care of ourselves and them what look to us. Here we've stood in death's door, as you may say, ever since the war began. There isn't a man, scarcely a boy, not to say children, what hasn't a scar on him; and some of us are pretty much cut to pieces. There's about as many of us under the sod, killed by Indians, as there are above it. And now you ask us to leave our families, forts, and guns, and go to fight for people who wouldn't lift a finger to help us, and wouldn't have let us have cannon nor powder if they could have helped it." "As for me," said Armstrong, "I'm not going into them woods to throw away my life, and be ambushed by Indians, at the tail of these turkey-cocks like Braddock, who don't know the first thing of the duty they are sent to perform, and are fit only to lead men to death and destruction." "Don't think we cast any reflection upon you, Ned," said Holdness, "for doing the errand; but you see how the neighbors feel about it." "I've no doubt what you say is all true," replied Rangely,--"true as the Bible, and they say that's just so. But, you see, these Indians get together in their towns, three or four hundred of them: there they keep their women, children, and ammunition the French give 'em, lay out their plans, and divide their scalping-parties to go to those places they think most exposed. When they have struck their blow, they go back with their scalps and prisoners to have a great dance and jollification, and get ready for another raid, and the whites that are left flee into the older settlements, and leave the country to them. They don't kere any thing 'bout the forts: they're a good ways apart, and they can pass 'em night or day." "That's so," said Maccoy. "What they want is to have the Province raise a force of men what know the woods, and have had experience in fighting Indians,--not a blasted red-coat among 'em,--and carry the war into the Indian country up to their towns, clean 'em out, kill their women and children, burn up their possessions and forts now just as winter comes on: that'll quail 'em to some purpose. I reckon," said Ned, looking round him, "I've come to the right place for that sort of men: think I've seen some of 'em afore to-day, and when the bullets were flying lively." "But," said Stewart, "an' we tak' the gait you propose, what will hinder the scalping-parties you speak of from falling upon our families while we're awa'?" "You have a very strong fort here, have taught the Indians some hard lessons, and, after this last mauling, they won't be in a hurry to meddle with you. You can leave enough to defend the fort, and then spare quite a number. It's for you, not for me, to judge whether by going on this expedition you won't be taking the best method to break the power of the Indians, and protect yourselves for the time to come." Thus far the debate had been carried on chiefly by McClure, Holdness, and Armstrong. Israel Blanchard was not present; and the young men, though eager for any thing that promised a fight with Indians, were too modest to obtrude their views; while Honeywood had not opened his mouth. Noticing this, McClure said,-- "I should like to have Mr. Honeywood's mind on this matter." "I," said Honeywood, "would inquire, in the first place, who is to command this force it is proposed to raise?" "Sure enough! We've been beating all about the bush; and Ned, as he allers does, has hit the nail right on the head," said Holdness. "Who is to command it? Kernel Armstrong," replied Rangely. "I wat weel that makes an unco difference, sae much that it becomes us to gie the matter special consideration," said Stewart. "Indeed it makes a difference," said Holdness. "I know Kernel Armstrong right well. I've fought with him, and fought under him: so has Hugh Crawford who's dead and gone, and Harry's father." "I think," said Honeywood, "there's much truth in what Mr. Rangely has said,--that by joining this expedition we take the best method to defend ourselves, and break the Indian power. If instead of building all these forts, and manning them with soldiers half of whom will run at the sight of an Indian, the same money had been spent in getting together a force of frontier-men led by a suitable person to do what is now on foot, a great portion of this terrible slaughter and destruction of property would have been saved. One-half the money would have done it." "I'd 'a' taken the job for that," said McClure, "and found the men." "One great reason why the Indians so much dread the Black Rifle is, he pursues the same course in respect to them that they do towards the whites; and they can never be sure that he is not lurking round their wigwams. A whole British army wouldn't make the impression upon them that he has. One thing's very certain: if the Province is going to wait for the king and council to send an army over here, the chiefs of the Six Nations won't be able to hold their young men; but they will join the French, and drive us to the coast. The garrison is now in excellent condition: the harvest is secured; there is ammunition and provision; and I think we might spare some men, and leave enough to defend the fort." "We'll defend the fort," cried Sam Sumerford, unable to contain himself: "the Screeching Catamounts'll defend the fort; we've done it one time." "Well crowed, my young cock of the walk," said Rangely, patting him on the head: "you'll be wanted." "I," continued Honeywood, "am ready to volunteer on condition that the force is made up of men that are used to the woods, and that they are commanded by Col. Armstrong and such other officers as he selects: if I get there, and find it otherwise, I shall shoulder my rifle and come home again." "I'll go," said Harry Sumerford. "I'll go," said Ned Armstrong. "And I," said Nat Cuthbert. "We'll all go," said Andrew McClure; "we'll follow Harry: where he goes we'll go,--that is, if the old folks think best." "I'll go," said Hugh Crawford, "if it's thought best." By this time the news had spread. Israel Blanchard, Wood, and Holt came in, and, after hearing what had been said and done, approved heartily of the proceedings. "Ain't you and McClure goin', Brad?" asked Rangely. "We ain't often behind, Ned, when bullets are flying; and sha'n't be now, I reckon." Holdness, perceiving by the looks of Harry Sumerford that he had something he would like to say, remarked,-- "Harry, I see you've somewhat on your mind: what is it?" "I think, Mr. Holdness, there are people here whose judgment is worth a great deal more than mine." "The more minds, the better: I want to hear it," said Blanchard. "I've been thinking whether the Black Rifle wouldn't go. There are always fifteen or twenty men that'll follow him anywhere; and they are just the men we want. He offered to go with Braddock, but the old goat wouldn't have him." "Don't think 'twould work," said Holdness. "Kernel Armstrong's a man who knows his business, and would kalkerlate ter be obeyed. The Black Rifle's better kalkerlated ter lead than ter foller anybody; and his men likewise had ruther go with him, and nobody else. He kills Indians for the sake of killin' 'em: peace or war, it's all the same ter him. They go for the sake of the scalps; and they know very well that they can take more scalps going with him in one week, than with a regular force in a month; and make ten dollars where they wouldn't make one." "That's so," said McClure: "Brad's got the right of it." "There's one thing though," said Holdness: "I believe he thinks more of me than any other being, and loves me as well as he can love anybody since his great sorrow crushed his heart, and tore him all ter pieces; and I've not much doubt but if I go and see him, tell him what's on foot, and that we want ter do all we kin for the country, and have got to leave this fort with a small garrison, that he would agree to camp here in the Run; and look out for us; and, if he agrees ter do it, he's just as true as steel. And though I don't think there's much danger, yet, if he would agree to camp round here, I for one should go away easy; and 'twould be a great comfort to the women-folks. Perhaps he'd let us have some powder and lead: he allers has a stock." "Well, Ned," said McClure, "I s'pose you want to have an answer; and you may tell Armstrong that we'll furnish twelve or fifteen men, and be at the place appointed at the time set; and you kin tell him they'll be _men_ too,--men that kin shoot ter a hair's breadth, brought up ter fightin' Indians, and won't tremble in their shoes at the sound of the war-whoop." "I'll just tell him," said Rangely, "that Brad Holdness and Sandie McClure are among them, and they are a sample of the rest." "Tell him they know their worth; won't foller any turkey-cock of a red-coat they may send across the water; and after they get there, if they find they've been deceived, they'll shoulder their rifles and go back." "Ye'll please to remember that last observation, Maister Rangely," said Stewart, "seeing it's o' muckle weight; for I opine that Black Douglas himsel', with his two hundred claymore, and lance like a weaver's beam, would hae been of sma' account in the woods wi' savages." The next question to be decided was, who should go and who remain. The young men all wanted to go, of course, and were burning to distinguish themselves before the Province, for which as yet they had had no opportunity; but, on the other hand, the older people were equally anxious, and even more so. Both Stewart and Israel Blanchard, who had heretofore remained at home,--not, indeed, for the same reason as the young men, seeing they had established their reputation for conduct and courage, and outgrown the enthusiasm of youth,--desired now to go, as they saw in this movement (the choice of the commander, and quality of men sought for) an opportunity to strike an effectual blow at their implacable foes, and to procure safety for themselves in the future; and with most of them the desire of revenge entered largely into the account. This explains the indifference and even contempt with which the proposition of Rangely was at first met by men still smarting under the recollections connected with Braddock's defeat; and likewise the sudden change in their opinions, when, in reply to Honeywood's question, Rangely gave the name of a leader well known and trusted,--a man who had grown up among the perils of the frontier. "It seems to me, neighbors," said Israel Blanchard, "that Mr. Holdness had better go and see what he can do with the Black Rifle before we attempt to pick out the men; because it will make a vast difference in respect to who and how many we are to leave in garrison, whether the Black Rifle will agree to help us or not." The next morning Holdness and Rangely, whose paths for some distance were the same, started; one to return to his commanding officer, the other to meet the Black Rifle. Holdness found that restless being busily engaged making a canoe (from bark he had peeled in the spring) for a fall hunt. He welcomed Holdness with great cordiality; who, laying aside his pack and rifle, instantly set at work helping him (much to the gratification of the captain, as it is quite inconvenient for one person to build a birch alone), mentioning never a word about the business on which he came, and accepting the invitation of his old comrade to spend the night. While they were eating supper the Black Rifle said,-- "Brad, I'm right glad to see you, but I don't believe you came here just to help me build this birch: so, whatever your business is, out with it, and we'll talk it over to-night afore the campfire." Holdness laid the whole matter before this veteran leader, and asked what he thought of the plan. "I think well of the thing: it's what should have been done at the first. I see what you're after: you want to put all the strength you've got into this thing, 'cause you think it's a move in the right direction, and the first one, too, after so long a time; and you Wolf Run folks are just the chaps who can do it. But you're consarned about your families while you're gone; and that ties your hands." "Just so, and that's all the difficulty." "Well now, Brad, you're come in a good time. You see, it's kind of a slack time with me: we've been on a rampage arter Indian scalps, and we've got 'em too. Some of my men have been wounded, though not very bad, and some have gone home to get in their harvest; and when it gets a little later, the wounded get well, and the rest ready, we're goin' to start out on a fall and winter hunt and scalping-scrape both; that is, we're goin' on to the hunting-grounds of the Delawares, and of course they'll object. So, you see, I'm building this birch, and am going to fill snow-shoes, make moccasons, and get ready; and have got to dress some skins to make the moccasons of, and a good deal to do. But I kin just as well do these things at your place as here, and I will; and, just as fast as any of 'em get through their work, they'll come. I s'pose you've got room and provision enough in the fort for 'em: you know I allers live outside. I've got some iron; and your Mr. Honeywood can mend my traps afore he goes, and mend some gunlocks for me." "Sartainly, and bring all the wounded: our women-folks'll take kere of 'em. Mrs. Sumerford can't be beat for dressing a gun-shot wound." "Reckon I will. Most of 'em are wounded in the legs or body: they kin shoot if they can't march. Then I shall be outside; and, if the Indians come, I kin soon muster the rest." The next morning Holdness took leave of his friend, and returned to tell the settlers that the Black Rifle would be at the fort within two days, and wanted four mules or horses to bring some wounded men, and a spare mule and pack-saddle to bring his traps and ammunition. Will Grant and Hugh Crawford started with the beasts, and in due time returned, bringing with them the wounded men. These men were of the same stamp as Holdness and Ned Rangely; rude in speech, but honest, honorable, simple-hearted as children, and kindly disposed to all men except Indians. Two of them, John Lovell and Dennis Morton, were wounded in the breast; Ridgway in the left arm; Thomas Bracket and Robert Tysdale, the former in the thigh, and the latter in the right leg below the knee, and could walk with a cane: either of them could shoot through a loop-hole, and both were recovering rapidly. In the afternoon of the second day, the Black Rifle came, and built his camp between the fort and the river. It is perhaps needless to observe, that at the arrival of the Black Rifle and his men, the martial spirit of the "Screeching Catamounts" arose to fever-heat. Capt. Sam Sumerford forgot his pots and pitchers; and the potter's wheel stood still. The tomahawks and scalping-knives that had been devoted to the peaceful purpose of cutting clay were ground, rifles cleaned, and he went tearing through the house, wanting his mother to spin him a bowstring, sew the eagle's feathers into his cap, wash his hunting-shirt, and do twenty things all at once. "I declare, Sammy Sumerford's come back again. I did hope I was done with knives, tomahawks, and Indian fightin'." "I'm sure, mother, I don't know to please you. You wanted the Indian war to be over, 'cause it worried you to see me so full of fighting; and then when the Indians held off a little, you was worried about the water and the raft and the wild beasts. Then I went to making pots, and it was first-rate for a little while; but you soon began to worry again, 'cause I was so still, and didn't seem nat'ral, and tear round and yell. And now I'm nat'ral again, you don't like that nuther." The ground of all this excitement was, that in expectation of being called to defend the fort, and on account of the arrival of the Black Rifle, Capt. Sumerford was preparing to muster his men for drill and ball-practice, that had been neglected of late. Having set up a target, he was drilling his company before the fort, Scip beating the drum, and Cal Holdness playing the fife. A great part of the male portion of the settlers were looking on, the women being too much occupied in preparations for the departure of the former to be present. The wounded men also were seated among the rest, when the Black Rifle himself came along, with his hands full of beaver-traps for Honeywood to mend, and on his way to the blacksmith's shop. You may be assured the "Screeching Catamounts" did their best in such august presence; and their hearts beat high. The Black Rifle and his men were loud in their expressions of surprise and approbation. The captain then drew up his men to fire at the target two hundred yards distant. "I wouldn't have believed," said Capt. Jack, "that these children, as you must needs call 'em, could shoot so. Why, the red-coats in the army, and half the soldiers in the forts along the frontier, can't begin with 'em." "We've burnt a good deal of powder, used a good deal of lead, teaching them, and sometimes when we didn't know how to spare it," said McClure. "Not a kernel of powder nor an ounce of lead has been wasted: you may be sure of that." He was, if possible, more surprised when they were exercised in throwing the tomahawk, shooting with bow and arrow, and imitating the voices of beasts and birds. There was scarcely any thing they could not imitate, from the chirrup of the cricket to the scream of an eagle, except the grum notes of the bull-frog: their voices were too shrill for that. "This," said the Black Rifle, "is the best of all,--even beats the shooting with rifles: 'cause it requires judgment that you wouldn't expect in so young persons, to throw the tomahawk, or shoot with a bow." "I never was in this clearing afore," said William Blythe, one of the three men who came with the captain; "but, if these are the children, what must the men be like?" CHAPTER XXII. CARRYING THE WAR INTO AFRICA. The settlers now removed their families into the fort preparatory to the departure of the volunteers. The Black Rifle had sent them, by Grant and Crawford, a large quantity of powder and lead; and, on the night that the last family moved into the fort, four more of the Black Rifle's men came, having finished up their work. These men brought word that eight or ten more would be along in a few days, and said that their purpose was to get ready for their fall hunt, and ambush the Indians who were going back and forth between the Ohio and the older settlements; making the fort their headquarters, and always leaving men enough to defend it. Hearing this, the settlers resolved to march in a body the next morning, young and old. Rogers, who had cut himself so badly with an axe that he could not engage in the last conflict with the Indians, was now able to go. Mr. Seth, however, objected to this. "Neighbors," said he, "you all know I'm no fighting man, don't pretend to be; and yet you're kind enough to say that I'm of some benefit." "Benefit!" exclaimed Holdness, "there's no man among us who's so great a benefit." "Well, then, I hope you'll be patient with me when I say that I can't feel reconciled to have Israel go. We've never been separated, and I've always kind of leaned on him. I don't know what I should do without him: I should neither eat, sleep, nor take one moment's peace." "Then I won't go, brother, though I do want to more'n ever I wanted to go anywhere in my life." "I think," said McClure, "that there ought to be more'n one stay: there are the cattle and hogs to see to, and many things that the rangers don't know any thing about to be done, though I don't suppose any of us cares to be the one to stay behind." Every preparation being completed, the volunteers set out the next morning for the rendezvous. After their departure the children were somewhat restrained in their rambles, and Sammy experienced a severe relapse of the pottery-fever. He also found less difficulty in obtaining the help of the others to work his clay: besides, the usefulness of his work had been recognized by every one in the Run; and, when the boys were unwilling to assist, Israel Blanchard would let him have Scip, who was worth more than all the others put together. Ike Proctor was the laziest, and least inclined to help, of any of the boys. Sammy hired him to turn the wheel half a day for some maple-sugar and two bullets. Ike ate the sugar, pocketed the bullets, worked about an hour, and then went off. Sammy said nothing, and manifested no feeling in regard to the affair; but, as soon as Ike left, went to the river, obtained a little of the clay that was strongly impregnated with iron, worked and kneaded it, working in some red ochre to raise the color still more, and made some clay doughnuts precisely the shape of those his mother was accustomed to make of dough, and baked them. After several days had passed, he told Ike if he would help him half a day, and stick to it, when the work was done he would give him a dozen doughnuts and four gun-flints, boughten ones; and to this Proctor agreed. When the time was up, Sam gave him the flints, and went to the fort for the doughnuts, that he had given his mother a charge to keep hot in the Dutch oven, and put a little lard on them. Sammy took the clay doughnuts in a cloth, and when warm and greasy they looked precisely like the real ones: he took one flour doughnut in his pocket. He spread them out on the table before Ike, and clapped the one from his pocket into his mouth, saying, "Eat 'em, Ike, while they're hot: only see how hot they be." [Illustration: THE "DOUGHNUT" SQUABBLE.--Page 297.] "So they be," said Ike, taking one in his hand: he attempted to bite it, burnt his tongue, and the tears came into his eyes. He threw the hot brick down in a great rage, and began throwing the others at Sammy's head. The latter retreated to the trough that was two-thirds full of soft clay trodden only the day before, and returned the attack with right good-will in a most generous manner. He plastered Ike from head to foot, filled his eyes, nose, and mouth full; and he was glad to make his escape. The boys all said Sam served him right, and they nicknamed him "_Doughnut_." It was very seldom that there was ever any falling-out among these frontier-boys, who were, in general, a band of brothers, for the reason that they had fighting enough outside, and the pressure kept them together. Uncle Seth was now in the best of spirits, having the society of his brother, in whose courage and sagacity he placed implicit confidence, with the Black Rifle and his men to protect them; and he resolved to make Sammy a foot-wheel, and thus render him independent of his mates and all others as far as turning the wheel was concerned. Guarded by two of the rangers, he went into the woods to find a tree that grew of the right shape to make a crank. You may think it would be impossible to find a tree trunk or limb that would answer, as it must be a double crank with a short turn, the sides not more than three inches apart. He could have sawed it out of a plank, or made it in pieces; but in the one case it would have been cut directly across the grain, and in the other would have been without much strength and very clumsy. He wanted to find a tree the grain of which grew in the right direction. No wonder Mr. Seth declared,--when he thought Sammy's pottery-fever would not last long, and wanted to get rid of his teasing,--that it was impossible to make a crank without iron. But he was now disposed to make the attempt; and you know, if Uncle Seth undertakes to do any thing, it will be done. The rangers who were with him expected to see him looking up into the tops of the trees, among the limbs; but instead of that they were astonished to see him running about with his eyes fastened on the butts of the trees, and never bestowing a glance at the limbs. "You hunting after a bear's den, or a coon-hole?" said Will Blythe. Mr. Seth made no reply, but stopped before a sugar-tree about fifteen inches through, and straight as a candle. From one side of this tree, about two feet from the ground, protruded a great whorl, not flattened on the top as they often are, like a wart on the hand, but thimble-shaped. "That's the time of day," said he. Stripping to the waist, he soon cut the tree down, and junked it off,--twenty feet of it. This was hauled to the fort, where the saw-pit was; and the brothers cut the whole tree into three-inch plank, as they wanted part of it for another purpose. They arranged their saw-kerfs in such a manner as to bring the centre of the whorl in the plank of which the spindle and crank were to be made. This plank they cut to the length desired, and then split it the other way, leaving a strip four inches in width, and the whorl being on the outside edge of it. In this whorl Mr. Seth cut the turn of his crank; and it was strong because the principal part of the grain grew in that direction, being looped around the whorl; and in other portions it crossed every way, twisted in and out, was clung, and looked much like the grain of a nutmeg. After roughing it out, he laid it up to season, in order that he might smooth it up. Tysdale, who chanced to pass just as he finished working on it, said,-- "If that ain't one way to make a crank!" "Isn't it a good way?" "Good way, sartain; but a man must be born in the woods to think of that." "I was born in the woods, and have worked in the woods most of the time since I was born." He now made a wheel three feet in diameter, with rim and hub and but four spokes, finished up his crank, put the wheel on the bottom of it, and attached a treadle to the crank, so that it could be turned with the foot, and placed in the bench. On the upper end of the crank, he cut a screw-thread; and got out, from the same plank that furnished the crank, three circles of different sizes, on which large or small pots might be made, and cut a screw-thread in the centre of each one, so that they could be put on or taken from the crank easily. This was not all. He was no mean blacksmith. He found, among the guns last taken from the Indians, one of which the barrel was good for nothing; and, going into the blacksmith-shop, he made a gudgeon for the lower end of the crank, and an iron socket for it to run in. He also bushed the hole in the bench, where the crank-spindle passed through, with horn, which made it run much more easily. Thus Sammy had a potter's wheel at last, which he could use alone, and on which he could turn pots of the largest size. Was he not a happy boy! and didn't he hug, praise, and thank Uncle Seth! He had, in his practice, accumulated a large number of little pots at the Cuthbert house. They were too small to be of much use; and he was by no means satisfied with the workmanship, as he found he could do much better work with his wheel: so he flung them all into the trough, put water on them, and made them into dough again; this being one advantage a potter has over other mechanics,--if he makes a blunder, he has not destroyed his material, but can work it over. Sammy now, instead of making a great number of vessels, endeavored to improve the quality of his wares, and turned milk-pans on this wheel with the greatest ease. It also required much time to bake them; for, though he had enlarged his kiln, it was still quite small; and he began to think about trying to make brick, and building such a one as he had heard Mr. Seth say the potters had. Thus one invention, like one sin, necessitates another. Finding, however, that he had already supplied the settlement with pots and pans sufficient to last them a long time, he concluded to defer that enterprise for the present. Children have little idea of the anxieties of their parents; and while they had not the least doubt but Col. Armstrong and his men would lick all the Indians on the Ohio (for three hundred men seemed an immense force to them, enough to overcome any number of Indians), their parents knew the object would not be attained without loss; and none knew but they might be called to mourn the loss of friends. Two of the rangers went to McDowell's mill, and learned that the force had left the beaver-dams, which place was well on their way, and that the matter must be decided one way or the other very soon. A few days after, they went again, and brought word that there was no doubt but Col. Armstrong had surprised the Indian town, killed a good many of them, and burnt up their log houses. There was a flying report that Col. Armstrong was killed, Lieut. Hogg and several men killed, and some wounded, but that the loss had not been severe. After a week of agonizing suspense, the settlers were roused at midnight by the report of a rifle, and, turning out in expectation of an attack, found the whole party, with the exception of Honeywood, at the gate; not a man among them hurt, though several had bullets shot through their clothes, and McClure's rifle had been struck and chipped by a ball. Never had the Wolf Run settlers come out of an Indian fight before, without more serious consequences. They informed those at home that they found the Indians in log houses that were loop-holed and well prepared for defence. In these houses they had stored a great quantity of powder, enough, as the Indians boasted, to last them ten years, that had been given them by the French; and they were then preparing to attack Fort Shirley, aided by French officers and soldiers. Capt. Jacobs, the great war-chief of the Indians, was killed; and many of them, refusing quarter, were burned and blown up in their houses. "When did you see my husband last? and how came you to be separated from him?" said Mrs. Honeywood. "When we came within a few miles of the Indian town," said Holdness, "he and Rangely were sent out to scout, and discovered three Indians round a fire. Col. Armstrong didn't want to molest these Indians, for fear of alarming the town: so he ordered Lieut. Hogg with twelve men, among whom was your husband and Rangely, to keep watch of 'em while he went forward to the town with the main body, with orders to fall upon these Indians at daybreak, at which time he would attack the Indian village. The lieutenant obeyed orders, killed three of them at the first fire, when it turned out that instead of three there were twenty-four, the rest lying in the woods." "What were those Indians about there?" said Blanchard. "They were an advance party, on their way to Fort Shirley. They killed Rangely and three more, mortally wounded the lieutenant, and forced the rest to retreat." "How did you know this?" "We got it from a party who separated from the rest after the action, and found the lieutenant lying wounded on the ground alone, and the bodies of those who had been killed lying around him. Your husband was not among the killed; no one knew any thing about him; and we reckoned he had retreated with the others, and we should find him at the beaver-dams, or on the road; and, not finding him at either place, made up our minds, that, having found out the Indians were licked, he had taken the shortest cut through the woods for the Run; and 'spected ter find him here afore us." This force having been raised for the sole purpose of capturing the Indian village, their obligations ended with the accomplishment of that object. At first they had no serious anxiety in respect to Honeywood. Holdness and McClure knew that his body had not been found, though the woods had been thoroughly searched. They did not believe that when the Indians must have known by the firing, that their village was attacked by a strong force, they would encumber themselves with a prisoner, but, if they had taken him, would have killed and scalped him. But when day after day passed away, and they heard that other stragglers had returned, and Honeywood came not, the alarm was universal; and they knew that he was a captive to the Indians. It was then manifest how much Honeywood was beloved and respected. Every man was willing to encounter any danger to rescue him; and even the children could find no heart to play, and burst into tears when they found he was a captive. The Black Rifle and three of his men went in one direction; Harry Sumerford, Ned Armstrong, and Cal Holdness, in another; and Israel Blanchard, McClure, and Holdness, in still another,--in order to lurk around the Indian villages and camping-places, to find where he was held captive, that they might attempt either rescue or ransom. But all their efforts were fruitless: because, as was afterwards known, the party who had captured Honey wood, finding their town attacked by so large a force, fled with their prisoner across the Alleghany and into the territories of the Six Nations, where only, after the first alarm created by Armstrong's attack, they could feel secure. It was a gloomy period at the Run, when one party after another would come in without tidings. "If," said Mrs. Sumerford, "the Almighty ever did hear prayer for any thing or any body, and I know he has and does, he will for this good man: he'll never let those savages torture their best friend." "He permitted the Jews to torture the Saviour, their best friend," replied Mrs. Honeywood. "We have no right to say what God in his wisdom will or will not permit; but, if the Indians tie him to the stake, I believe he will enable him to bear it, and will support me likewise." "The church," said Mrs. Sumerford, "prayed for Peter, and the Lord sent his angel: perhaps he will hear our prayers for him." These good women then resolved they would meet every afternoon in the schoolhouse, and pray. CHAPTER XXIII. THE QUAKER'S APPEAL TO THE DELAWARES. Honeywood and Rangely, maintaining their ground while their comrades retreated, were thus left alone; and, being surrounded by savages, Rangely was killed, and Honeywood, wounded severely in the breast, was taken prisoner. The Delawares knew Honeywood well: among them were some of those who were present when he shot the savage who held Sam Sumerford in his arms, without hurting the boy. They immediately painted his face black, thus signifying that he was to be reserved for torture. Greatly elated with their prize, they treated him with the utmost kindness, and carried him the greater part of the way to a Delaware camping-ground on a litter. Upon arriving at their place of destination, they exerted all their skill to heal his wounds, and restore his strength, in order that he might be able longer to endure the tortures they intended to inflict upon so brave a man and dreaded enemy. The victim was too well acquainted with Indian customs and character to be ignorant of the designs of his captors; but hope lingers long in the human breast, and he was not without some slight expectation that his friend Wasaweela might be able to help him. He was not aware that the generous Mohawk had fallen (soon after he gave the warning to the settlers at the Run) in a battle with the southern Indians who had trespassed upon the hunting-grounds of the Six Nations. Among the savages who captured Honeywood, was one who had often been to the shop of Clavell in Baltimore, of whom the captive had learned his trade; and he had several times repaired the rifle and traps of this savage free of charge, and invited him to spread his blanket on the hearth. On the march this savage showed much kindness to his former benefactor, often gave him food from his own store that was scanty, and would probably have aided him to escape if he could; but the day before they reached their place of destination, a Delaware encampment in the territory of the Six Nations, he told Honeywood, evidently with sorrow, that his people would burn him, because he had struck them very hard, and killed many of their young men, and was a great brave. He then exhorted him to be strong, and to let it be known, by the courage with which he endured the torture, that he was a great warrior. Thrown upon the world in childhood, the mind of Honeywood was of the firmest texture, and he had often been called to face death. But he was in the prime of early manhood, a loving, kind-hearted man; and it was bitter to die under such horrible tortures as savage ingenuity alone could devise. He thought of his home, the acres he had toiled so hard to win and defend; his wife and little ones; his neighbors, young men and children, respecting whose improvement, both mental and moral, he had cherished so many hopes, and devised so many plans to be carried into effect when the Indian war should end, of which there was now a probability. Honeywood was not only a man of iron nerve and unflinching courage, but he was a good man: he lived in constant intercourse with God. In his boyhood, while one of the household of Henry Clavell, he had been deeply interested in religious truths. The instructions of Mrs. Raymond, a Quakeress, and the housekeeper of his master, had fallen upon willing ears and a tender conscience; and the great sorrow of his youth, the death of his benefactor, had completed the work; and from his Father in heaven he sought for strength to die, not with the sullen stoicism of the red man, but with the faith and resignation of a Christian. His wounds were now healed, and his strength restored; his captors, having treated his injuries with great skill, fed him upon the best of provisions, game being plenty, and treated him with all the kindness consistent with safe-keeping. The war-parties sent out in different directions had come in, as also the fugitives who had escaped from Armstrong at Kittanning. One of those parties brought with them two white captives,--one a Scotchman by the name of McAlpine, and the other a German, Luke Bogardus,--and a great number of scalps. These scalping-parties were received by the Indians with great rejoicings. They instantly made a feast, had an Indian scalp-dance, and resolved to put Honeywood and the other captives to the torture, as an offering to appease the spirits of their warriors who had been slain at Kittanning, and more especially of the great number that had fallen by the hands of the settlers at Wolf Run. Upon Honeywood, therefore, these demons in human form resolved to inflict the most horrible torments, made familiar by long practice and taught by the traditions of their savage ancestors. Could they but make him cry like a woman, their hearts would thrill with joy. With this end in view they had healed his wounds, and done all in their power to restore him to health and strength; and now the hour of vengeance had come. The prisoners were now brought out, and fastened to small trees by hide ropes of such a length as to permit them to run round the trees when the flames began to scorch them, and by their convulsive motions afford amusement to their tormentors. The squaws and children were building fires at a little distance, at which to heat gun-barrels and ramrods to be thrust into the bodies of the prisoners after they had been partially roasted by the fire built around them. Others were splitting up little slivers of pitch-wood to be run into their flesh, and set on fire; some were filling the quills of turkeys with powder, to be used in a similar way, and then touched with fire. While these fearful preparations were going on, Isetaune, the friendly savage referred to, unwilling to witness the suffering of one who had bestowed favors upon him, retired to the forest, where he was suddenly confronted by Ephraim Cuthbert, accompanied by Mrs. Raymond, who were instantly recognized by the Indian. Cuthbert, to whom the Delaware language was as familiar as his mother tongue, communicated to the astonished Isetaune his errand, who, whatever he might have felt, betrayed no emotion, but turned back with these unexpected guests. An old squaw was approaching McAlpine with a birch dish full of splinters of pitch-wood; and boys were following her with fire-brands to light them. An Indian had just drawn a red-hot gun-barrel from the fire, with which to torment Bogardus. When Ephraim and his companions appeared, their Quaker dress, and mild, passionless features, in strange contrast with the grim forms of those naked and infuriated demons, the astonished savages dropped their instruments of torture; and, recognizing the well-known garb, ever associated in their minds with justice and brotherly love, appreciated at its full value the confidence which had impelled these wayfarers, unarmed and unannounced, to trust themselves to the red man in his haunts; and they hastened to show that it was not misplaced. A number of the more elderly Indians and principal warriors were seated in a position where they could command the best view both of the captives and their tormentors; and, riding up directly in front of them, Ephraim and his companion halted. Honeywood in a moment recognized the persons of Cuthbert and Mrs. Raymond, though they passed along without even glancing at him. The color came to his cheek, his eyes moistened, and he looked up in gratitude to heaven, though he might well doubt the success of the mission upon which he knew his friends had come. Amid a silence so profound that the crackling of the fires kindled to heat the instruments of torture were distinctly heard, an aged Delaware came forward, and, extending his hand to Cuthbert, greeted him thus:-- "My brother and the woman are welcome. Is he hungry? we will feed him. Is he tired? we will take him to our fire, and spread for him a blanket. Has he lost his way? we will put him in the right path. Is he not our brother? Conadose has said." A low murmur of assent succeeded; and, after it had subsided, Cuthbert said,-- "Brother, thy people have taken a young man from the Juniata. He is a just and brave man. In time of peace, he has been very kind to the Delawares, as Isetaune will tell you; and in war has only defended his lodge, and has never taken a scalp. He is very dear to the woman who is with me; and she has asked me to bring her on this long journey, that she might look in the eyes of her brothers, and ask them to give her this man, who is as a son." "Brother, we believe as you have told us, that this is a just and brave man; but he has struck our people very hard, and will, if we let him live, strike many more of them. The bones of our young men are scattered in the woods; the wolves are gnawing them; and their spirits will complain if he should live: they cry to us from the ground for his blood. Brother, forget that you have asked us for that we could not grant. This man must die." "It is well. Will my brothers allow the woman to speak to them?" After a brief consultation, the request was granted. Praying to God for aid in this apparently hopeless effort to pluck the prey from the very jaws of the wolf, Mrs. Raymond ventured to speak, Cuthbert interpreting. Not a word she uttered was lost by Honeywood, whose life depended upon her success. "Brothers, I have lived many years: you see my hair is white; and I have had many sorrows. My grandfather was one of the men of peace, who came over the sea with William Penn, and stood beside him when he met your fathers at Shackamaxon. "When a little child, I have sat upon his knees, and heard him tell what William Penn said to the Delawares,--that he considered them one flesh and blood with his people, and as though one man's body was divided in two parts; and the Delawares said that they would live in love and friendship with William Penn and his children as long as the sun and moon endured." During her address, every trace of ferocity vanished from the features of the Indians, and was replaced by an expression of curious interest and respect. She paused a moment to collect her thoughts, when the chief said,-- "Brother, let the woman speak on. The ears of the Delawares are open; and they desire to wipe the tears from her eyes." Thus encouraged, she said, while her voice trembled with emotion,-- "Brothers, I am told that it is a custom of the Delawares, handed down from their fathers, that when a captive is taken, any who have lost relatives may take him for their own in the place of those they have lost. We are one flesh and blood: William Penn and your fathers made us one; my father and your fathers joined hands in covenant before this sun; and before this sun I claim this right of my brothers. "I have had children; but it has pleased the Great Spirit to take them. I do not complain: whatever he doeth is just. I wish to take this man to fill the place in my heart left empty by those I have lost. I ask it of my brothers, because we are one, like two parts of the same body; and I claim the ancient privilege that has always been granted by your old men. Should not a Delaware be just? "My brother has said the spirits of the slain will be angry if the captive is let go; but will not the spirits of the just and brave who have gone to the happy hunting-grounds grieve and be angry if their children do not remember the covenant their fathers made at Shackamaxon? It is truly a great thing I have asked of the Delawares; but is any thing too good for a friend? Does the red man give to his friend that which he values not, and set before him that he would not eat himself?" Mrs. Raymond did not conclude, but stopped, utterly exhausted by her efforts, and the emotions excited by the fearful scene before her. The Indian councillors were evidently much perplexed. No such question had ever come before them. On one side was the desire of revenge, so dear to a savage; on the other, the veneration amounting to idolatry, that all red men, and especially the Delawares, cherished for the character of William Penn (for it was with the Delawares that he made the covenant), and also that sense of justice so strong in the Indian mind. The affectionate and almost childish confidence with which Cuthbert and his companion had come to them was peculiarly adapted to touch the hearts of these untutored children of the forest. The older Indians went a little apart from the rest; and hope revived in the heart of Honeywood when he perceived them call Isetaune to their councils. After a short time spent in deliberation, an Indian, much more advanced in years than the first speaker, arose, and said to Cuthbert,-- "Brother, open your ears. We have listened to the words of the woman: they are good words; such words as were never spoken to the Delawares before, or our old men would have heard and told us of them. We have considered them well, and we think the Great Spirit has sent the woman to speak these good words in our ears. "For no reason that the pale-faces could have offered us, would we let this man go. If all the governors of the thirteen fires had come to demand this captive, we would have burnt him before their eyes. But the woman and yourself belong to William Penn; you are one with us; and the woman asks that we do by her as we do by our own: therefore we give her this man, because we love to give large gifts to our friends, and because it is just. "Brother, listen! I have lived many moons; many snows have fallen on my head; and I remember the good days when the children of William Penn were many, when they bore rule at the council-fire, and those bad men who now have most to say were of small account, and when the red man, treated justly, was happy; and, because you are few, our lands are taken without paying for them, and our blood is shed. We do not love you the less because the power has gone from you: therefore we give the life of this man (whom the pale-faces could not buy) to you, and the spirit of the great and good Penn. "Brother, you have come to us when our hearts are sore and our minds disturbed, for which we are sorry. We shall burn these two bad men. You would not wish to hear their cries, therefore we cannot ask you to spread your blanket at our fire; but some of our young men will build you a wigwam in the woods, and, when you are rested, will guide you to the white man's fort by a shorter path than the one by which you came. I have said." Cuthbert now presented his thanks, and also those of Mrs. Raymond, to his brothers the Delawares; and Isetaune, loosing Honeywood from the stake, brought him to Mrs. Raymond. Savage ferocity, so long repressed, now broke forth: fires were rekindled, and yells of vengeance rent the air. Cuthbert would gladly have interceded for the two other miserable victims, but he knew it would be of no avail; and but a moment was given him to think of it, for with Honeywood and Mrs. Raymond he was hurried off to the woods by Isetaune and several others, who hastily constructed a shelter of boughs, provided them with food, and then hurried back to take part in the terrible tortures about to be inflicted upon McAlpine and Bogardus. CHAPTER XXIV. THE RETURN OF THE CAPTIVE. When the Indians had departed, Honeywood said to Mrs. Raymond,-- "Mother, when a boy under your care, you were the means of saving my soul; and this day you and Friend Cuthbert have saved my life." He then begged to know in what way Cuthbert was informed of his capture, and more especially of the place to which the Indians had carried him, as it was in the limits of the Six Nations, who had taken no part in the war. Ephraim replied that the governor of Pennsylvania, through Sir William Johnson, governor of New York, who had great influence with the Six Nations, had endeavored to prevail upon them to command the Delawares to stop their inroads, and to make peace with the English; and for that purpose had sent a delegation to them, among whom were several Quakers of his acquaintance. He then went on to say that the friendship between the Indians and the Quakers had not been interrupted in the least by the war, with which (as the Indians well knew) they had no concern except to endeavor to prevent it. After visiting the Six Nations, those Quakers, knowing the deep impression made upon the minds of the Delawares by the attack of Armstrong and the capture of Kittanning, resolved to visit the Delaware king Teedyuscung; and thus learned of the capture of Honeywood, and where he was, and that the Delawares were determined to burn him, and would take no ransom, for he was one of the Wolf Run settlers, who were the worst enemies they had. "I then," said Ephraim, "resolved with the help of God to rescue thee, seeing it was my duty, and not forgetful of thy great kindness to me when I was thy neighbor at the Run." "You took a most singular way: if you had sent word to the Run, the people there would have rescued me by force of arms." "They might, and they might not: they would have killed many Indians in doing it, of which thou knowest we do not approve. I took the way of peace and righteousness, and thou seest it has succeeded. I know the Indians loved my people, and the memory of William Penn, though he has been so long in his grave. Friend Honeywood, 'love is stronger than death: many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.' Thou knowest we believe there is an inward light in every person born into the world; and there is in these poor savages (who are now torturing their prisoners, and would have tortured thee), but it has been obscured by ages of ignorance and superstition: yet they would take the food from their mouths to put into mine, or any true follower of William Penn. "Thou knowest how long a journey thy mother and myself have come to find thee; and nearly every day we met larger or smaller bands of Delawares, Shawanees, Monseys, and Wyandottes in their war-paint, going after the scalps of white men, to kill the mother and the babe on her bosom; but they called me brother, offered me food, directed me in the best paths, and to places where I could find grass and water; and often went many miles out of their way to do this." Honeywood made no reply. He could not accept the Quaker doctrine of non-resistance, though in other respects sympathizing with and entertaining the greatest affection and respect for them and their principles. While the light of the torture-fires could be discerned in the distance, and the Indian yells faintly heard, they knelt in prayer, and then retired to rest. Cuthbert and his companions would gladly have started at the first glimpse of day; but this would not have been agreeable to Indian customs, that required a more formal leave-taking and an escort as a mark of respect. Those singularly discordant traits that go to make up Indian character appeared in a striking light the next morning when they were taken back to the encampment. Here they were received with the greatest kindness. A lodge was placed at their disposal; and they found a bountiful breakfast already prepared. The grim colors of the war-paint had disappeared from the persons of the warriors, who had resumed the grave dignity and cold demeanor of an Indian when in repose. The squaws, who the day before were foaming at the mouth with malignant spite, and longing to engage in the work of torture, were quietly pursuing their household duties; and the children at play. Some terrible reminders of what had taken place remained,--the half-burned trees to which the captives had been fastened, and the still smoking embers. Indian dogs were gnawing and dragging about the half-burned bones of the dead, snarling at each other, and fighting for favorite morsels. Honeywood turned sick at heart as he looked upon the stake to which he had been fastened, the wood collected to burn him, and the mangled remains of his fellow-captives, whose fate he had so narrowly escaped. Cuthbert now expressed his desire to depart, and they proceeded to take leave of him. "Brother," said the Indian who had welcomed him, "listen. You came to us when our minds were chafed, and the spirits of our dead were calling upon us to revenge their blood. We have now given them satisfaction: they will no longer complain, but will rest in their graves. We have wiped the tears from your eyes, picked the thorns from your legs; you have eaten of our food, spread your blankets with us; and, as you are about to leave us, we wish you a good journey, and are glad that you have come and brightened the chain of friendship. Our young men will go with you, that you may not lose your way and come to harm. Brother, farewell." Indians never do any thing at the halves. Honeywood's rifle, pack, and every article, even to the bullets in his pouch, and the powder in his horn, were restored; and he was presented with new moccasons and leggings. Isetaune and six Delawares conducted them to within four miles of Fort Shirley, where the Indians took leave of them, Cuthbert and Mrs. Raymond going to the fort, and Honeywood towards the Run at a speed that corresponded to the emotions swelling in the breast of the husband and father. Expecting to find the settlers in garrison, he went directly to the fort. Passing through the Cuthbert pasture, he encountered Fan with three of her pups following the trail of a pack of wolves for their own amusement. With the wildest expression of joy, she leaped upon her master, the pups doing the same, all striving to be the first to lick his face: they fairly bore him to the ground, each one, as he accomplished his purpose, running in a circle around him. "That's a warm welcome, old friend," patting the head of Fan, as, having finished her gambol, she stood looking in his face, and wagging her tail, as though she wanted to speak. As he approached, he found the gates of the stockade and the fort open; and there was no sentry to be seen on the platform. "The Black Rifle must be here still," he said to himself; "or they would never leave the gates open, and let down their watch." The door of the mill was open; and he looked in, but saw no one, for Mr. Seth was in the top of the building, greasing the bearings of the machinery. He was hurrying to the block-house, when he heard the voice of his wife in the schoolhouse; and entering found her, Mrs. Sumerford, Mrs. Holdness, Lucy Mugford, and several of the older girls, at prayer. Prayer was now turned to praise; and the girls ran to the block-house to spread the glad tidings. "The Lord has sent his angel, and delivered Peter; praised be his name!" shouted Mrs. Sumerford. "Oh the dear good man!" and she fairly embraced him. "The Lord sent two angels, Mrs. Sumerford; and they were Ephraim Cuthbert and Mrs. Raymond.--Where are the children, wife?" "Here they are, coming with their grandmother and all the rest." The next moment all the female portion of the community, and Mr. Seth, were assembled in the schoolhouse; and, after Honeywood had embraced and kissed his children, Mr. Seth said,-- "Neighbors, we have been in this place more or less for weeks, praying in behalf of Mr. Honeywood; and those who were on the scout knelt down in the wood to put up the same petition, and the sentry knelt at midnight on the platform; and it does not become us now in the hour of our deliverance to forget the Author of all our mercies. I want Mr. Honeywood to read the hundred and sixteenth Psalm, and pray; and we'll all praise together." The dogs were put out, and all seated themselves for worship; but scarcely had Honeywood taken the book in his hand, than the old mother dog leaped in at the window, followed by the rest. "Let them stay. I cannot bear to shut out Fan. She was the first to welcome me. The Lord made them as well as us." At his command they all lay down around him, and remained perfectly quiet during the worship; Fan only lifting her head once in a while to look her master in the face, and make sure of his presence. The happy company retired to the block-house, when Honeywood inquired what had become of the men-folks and children. "The young men," said Uncle Seth, "have gone with the Black Rifle and four of his band, to Loyal Hannah, where they have heard there is a Delaware camp, to lurk round to see if you are there. Some are on the scout. The rest are gone to Mr. Holdness's lot to junk and pile logs on a burn, and all the boys are with 'em; and Joan Holdness's gone to let 'em know you've come." Before Honeywood had finished eating, the boys rushed in, having run all the way; and, not long after, Holdness, McClure, Grant, Stewart, and Israel Blanchard came in. Honeywood then gave his friends a minute account of all that had happened to him. When he finished, McClure said,-- "It was not the memory of William Penn, nor what Mrs. Raymond said, that turned the Indian from his purpose when the captive was tied to the stake, and the fire lighted: 'twas Him who stopped the mouth of the lions. They couldn't work their will, couldn't do the thing they wanted to." "Sinner that I am," said Holdness, "I have never yet had the grace to seek pardon of my Maker for my many transgressions, much more of man; but, if I ever meet Ephraim Cuthbert agin, I'll ask his forgiveness for insulting him, and knocking his hat from his head, and giving him hard words, because he would neither fight himself, nor pay others for doing it; and you all know Ned Honeywood had ter step between us, or I might have done worse. Quaker or no Quaker, he's a brave, noble-hearted, Christian man." "No wonder we couldn't find him," said Israel Blanchard: "nobody ever dreamed that they would carry him into the hunting-grounds of the Six Nations." "It would seem," said Honeywood, "that, though the Six Nations take no open part in the war, they have no objection to see it go on. Many of the Delawares have left their old men, women, and children, among the Six Nations, while the warriors went to war; and it was to one of these places, that, after Kittanning was taken, they carried me." "To be sure, they are willing it should go on, in order that they may be called in to make the Delawares and all the rest behave, and have rich presents for their trouble; and that is what the governor is trying to bring about now. Better give 'em a few more bullets, and a little more of Armstrong," said McClure. "There is no doubt," said Holdness, "that the Six Nations rule the Delawares and all the rest with a rod of iron; and, if they order the Delawares to bury the hatchet, they'll have to do it. But it seems to me that a government cuts a very mean figure when it goes a-begging to one portion of these savages, gits down on its knees to them, and hires them to make peace with another portion. Rather than do that, I would be willing to set out to-morrow on another expedition into their country. A few more such raids would bring them to beg for peace, instead of their being hired and coaxed to agree to it." "There's a great deal of wholesome truth in what the Quakers said," replied Honeywood. "They told the government that the Indian troubles were generally settled in this way. The Indians were abused and exasperated till they dug up the hatchet; and when the affair had gone on till great numbers of the inhabitants were killed, and a few of the savages, the frontiers depopulated, and the whole country filled with terror, then presents were made to the Indians, a council held, and peace confirmed. The Quakers, therefore, thought it would be better to make the presents first, and dispense with all the butchery and devastation." The concluding volume of this series--entitled, BURYING THE HATCHET; OR, THE YOUNG BRAVE OF THE DELAWARES--will clear up the mystery connected with the disappearance of that reckless and mischievous urchin, Tony Stewart, and manifest the effect of peaceful relations and pursuits upon the rude and reckless spirits who composed the majority of the settlers of Wolf Run. Hitherto they have been presented to us struggling for bare existence, in circumstances of mortal peril, calculated to develop the sterner passions of human nature. We trust they will manifest qualities of mind and heart equally striking and admirable when laying aside the weapons of war, to engage in enterprises of culture and progress. 
21034	----	THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AT SCHOOL BY GRACE BROOKS HILL Author of "The Corner House Girls," "The Corner House Girls Under Canvas," etc. _ILLUSTRATED BY R. EMMETT OWEN_ GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK Copyright, 1915 By BARSE & CO. _Printed in the United States of America_ [Illustration: Agnes stooped lower and shot up the course, passing Trix not three yards from the line.] CONTENTS I A Goat, Four Girls, and a Pig II The White-headed Boy III The Pig is Important IV Neale O'Neil Gets Established V Crackers--and a Toothache VI Agnes Loses Her Temper and Dot Her Tooth VII Neale in Disguise VIII Introductions IX Popocatepetl in Mischief X The Ice Storm XI The Skating Race XII The Christmas Party XIII The Barn Dance XIV Uncle Rufus' Story of the Christmas Goose XV Sadie Goronofsky's Bank XVI A Quartette of "Lady Bountifuls" XVII "That Circus Boy!" XVIII Snowbound XIX The Enchanted Castle XX Trix Severn in Peril XXI A Backyard Circus XXII Mr. Sorber XXIII Taming a Lion Tamer XXIV Mr. Murphy Takes a Hand XXV A Bright Future THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AT SCHOOL CHAPTER I A GOAT, FOUR GIRLS, AND A PIG When Sam Pinkney brought Billy Bumps over to the old Corner House, and tied him by the corner of the woodshed, there was at once a family conclave called. Sam was never known to be into anything but mischief; therefore when he gravely presented the wise looking old goat to Tess, suspicion was instantly aroused in the Kenway household that there was something beside good will behind Master Sam's gift. "Beware of the Greeks when they come bearing gifts," Agnes freely translated. "But you know very well, Aggie, Sammy Pinkney is not a Greek. He's Yankee--like us. That's a Greek man that sells flowers down on Main Street," said Tess, with gravity. "What I said is allegorical," pronounced Agnes, loftily. "We know Allie Neuman--Tess and me," ventured Dot, the youngest of the Corner House girls. "She lives on Willow Street beyond Mrs. Adams' house, and she is going to be in my grade at school." "Oh, fine, Ruth!" cried Agnes, the twelve-year-old, suddenly seizing the eldest sister and dancing her about the big dining-room. "Won't it be just _fine_ to get to school again?" "Fine for me," admitted Ruth, who had missed nearly two years of school attendance, and was now going to begin again in her proper grade at the Milton High School. "Eva Larry says we'll have the very nicest teacher there is--Miss Shipman. This is Eva's last year in grammar school, too, you know. We'll graduate together," said Agnes. Interested as Tess and Dot were in the prospect of attending school in Milton for the first time, just now they had run in to announce the arrival of Mr. Billy Bumps. "And a very suggestive name, I must say," said Ruth, reflectively. "I don't know about that Pinkney boy. Do you suppose he is playing a joke on you, Tess?" "Why, no!" cried the smaller girl. "How could he? _For the goat's there._" "Maybe that's the joke," suggested Agnes. "Well, we'll go and see him," said Ruth. "But there must be some reason beside good-will that prompted that boy to give you such a present." "I know," Dot said, solemnly. "What is it, Chicken-little?" demanded the oldest sister, pinching the little girl's cheek. "Their new minister," proclaimed Dot. "Their _what_?" gasped Agnes. "Who, dear?" asked Ruth. "Mrs. Pinkney's new minister. She goes to the Kaplan Chapel," said Dot, gravely, "and they got a new minister there. He came to call at Mrs. Pinkney's and the goat wasn't acquainted with him." "Oh-ho!" giggled Agnes. "Light on a dark subject." "Who told you, child?" asked Tess, rather doubtfully. "Holly Pease. And she said that Billy Bumps butted the new minister right through the cellar window--the coal window." "My goodness!" ejaculated Ruth. "Did it hurt him?" "They'd just put in their winter's coal, and he went head first into that," said Dot. "So he didn't fall far. But he didn't dare go out of the house again until Sam came home after school and shut Billy up. Holly says Billy Bumps camped right outside the front door and kept the minister a prisoner." The older girls were convulsed with laughter at this tale, but Ruth repeated: "We might as well go and see him. If he is _very_ savage----" "Oh, he isn't!" cried Tess and Dot together. "He's just as tame!" The four sisters started for the yard, but in the big kitchen Mrs. MacCall stopped them. Mrs. MacCall was housekeeper and she mothered the orphaned Kenway girls and seemed much nearer to them than Aunt Sarah Maltby, who sat most of her time in the big front room upstairs, seldom speaking to her nieces. Mrs. MacCall was buxom, gray-haired--and every hair was martialed just _so_, and all imprisoned in a cap when the good lady was cooking. She was looking out of one of the rear windows when the girls trooped through. "For the land sakes!" ejaculated Mrs. MacCall. "What's that goat doing in our yard?" "It's our goat," explained Tess. _"What?"_ "Yes, ma'am," said Dot, seriously. "He's a very nice goat. He has a real noble beard--don't you think?" "A goat!" repeated Mrs. MacCall. "What next? A goat is the very last thing I could ever find a use for in this world. But I s'pose the Creator knew what He was about when He made them." "I think they're lots of fun," said roly-poly Agnes, giggling again. "Fun! Ah! what's that he's eatin' this very minute?" screamed Mrs. MacCall, and she started for the door. She led the way to the porch, and immediately plunged down the steps into the yard. "My stocking!" she shrieked. "The very best pair I own. Oh, dear! Didn't I say a goat was a perfectly useless thing?" It was a fact that a limp bit of black rag hung out of the side of Billy Bumps' mouth. A row of stockings hung on a line stretched from the corner of the woodshed and the goat had managed to reach the first in the row. "Give it up, you beast!" exclaimed Mrs. MacCall, and grabbed the toe of the stocking just as it was about to disappear. She yanked and Billy disgorged the hose. He had chewed it to pulp, evidently liking the taste of the dye. Mrs. MacCall threw the thing from her savagely and Billy lowered his head, stamped his feet, and threatened her with his horns. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Mrs. MacCall!" cried Ruth, soothingly. "That won't bring back my stocking," declared the housekeeper. "Half a pair of stockings--humph! that's no good to anybody, unless it's a person with a wooden leg." "I'll get you a new pair, Mrs. MacCall," said Tess. "Of course, I'm sort of responsible for Billy, for he was given to me." "You'll be bankrupt, I'm afraid, Tess," chuckled Agnes, "if you try to make good for all the damage a goat can do." "But it won't cost much to keep him," said Tess, eagerly. "You know, they live on tin cans, and scraps, and thistles, and all sorts of _cheap_ things." "Those stockings weren't cheap," declared the housekeeper as she took her departure. "They cost seventy-five cents." "Half your month's allowance, Tess," Dot reminded her, with awe. "Oh, dear, me! Maybe Billy Bumps will be expensive, after all." "Say! Ruth hasn't said you can keep him yet," said Agnes. "He looks dangerous to me. He has a bad eye." "Why! he's just as kind!" cried Tess, and immediately walked up to the old goat. At once Billy stopped shaking his head, looked up, and bleated softly. He was evidently assured of the quality of Tess Kenway's kindness. "He likes me," declared Tess, with conviction. "Glo-ree!" ejaculated a deep and unctuous voice, on the heels of Tess' declaration. "Wha's all dis erbout--heh! Glo-ree! Who done let dat goat intuh disher yard? Ain' dat Sam Pinkney's ol' Billy?" A white-haired, broadly smiling old negro, stooped and a bit lame with rheumatism, but otherwise spry, came from the rear premises of the old Corner House, and stopped to roll his eyes, first glancing at the children and then at the goat. "Whuffor all disher combobberation? Missee Ruth! Sho' ain' gwine tuh take dat ole goat tuh boa'd, is yo'?" "I don't know what to do, Uncle Rufus," declared Ruth Kenway, laughing, yet somewhat disturbed in her mind. She was a dark, straight-haired girl, with fine eyes and a very intelligent face. She was not pretty like Agnes; yet she was a very attractive girl. "Oh! we want to keep him!" wailed Dot. She, too, boldly approached Billy Bumps. It seemed as though the goat knew both the smaller Kenway girls, for he did not offer to draw away from them. "I 'spect Mr. Pinkney made dat Sam git rid ob de ole goat," grumbled Uncle Rufus, who was a very trustworthy servant and had lived for years at the old Corner House before the four Kenway sisters came to dwell there. "I reckon he's a bad goat," added the old man. "He doesn't look very wicked just now," suggested Agnes. "But where can we keep a goat?" demanded Ruth. "Dot used to think one lived in the garret," said Tess, smiling. "But it was only a ghost folks thought lived there--and we know there aren't any such things as ghosts _now_." "Don' yo' go tuh 'spressin' ob you' 'pinion too frequent erbout sperits, chile," warned Uncle Rufus, rolling his eyes again. "Dere may hab been no ghos' in de garret; but dere's ghos'es somewhars--ya-as'm. Sho' is!" "I don't really see how we can keep him," said Ruth again. "Oh, sister!" cried Tess. "Poor, dear Billy Bumps!" exclaimed Dot, with an arm around the short, thick neck of the goat. "If yo' lets me 'spressify maself," said Uncle Rufus, slowly, "I'd say dat mebbe I could put him in one oh de hen runs. We don't need 'em both jest now." "Goody!" cried Tess and Dot, clapping their hands. "Let's, Ruthie!" The older sister's doubts were overborne. She agreed to the proposal, while Agnes said: "We might as well have a goat. We have a pig 'most every day. That pig of Mr. Con Murphy's is always coming under the fence and tearing up the garden. A goat could do no more harm." "But we don't want the place a menagerie," objected Ruth. Dot said, gravely, "Maybe the goat and the pig will play together, and so the pig won't do so much damage." "The next time that pig comes in here, I'm going right around to Mr. Con Murphy and complain," declared Agnes, with emphasis. "Oh! we don't want to have trouble with any neighbor," objected Ruth, quickly. "My! you'd let folks ride right over you," said Agnes, with scorn for Ruth's timidity. "I don't think that poor cobbler, Mr. Murphy, will ride over me--unless he rides on his pig," laughed Ruth, as she followed Mrs. MacCall indoors. Tess had an idea and she was frank to express it. "Uncle Rufus, this goat is very strong. Can't you fashion a harness and some kind of a cart for him so that we can take turns riding--Dot and me? He used to draw Sam Pinkney." "Glo-ree!" grumbled the colored man again. "I kin see where I got my han's full wid disher goat--I do!" "But you _can_, Uncle Rufus?" said Tess. "Oh, yes, chile. I s'pect so. But fust off let me git him shut up in de hen-yard, else he'll be eatin' up de hull ob Mis' MacCall's wash--ya'as'm!" The poultry pens were fenced with strong woven wire, and one of them was not in use. Into this enclosure Mr. Billy Bumps was led. When the strap was taken off, he made a dive for Uncle Rufus, but the darky was nimble, despite his years. "Yo' butt me, yo' horned scalawag!" gasped the old colored man, when once safe on the outside of the pen, "an' I won't gib yo' nottin' ter chew on but an old rubber boot fo' de nex' week--dat's what I'll do." The old Corner House, as the Stower homestead was known to Milton folk, stood facing Main Street, its side yard running back a long way on Willow Street. It was a huge colonial mansion, with big pillars in front, and two wings thrown out behind. For years before the Kenway girls and Aunt Sarah Maltby had come here to live, the premises outside--if not within--had been sadly neglected. But energetic Ruth Kenway had insisted upon trimming the lawn and hedges, planting a garden, repairing the summer-house, and otherwise making neat the appearance of the dilapidated old place. On the Main Street side of the estate the property of Mr. Creamer joined the Corner House yard, but the Creamer property did not extend back as far as that of the Stower place. In the corner at the rear the tiny yard of Con Murphy touched the big place. Mr. Murphy was a cobbler, who held title to a small house and garden on a back street. This man owned a pig--a very friendly pig. Of that pig, more later! Perhaps it was the fruit that attracted the pig into the Stower yard. The Kenway girls had had plenty of cherries, peaches, apples, pears, and small fruit all through the season. There were still some late peaches ripening, and when Agnes Kenway happened to open her eyes early, the very next morning after the goat came to live with them, she saw the blushing beauty of these peaches through the open window of the ell room she shared with Ruth. Never had peaches looked so tempting! The tree was a tall seedling, and the upper branches hung their burden near the open window. All the lower limbs had been stripped by Uncle Rufus. But the old man could not reach these at the top of the tree. "It will be a mean shame for them to get ripe and fall off," thought Agnes. "I believe I can reach them." Up she hopped and slipped into her bathrobe. Just enough cool air entered the room to urge her to pull on her hose and slip her feet into slippers. The window was at the back of the big house, away from the Willow Street side, and well protected from observation (so Agnes thought) by the shrubbery. Below the window was a narrow ledge which ran around the house under the second story windows. It took the reckless girl but a moment to get out upon this ledge. To tell the truth she had tried this caper before--but never at such an early hour. Clinging to the window frame, she leaned outward, and grasped with her other hand a laden, limb. The peaches were right before her; but she could not pluck them. "Oh! if I only had a third hand," cried Agnes, aloud. Then, recklessly determined to reach the fruit, she let go of the window frame and stretched her hand for the nearest blushing peach. To her horror she found her body swinging out from the side of the house! Her weight bore against the limb, and pushed it farther and farther away from the house-wall; Agnes' peril was plain and imminent. Unable to seize the window frame again and draw herself back, she was about to fall between the peach tree and the side of the house! CHAPTER II THE WHITE-HEADED BOY "The Corner House Girls," as they had come to be known to Milton folk, and as they are known to the readers of the first volume of this series, had occupied the great mansion opposite the lower end of the Parade Ground, since the spring before. They had come from Bloomingsburg, where their father and mother had died, leaving them without guardianship. But when Uncle Peter Stower died and left most of his property to his four nieces, Mr. Howbridge, the lawyer, had come for the Kenway sisters and established them in the old Corner House. Here they had spent the summer getting acquainted with Milton folk (making themselves liked by most of the neighbors), and gradually getting used to their changed circumstances. For in Bloomingsburg the Kenways had lived among very poor people, and were very poor themselves. Now they were very fortunately conditioned, having a beautiful home, plenty of money to spend (under the direction of Mr. Howbridge) and the opportunity of making many friends. With them, to the old mansion, had come Aunt Sarah Maltby. Really, she was no relation at all to the Kenway girls, but she had lived with them ever since they could remember. In her youth Aunt Sarah had lived in the old Corner House, so this seemed like home to her. Uncle Rufus had served the aforetime owner of the place for many years, too; so _he_ was at home here. And as for Mrs. MacCall, she had come to help Ruth and her sisters soon after their establishment in the old Corner House, and by this time had grown to be indispensable. This was the household, saving Sandyface, the cat, and her four kittens--Spotty, Almira, Popocatepetl and Bungle. And now there was the goat, Mr. Billy Bumps. Ruth was an intellectual looking girl--so people said. She had little color, and her black hair was "stringy"--which she hated! Now that she was no longer obliged to consider the expenditure of each dollar so carefully, the worried look about her big brown eyes, and the compression of her lips, had relaxed. For two years Ruth had been the head of the household and it had made her old before her time. She was only a girl yet, however; her sixteenth birthday was not long behind her. She liked fun and was glad of the release from much of her former care. And when she laughed, her eyes were brilliant and her mouth surprisingly sweet. The smaller girls--Tess (nobody ever called her Theresa) and Dorothy--were both pretty and lively. Dot was Ruth in miniature, a little, fairy-like brunette. Tess, who was ten, had a very kind heart and was tactful. She had some of Ruth's dignity and more of Agnes' good looks. The twelve year old--the fly-away--the irrepressible--what shall we say about her? That she laughed easily, cried stormily, was always playing pranks, rather tomboyish, affectionate--utterly thoughtless---- Well, there is Agnes, out of the bedroom window in her bathrobe and slippers just at dawn, with the birds chirping their first chorus, and not a soul about (so she supposed) to either see or help her in her sudden predicament. She really was in danger; there was no doubt of it. A scream for help would not bring Ruth in time; and it was doubtful if her older sister could do anything to help her. "Oh--_oh_--OH!" gasped Agnes, in crescendo. "I--am--go--ing--to--fall!" And on the instant--the very sweetest sound Agnes Kenway had ever heard (she admitted this fact afterward)--a boy's voice ejaculated: "No you're not! Hang on for one minute!" The side gate clicked. Feet scurried across the lawn, and under her as she glanced downward, Agnes saw a slim, white-faced youth appear. He had white hair, too; he was a regular tow-head. He was dressed in a shiny black suit that was at least two full sizes too small for him. The trousers hitched above his shoe-tops and the sleeves of his jacket were so short that they displayed at least four inches of wrist. Agnes took in these points on the instant--before she could say another word. The boy was a stranger to her; she had never seen him before. But he went to work just as though he had been introduced! He flung off his cap and stripped off the jacket, too, in a twinkling. It seemed to Agnes as though he climbed up the tree and reached the limb she clung to as quickly as any cat. He flung up his legs, wound them about the butt of the limb like two black snakes, and seized Agnes' wrists. "Swing free--I've got you!" he commanded. Agnes actually obeyed. There was something impelling in his voice; but likewise she felt that there was sufficient strength in those hands that grasped her wrists, to hold her. Her feet slipped from the ledge and she shot down. The white-haired boy swung out, too, but they did not fall as Agnes agonizingly expected, after she had trusted herself to the unknown. There was some little shock, but not much; their bodies swung clear of the tree--he with his head down, and she with her slippered feet almost touching the wet grass. "All right?" demanded the white-head. "Let go!" He dropped her. She stood upright, and unhurt, but swayed a little, weakly. The next instant he was down and stood, breathing quickly, before her. "Why--why--why!" gasped Agnes. Just like that! "Why, you did that just like a circus." Oddly enough the white-haired boy scowled and a dusky color came slowly into his naturally pale cheek. "What do you say that for?" he asked, dropping his gaze, and picking up his cap and jacket. "What do you mean--circus?" "Why," said Agnes, breathlessly, "just like one of those acrobats that fly over the heads of the people, and do all those curious things in the air----Why! you know." "How do I know?" demanded the boy, quite fiercely. It became impressed upon Agnes' mind that the stranger was angry. She did not know why, and she only felt gratitude--and curiosity--toward him. "Didn't you ever go to a circus?" she asked, slowly. The boy hesitated. Then he said, bluntly: "No!" and Agnes knew it was the truth, for he looked now unwaveringly into her eyes. "My! you've missed a lot," she breathed. "So did we till this summer. Then Mr. Howbridge took us to one of those that came to Milton." "What circus was it you went to?" the boy asked, quickly. "Aaron Wall's Magnificent Double Show," repeated Agnes, carefully. "There was another came--Twomley & Sorter's Herculean Circus and Menagerie; but we didn't see that one." The boy listened as though he considered the answer of some importance. At the end he sighed. "No; I never went to a circus," he repeated. "But you're just wonderful," Agnes declared. "I never saw a boy like you." "And I never saw a girl like you," returned the white-haired boy, and his quick grin made him look suddenly friendly. "What did you crawl out of that window for?" "To get a peach." "Did you get it?" "No. It was just out of reach, after all. And then I leaned too far." The boy was looking up quizzically at the high-hung fruit. "If you want it awfully bad?" he suggested. "There's more than one," said Agnes, giggling. "And you're welcome to all you can pick." "Do you mean it?" he shot in, at once casting cap and jacket on the ground again. "Yes. Help yourself. Only toss me down one." "This isn't a joke, now?" the boy asked. "You've got a _right_ to tell me to take 'em?" "Oh, mercy! Yes!" ejaculated Agnes. "Do you think I'd tell a story?" "I don't know," he said, bluntly. "Well! I like _that_!" cried Agnes, with some vexation. "I don't know you and you don't know me," said the boy. "Everybody that I meet doesn't tell me the truth. So now!" "Do _you_ always tell the truth?" demanded Agnes, shrewdly. Again the boy flushed, but there was roguishness in his brown eyes. "I don't _dare_ tell it--sometimes," he said. "Well, there's nobody to scare _me_ into story-telling," said Agnes, loftily, deciding that she did not like this boy so well, after all. "Oh, I'll risk it--for the peaches," said the white-haired boy, coming back to the--to him--principal subject of discussion, and immediately he climbed up the tree. Agnes gasped again. "My goodness!" she thought. "I know Sandyface couldn't go up that tree any quicker--not even with Sam Pinkney's bulldog after her." He was a slim boy and the limbs scarcely bent under his weight--not even when he was in the top of the tree. He seemed to know just how to balance himself, while standing there, and fearlessly used both hands to pick the remaining fruit. Two of the biggest, handsomest peaches he dropped, one after the other, into the lap of Agnes' thick bath-gown as she held it up before her. The remainder of the fruit he bestowed about his own person, dropping it through the neck of his shirt until the peaches quite swelled out its fullness all about his waist. His trousers were held in place by a stout strap, instead of by suspenders. He came down from the tree as easily as he had climbed it--and with the peaches intact. "They must have a fine gymnasium at the school where you go," said Agnes, admiringly. "I never went to school," said the boy, and blushed again. Agnes was very curious. She had already established herself on the porch step, wrapped the robe closely around her, shook her two plaits back over her shoulders, and now sunk her teeth into the first peach. With her other hand she beckoned the white-haired boy to sit down beside her. "Come and eat them," she said. "Breakfast won't be ready for ever and ever so long yet." The boy removed the peaches he had picked, and made a little pyramid of them on the step. Then he put on his jacket and cap before he accepted her invitation. Meanwhile Agnes was eating the peach and contemplating him gravely. She had to admit, now that she more closely inspected them, that the white-haired boy's garments were extremely shabby. Jacket and trousers were too small for him, as she had previously observed. His shirt was faded, very clean, and the elbows were patched. His shoes were broken, but polished brightly. When he bit into the first peach his eye brightened and he ate the fruit greedily. Agnes believed he must be very hungry, and for once the next-to-the-oldest Kenway girl showed some tact. "Will you stay to breakfast with us?" she asked. "Mrs. MacCall always gets up at six o'clock. And Ruth will want to see you, too. Ruth's the oldest of us Kenways." "Is this a boarding-house?" asked the boy, seriously. "Oh, no!" "It's big enough." "I 'spect it is," said Agnes. "There are lots of rooms we never use." "Could--could a feller get to stay here?" queried the white-haired boy. "Oh! I don't know," gasped Agnes. "You--you'd have to ask Ruth. And Mr. Howbridge, perhaps." "Who's he?" asked the boy, suspiciously. "Our lawyer." "Does he live here?" "Oh, no. There isn't any man here but Uncle Rufus. He's a colored man who lived with Uncle Peter who used to own this house. Uncle Peter gave it to us Kenway girls when he died." "Oh! then you own it?" asked the boy. "Mr. Howbridge is the executor of the estate; but we four Kenway girls--and Aunt Sarah--have the income from it. And we came to live in this old Corner House almost as soon as Uncle Peter Stower died." "Then you could take boarders if you wanted to?" demanded the white-haired boy, sticking to his proposition like a leech. "Why--maybe--I'd ask Ruth----" "I'd pay my way," said the boy, sharply, and flushing again. She could see that he was a very proud boy, in spite of his evident poverty. "I've got some money saved. I'd earn more--after school. I'm going to school across the Parade Ground there--when it opens. I've already seen the superintendent of schools. He says I belong in the highest grammar grade." "Why!" cried Agnes, "that's the grade _I_ am going into." "I'm older than you are," said the boy, with that quick, angry flush mounting into his cheeks. "I'm fifteen. But I never had a chance to go to school." "That is too bad," said Agnes, sympathetically. She saw that he was eager to enter school and sympathized with him on that point, for she was eager herself. "We'll have an awfully nice teacher," she told him. "Miss Shipman." Just then Ruth appeared at the upper window and looked down upon them. CHAPTER III THE PIG IS IMPORTANT "My goodness! what are you doing down there, Aggie?" demanded Ruth. "And who's that with you!" "I--I got up to get a peach, Ruthie," explained Agnes, rather stammeringly. "And I asked the boy to have one, too." Ruth, looking out of the bedroom window, expressed her amazement at this statement by a long, blank stare at her sister and the white-haired boy. Agnes felt that there was further explanation due from her. "You see," she said, "he--he just saved my life--perhaps." "How is that?" gasped Ruth. "Were you going to eat _all_ those peaches by yourself! They might have killed you, that's a fact." "No, no!" cried Agnes, while the boy's face flushed up darkly again. "He saved me from falling out of the tree." "Out of the tree? _This_ tree!" demanded Ruth. "How did you get into it?" "From--from the window." "Goodness! you never! And with your bathrobe on!" ejaculated Ruth, her eyes opening wider. As an "explainer," Agnes was deficient. But she tried to start the story all over again. "Hush!" commanded Ruth, suddenly. "Wait till I come down. We'll have everybody in the house awake, and it is too early." She disappeared and the boy looked doubtfully at Agnes. "Is she the oldest sister you spoke of?" "Yes. That's Ruth." "She's kind of bossy, isn't she?" "Oh! but we like to be bossed by Ruthie. She's just like mother was to us," declared Agnes. "I shouldn't think you'd like it," growled the white-haired boy. "I hate to be bossed--and I won't be, either!" "You have to mind in school," said Agnes, slowly. "That's another thing," said the boy. "But I wouldn't let another boy boss me." In five minutes Ruth was down upon the back porch, too. She was neat and fresh and smiling. When Ruth smiled, dimples came at the corners of her mouth and the laughter jumped right out of her eyes at you in a most unexpected way. The white-haired boy evidently approved of her, now that he saw her close to. "Tell me how it happened!" commanded Ruth of her sister, and Agnes did so. In the telling the boy lost nothing of courage and dexterity, you may be sure! "Why, that's quite wonderful!" cried Ruth, smiling again at the boy. "It was awfully rash of you, Aggie, but it was providential this--this--You haven't told me his name?" "Why! I don't know it myself," confessed Agnes. "And after all he did for you!" exclaimed Ruth, in admonition. "Aw--it wasn't anything," growled the boy, with all the sex's objection to being thought a hero. "You must be very strong--a regular athlete," declared Ruth. "Any other boy could do it." "No!" "If he knew how," limited the white-haired boy. "And how did you learn so much!" asked Ruth, curiously. Again the red flushed into his pale face. "Practicin'. That's all," he said, rather doggedly. "Won't you tell us who you are?" asked Ruth, feeling that the boy was keeping up a wall between them. "Neale O'Neil." "Do you live in Milton?" "I do now." "But I never remember seeing you before," Ruth said, puzzled. "I only came to stay yesterday," confessed the boy, and once more he grinned and his eyes were roguish. "Oh! then your folks have just moved in?" "I haven't any folks." "No family at all?" "No, ma'am," said Neale O'Neil, rather sullenly Ruth thought "You are not all alone--a boy like you?" "Why not?" demanded he, tartly. "I'm 'most as old as you are." "But _I_ am not all alone," said Ruth, pleasantly. "I have the girls--my sisters; and I have Aunt Sarah--and Mr. Howbridge." "Well, I haven't anybody," confessed Neale O'Neil, rather gloomily. "You surely have some friends?" asked Ruth, not only curious, but sympathetic. "Not here. I'm alone, I tell you." Yet he did not speak so ungratefully now. It was impressed upon his mind that Ruth's questions were friendly. "And I am going to school here. I've got some money saved up. I want to find a boarding place where I can part pay my board, perhaps, by working around. I can do lots of things." "I see. Look after furnaces, and clean up yards, and all that?" "Yes," said the boy, with heightened interest. "This other one--your sister--says you have plenty of empty rooms in this big house. Would you take a boarder?" "Goodness me! I never thought of such a thing." "You took in that Mrs. Treble and Double Trouble," whispered Agnes, who rather favored the suit of the white-haired boy. "They weren't boarders," Ruth breathed. "No. But you could let him come just as well." To tell the truth, Agnes had always thought that "a boy around the house would be awfully handy"--and had often so expressed herself. Dot had agreed with her, while Ruth and Tess held boys in general in much disfavor. Neale O'Neil had stood aside, not listening, but well aware that the sisters were discussing his suggestion. Finally he flung in: "I ain't afraid to work. And I'm stronger than I look." "You _must_ be strong, Neale," agreed Ruth, warmly, "if you did what Aggie says you did. But we have Uncle Rufus, and he does most everything, though he's old. I don't just know what to say to you." At that moment the sound of a sash flung up at the other side of the ell startled the three young folk. Mrs. MacCall's voice sounded sharply on the morning air: "That pig! in that garden again! Shoo! Shoo, you beast! I wish you'd eat yourself to death and then maybe your master would keep you home!" "Oh, oh, oh!" squealed Agnes. "Con Murphy's pig after our cabbages!" "That pig again?" echoed Ruth, starting after the flying Agnes. The latter forgot how lightly she was shod, and before she was half-way across the lawn her feet and ankles were saturated with dew. "You'll get sopping wet, Aggie!" cried Ruth, seeing the bed slippers flopping, half off her sister's feet. "Can't help it now," stammered Agnes. "Got to get that pig! Oh, Ruth! the hateful thing!" The cobbler's porker was a freebooter of wide experience. The old Corner House yard was not the only forbidden premises he roved in. He always dug a new hole under the fence at night, and appeared early in the morning, roving at will among the late vegetables in Ruth's garden. He gave a challenging grunt when he heard the girls, raised his head, and his eyes seemed fairly to twinkle as he saw their wild attack. A cabbage leaf hung crosswise in his jaws and he continued to champ upon it reflectively as he watched the enemy. "Shoo! Shoo!" shouted Agnes. "That pig is possessed," moaned Ruth. "He's taken the very one I was going to have Uncle Rufus cut for our Saturday's dinner." Seeing that the charging column numbered but two girls, the pig tossed his head, uttered a scornful grunt, and started slowly out of the garden. He was in no hurry. He had grown fat on these raids, and he did not propose to lose any of the avoirdupois thus gained, by hurrying. Leisurely he advanced toward the boundary fence. There was the fresh earth where he had rooted out of Mr. Con Murphy's yard into this larger and freer range. Suddenly, to his piggish amazement, another figure--a swiftly flying figure--got between him and his way of escape. The pig stopped, snorted, threw up his head--and instantly lost all his calmness of mind. "Oh, that boy!" gasped Ruth. Neale O'Neil was in the pig's path, and he bore a stout fence-picket. For the first time in his experience in raiding these particular premises, his pigship had met with a foe worthy of his attention. Four girls, an old lady, and an ancient colored retainer, in giving chase heretofore, merely lent spice to the pig's buccaneering ventures. He dashed forward with a sudden grunt, but the slim boy did not dodge. Instead he brought that picket down with emphasis upon the pig's snout. "Wee! wee! wee!" shrieked the pig, and dashed headlong down the yard, blind to anything but pain and immediate escape. "Oh! don't hurt him!" begged Ruth. But Agnes had caught her sister around the neck and was hanging upon her, weak with laughter. "Did you hear him? Did you hear him?" she gasped. "He's French, and all the time I thought he was Irish. Did you hear how plain he said 'Yes,' with a pure Parisian accent?" "Oh, Neale!" cried Ruth again. "Don't hurt him!" "No; but I'll scare him so he won't want to come in here again in a hurry," declared the boy. "Let the boy alone, Ruth," gasped Agnes. "I have no sympathy for the pig." The latter must have felt that everybody was against him. He could look nowhere in the enemy's camp for sympathy. He dove several times at the fence, but every old avenue of escape had been closed. And that boy with the picket was between him and the hole by which he had entered. Finally he headed for the hen runs. There was a place in the fence of the farther yard where Uncle Rufus had been used to putting a trough of feed for the poultry. The empty trough was still there, but when the pig collided with it, it shot into the middle of the apparently empty yard. The pig followed it, scrouging under the fence, and squealing intermittently. "There!" exclaimed Neale O'Neil. "Why not keep him in that yard and make his owner pay to get him home again?" "Oh! I couldn't ask poor Mr. Murphy for money," said Ruth, giving an anxious glance at the little cottage over the fence. She expected every moment to hear the cobbler coming to the rescue of his pet. And the pig did not propose to remain impounded. He dashed to the boundary fence and found an aperture. Through it he caught a glimpse of home and safety. But the hole was not quite deep enough. Head and shoulders went through all right; but there his pigship stuck. There was a scurrying across the cobbler's yard, but the Kenway girls and their new friend did not hear this. Instead, they were startled by a sudden rattling of hoofs in a big drygoods box that stood inside the poultry pen. "What's that?" demanded Neale O'Neil. "It's--it's Billy Bumps!" shrieked Agnes. Out of the box dashed the goat. The opening fronted the boundary fence, beneath which the pig was stuck. Perhaps Billy Bumps took the rapidly curling and uncurling tail of the pig for a challenging banner. However that might be, he lowered his head and catapulted himself across the yard as true as a bullet for the target. Slam! the goat landed just where it seemed to do the most good, for the remainder of the pig shot through the aperture in the board fence on the instant. One more affrighted squeal the pig uttered, and then: "Begorra! 'Tis ivry last brith in me body ye've knocked out," came from the other side of the fence. "Oh, Agnes!" gasped Ruth, as the sisters clung together, weak from laughter. "That pig can't be French after all; for that's as broad an Irish brogue as ever I heard!" CHAPTER IV NEALE O'NEIL GETS ESTABLISHED Perhaps Billy Bumps was as much amazed as anybody when he heard what seemed to be the pig expressing his dissatisfaction in a broad Irish brogue on the other side of the fence. The old goat's expression was indeed comical. He backed away from the hole through which he had just shot the raider head-first, shook his own head, stamped, and seemed to listen intently to the hostile language. "Be th' powers! 'Tis a dirthy, mane thrick, so ut is! An' th' poor pig kem t'roo th' hole like it was shot out of a gun." "It's Mr. Murphy!" whispered Ruth, almost as much overcome with laughter as Agnes herself. Neale O'Neil was frankly amazed; but in a moment he, like the girls, jumped to the right conclusion. The cobbler had run to the rescue of his pet. He had seized it by the ears as it was trying to crowd under the fence, and tugged, too. When old Billy Bumps had released his pigship, the latter had bowled the cobbler over. Mr. Con Murphy possessed a vocabulary of most forceful and picturesque words, well colored with the brogue he had brought on his tongue from "the ould dart." Mr. Murphy's "Irish was up" and when he got his breath, which the pig had well nigh knocked out of him, the little old cobbler gave his unrestrained opinion of the power that had shot the pig under the fence. Ruth could not allow the occurrence to end without an explanation. She ran to the fence and peered over. "Oh, Mr. Murphy!" she cried. "You're not really hurt?" "For the love av mercy!" ejaculated the cobbler. "Niver tell me that _youse_ was the one that pushed the pig through the fince that har-rd that he kem near flyin' down me t'roat? Ye niver could have done it, Miss Kenway--don't be tillin' me. Is it wan o' thim big Jarmyn guns youse have got in there, that the pa-apers do be tillin' erbout?" He was a comical looking old fellow at best, and out here at this early hour, with only his trousers slipped on over his calico nightshirt, and heelless slippers on his feet, he cut a curious figure indeed. Mr. Con Murphy was a red-faced man, with a fringe of sandy whiskers all around his countenance like a frame, having his lips, chin and cheeks smoothly shaven. He had no family, lived alone in the cottage, and worked very hard at his cobbler's bench. "Why, Mr. Murphy!" cried Ruth. "Of course _I_ didn't push your pig through the fence." "It was Billy Bumps," giggled Agnes. "Who is that, thin?" demanded Mr. Murphy, glaring at Neale O'Neil. "That young felley standin' there, I dunno?" "No. I only cracked your pig over the nose with this fence paling," said the boy. "I wonder you don't keep the pig at home." "Oh, ye do, do ye?" cried the little Irishman. "Would ye have me lock him into me spare bedroom?" "I would if he were mine--before I'd let him be a nuisance to the neighbors," declared Neale O'Neil. "Oh, Neale!" interposed Ruth. "You mustn't speak so. Of course the pig is annoying----" "He's a nuisance. Anybody can see that," said the boy, frankly. "'Tis a smart lad ye ar-re," sneered Mr. Murphy. "Show me how ter kape the baste at home. The fince is not mine, whativer ye say. If it isn't strong enough to kape me pig out----" "I'll fix it for you in half a day--if you'll pay me for it," interrupted Neale O'Neil. "How will ye do ut? and how much will ye tax me?" queried the cautious cobbler. "I'd string a strand of barbed wire all along the bottom of the fence. That will stop the pig from rooting, I'll be bound." The old Irishman rubbed his chin reflectively. "'Twill cost a pretty penny," he said. "Then," said Neale O'Neil, winking at the girls, "let's turn Billy Bumps loose, and the next time the pig comes in I hope he'll butt his head off!" "Hi!" shouted Mr. Murphy. "Who's this Billy Bumps ye air talkin' so fast about?" "That's our goat," explained Agnes, giggling. Mr. Murphy's roving eyes caught sight of the billy, just then reflectively nibbling an old shoe that had been flung into the pen. "Is that the baste that shot me pig under the fince?" he yelped. Billy Bumps raised his head, shook his venerable beard, and blatted at the cobbler. "He admits the accusation," chuckled Agnes. "Shure," said Mr. Murphy, wagging his head, "if that thunderin' ould pi-_rat_ of a goat ever gits a _good_ whack at me pig, he'd dr-rive him through a knothole! Kem over and see me by and by, la-a-ad," he added, to Neale, his eyes twinkling, "and we'll bargain about that barbed wire job." "I'll be over to see you, sir," promised the white-haired boy. For Ruth had nudged his elbow and whispered: "You must stay to breakfast with us, Neale." The boy did so; but he successfully kept up that wall between the girls' curiosity and his own private history. He frankly admitted that he had gone hungry of late to save the little sum he had hoarded for the opening of the Milton schools. "For I'll have to buy some books--the superintendent told me so. And I won't have so much time then to earn money for my keep," he said. "But I am going to school whether I eat regularly, or not. I never had a chance before." "To eat?" asked Agnes, slily. "Not like this!" declared Neale, laughing, as he looked about the abundant table. But without asking him point-blank just what his life had been, and why he had never been to school, Ruth did not see how she was to learn more than the white-haired boy wished to tell them. The girls all liked him. Of course, Aunt Sarah, who was very odd, when she came to table did not speak to the boy, and she glared at him whenever he helped himself to one of Mrs. MacCall's light biscuit. But the housekeeper appreciated the compliment he gave her cooking. "I guess I don't make such bad biscuit after all," she said. "Sometimes you girls eat so little at breakfast that I've thought my days for hot bread making were over." Neale blushed and stopped eating almost at once. Although frank to admit his poverty, he did not like to make a display of his appetite. Ruth had been thinking seriously of the proposition, and after breakfast she told Neale that he might remain at the old Corner House--and welcome--until he found just the place he desired. "But I must pay you," said the boy, earnestly. "We don't really need to be paid, Neale," said Ruth, warmly. "There are so many empty rooms here, you know--and there is always enough for one more at our table." "I couldn't stop if I didn't do something to pay you," Neale said, bluntly. "I'm no beggar." "I tell you!" Ruth cried, having a happy thought. "You can help us clean house. We must get it all done before school begins, so as to help Mrs. MacCall. Uncle Rufus can't beat rugs, and lift and carry, like a younger person." "I'll do anything," promised Neale O'Neil. "But first I'll fix that Irishman's fence so his pig can't root into your yard any more." He was over at the cobbler's most of the day, but he showed up for the noon dinner. Ruth had made him promise to come when he was called. Mrs. MacCall insisted upon heaping his plate with the hearty food. "Don't tell _me_," she said. "A boy's always hollow clean down to his heels--and you're pretty tall for your age. It'll take some time to fill you up properly." "If I just let myself go, I really _can_ eat," admitted Neale O'Neil. "And this is so much better cooking than I have been used to." There it was again! Ruth and Agnes wanted--oh! _so_ much--to ask him where he had lived, and with whom, that he had never before had proper food given him. But although Neale was jolly, and free to speak about everything else, the moment anything was suggested that might lead to his explaining his previous existence, he shied just like an unbroken colt. "Just as if he didn't _have_ any existence at all," complained Agnes, "before he ran through our side gate this morning, yelling to me to 'hold on.'" "Never mind. We will win his confidence in time," Ruth said, in her old-fashioned way. "Even if he had done something----" "Hush!" commanded Ruth. "Suppose somebody should hear? The children for instance." "Well! of course we don't really know anything about him." "And I am sure he has not done anything very bad. He may be ashamed of his former life, but I am sure it is not because of his own fault. He is just very proud and, I think, very ambitious." Of the last there could be no doubt. Neale O'Neil was not content to remain idle at all. As soon as he had finished at Mr. Murphy's, he returned to the old Corner House and beat rugs until it was time for supper. There was little wonder that his appetite seemed to increase rather than diminish--he worked so hard! "I don't believe you ever _did_ have enough to eat," giggled Agnes. "I don't know that I ever did," admitted Neale. "Suppose you should wake up in the night?" she suggested. "If you were real hungry it would be dreadful. I think you'd better take some crackers and cheese upstairs with, you when you go to bed." Neale took this all in good temper, but Mrs. MacCall exclaimed, suddenly: "There! I knew there was something I forgot from the store to-day. Tess, do you and Dot want to run over to Mr. Stetson's after supper and bring me some crackers?" "Of course we will, Mrs. MacCall," replied Tess. "And I'll take my Alice-doll. She needs an airing," declared Dot. "Her health isn't all that we might wish since that Lillie Treble buried her alive." "Buried her alive?" cried Neale. "Playing savages?" "No," said Tess, gravely. "And she buried dried apples with her, too. It was an awful thing, and we don't talk about it--much," she added, in a whisper, with a nod toward Dot's serious face. Out of this trip to the grocery arose a misunderstanding that was very funny in the end. Ruth had chosen the very room, at the back of the house, in which the lady from Ipsilanti and her little daughter had slept, for the use of Neale O'Neil. After supper she had gone up there to make the bed afresh, and she was there when Tess and Dorothy returned home from the store, filled to the lips, and bursting, with a wonderful piece of news. "Oh, dear me, Ruthie!" cried Dot, being the leader, although her legs were not the longest. "Did you know we all have to be _'scalloped_ before we can go to school here in Milton?" "Be _what_?" gasped the oldest Kenway girl, smoothing up the coverlet of the bed and preparing to plump the pillows. "No," panted Tess, putting her bundle on the stand by the head of the bed. "'Tisn't 'scalloped, Tess. It's vac--vacilation, I believe. Anyway, it's some operation, and we all have to have it." "Goodness me!" exclaimed Ruth, laughing. "We've all been vaccinated, kiddies--and it wasn't such a dreadful operation, after all. All we'll have to do is to show our arms to the doctor and he'll see we were vaccinated recently." "Well!" said Dot. "I knew it had something to do with that 'scallop mark on my arm," and she tried to roll up the sleeve of her frock to see the small but perfect scar that was the result of her vaccination. They all left the room, laughing. Two hours later the house quieted down, for the family had retired to their several rooms. To Neale O'Neil, the waif, the big house was a very wonderful place. The fine old furniture, the silver plate of which Uncle Rufus took such loving care, the happy, merry girls, benevolent Mrs. MacCall and her odd sayings, even Aunt Sarah with her grim manner, seemed creatures and things of another world. For the white-haired boy had lived, since he could remember, an existence as far removed from this quiet home-life at the old Corner House, as could be imagined! He told Agnes laughingly that he would be afraid to leave his room during the night, for fear of getting lost in the winding passages, and up and down the unexpected flights of stairs at the back of the house. He heard the girls go away laughing when they had showed him to his room. There was a gas-jet burning and he turned it up the better to see the big apartment. "Hullo! what's this?" Neale demanded, as he spied a paper bag upon the stand. He crossed to the head of the bed, and put his hand on the package. There was no mistaking the contents of the bag at first touch. Crackers! "That's the fat girl!" exclaimed Neale, and for a moment he was really a little angry with Agnes. It was true, he _had_ gorged himself on Mrs. MacCall's good things. She had urged him so, and he had really been on "short commons" for several days. Agnes had suggested his taking crackers and cheese to bed with him--and here was a whole bag of crackers! He sat down a moment and glowered at the package. For one thing, he was tempted to put on his cap and jacket and leave the Corner House at once. But that would be childish. And Ruth had been so kind to him. He was sure the oldest Kenway girl would never perpetrate such a joke. "Of course, Aggie didn't mean to be unkind," he thought, at last, his good judgment coming to his rescue. "I--I'd like to pay her back. I--I will!" He jumped up and went to the door, carrying the bag of crackers with him. He opened the door and listened. Somewhere, far away, was the sound of muffled laughter. "I bet that's that Aggie girl!" he muttered, "and she's laughing at me." CHAPTER V CRACKERS--AND A TOOTHACHE The arc light at the corner of Main Street vied with a faint moon in illuminating the passages and corridors of the old Corner House. Deep shadows lay in certain corners and at turns in the halls and staircases; but Neale O'Neil was not afraid of the dark. The distant laughter spurred him to find the girls' room. He wanted to get square with Agnes, whom he believed had put the bag of crackers beside his bed. But suddenly a door slammed, and then there was a great silence over the house. From the outside Neale could easily have identified the girls' room. He had seen Aggie climb out of one of the windows of the chamber in question that very morning. But in a couple of minutes he had to acknowledge that he was completely turned about in this house. He did not know that he had been put to sleep in another wing from that in which the girls' rooms were situated. Only Uncle Rufus slept in this wing besides himself, and he in another story higher. The white-haired boy came finally to the corridor leading to the main staircase. This was more brilliantly lighted by the electric lamp on the street. He stepped lightly forward and saw a faint light from a transom over one of the front room doors. "That's where those girls sleep, I bet!" whispered Neale to himself. The transom was open. There was a little rustling sound within. Then the light went out. Neale broke the string and opened the bag of crackers. They were of the thick, hard variety known in New England as "Boston" crackers. He took out one and weighed it in his hand. It made a very proper missile. With a single jerk of his arm he scaled the cracker through the open transom. There was a slight scuffle within, following the cracker's fall. He paused a moment and then threw a second and a third. Each time the rustling was repeated, and Neale kept up the bombardment believing that, although the girls did not speak, the shower of crackers was falling upon the guilty. One after the other he flung the crackers through the transom until they were all discharged. Not a sound now from the bombarded quarters. Chuckling, Neale stole away, sure that he would have a big laugh on Agnes in the morning. But before he got back into his wing of the house, he spied a candle with a girl in a pink kimono behind it. "Whatever do you want out here, Neale O'Neil? A drink?" It was Ruth. Neale was full of tickle over his joke, and he had to relate it. "I've just been paying off that smart sister of yours in her own coin," he chuckled. "Which smart sister?" "Why, Agnes." "But how?" Neale told her how he had found the bag of crackers on the table beside his bed. "Nobody but Aggie would be up to such a trick, I know," chuckled Neale. "So I just pitched 'em all through the transom at her." "What transom?" gasped Ruth, in dismay. "Where did you throw them?" "Why, right through _that_ one," and Neale pointed. "Isn't that the room you and Aggie occupy?" "My goodness' sakes alive!" cried Ruth, awe-struck. "What _have_ you done, Neale O'Neil? _That's Aunt Sarah's room._" Ruth rushed to the door, tried it, found it unbolted, and ran in. Her candle but dimly revealed the apartment; but it gave light enough to show that Aunt Sarah was not in evidence. Almost in the middle of the room stood the big "four-poster," with canopy and counterpane, the fringe of which reached almost to the rag carpet that covered the floor. A cracker crunched under Ruth's slipper-shod foot. Indeed, crackers were everywhere! No part of the room--save beneath the bed itself--had escaped the bombardment. "Mercy on us!" gasped Ruth, and ran to the bed. She lifted a corner of the counterpane and peered under. A pair of bare heels were revealed and beyond them--supposedly--was the remainder of Aunt Sarah! "Aunt Sarah! Aunt Sarah! do come out," begged Ruth. "The ceilin's fallin', Niece Ruth," croaked the old lady. "This rickety old shebang is a-fallin' to pieces at last. I allus told your Uncle Peter it would." "No, no, Aunt Sarah, it's all right!" cried Ruth. Then she remembered Neale and knew if she told the story bluntly, Aunt Sarah would never forgive the boy. "Do, _do_ come out," she begged, meanwhile scrambling about, herself, to pick up the crackers. She collected most of them that were whole easily enough. But some had broken and the pieces had scattered far and wide. With some difficulty the old lady crept out from under the far side of the bed. She was ready to retire, her nightcap securely tied under her chin, and all. When Ruth, much troubled by a desire to laugh, asked her, she explained that the first missile had landed upon her head while she was kneeling beside the bed at her devotions. "I got up and another of the things hit me on the ear," pursued Aunt Sarah, short and sharp. "Another landed in the small of my back, and I went over into that corner. But pieces of the ceiling were droppin' all over and no matter where I got to, they hit me. So I dove under the bed----" "Oh! you poor, dear Auntie!" "If the dratted ceilin's all comin' down, this ain't no place for us to stay," quoth Aunt Sarah. "I am sure it is all over," urged Ruth. "But if you'd like to go to another room----?" "And sleep in a bed that ain't been aired in a dog's age?" snapped Aunt Sarah. "I guess not." "Then, will you come and sleep with me? Aggie can go into the children's room." "No. If you are sure there ain't no more goin' to fall?" "I am positive, Auntie." "Then I'm going to bed," declared the old lady. "But I allus told Peter this old place was bound to go to rack and ruin because o' his miserliness." Ruth waited till her aunt got into bed, where she almost at once fell asleep. Then the girl scrambled for the remainder of the broken crackers and carried them all out into the hall in the trash basket. Neale O'Neil was sitting on the top step of the front stairs, waiting for her appearance. "Well! I guess I did it that time," he said. "She looked at me savage enough to bite, at supper. What's she going to do now--have me arrested and hung?" and he grinned suddenly. "Oh, Neale!" gasped Ruth, overcome with laughter. "How could you?" "I thought you girls were in there. I was giving Aggie her crackers back," Neale grunted. Ruth explained to him how the crackers had come to be left in his room. Agnes had had nothing to do with it. "I guess the joke is on you, after all, Neale," she said, obliged to laugh in the end. "Or on that terrible old lady." "But she doesn't know it is a joke. I don't know what she'll say to-morrow when she sees that none of the ceiling has fallen." Fortunately Aunt Sarah supplied an explanation herself--and nothing could have shaken her belief in her own opinion. One of her windows was dropped down half way from the top. She was sure that some "rascally boy" outside (she glared at Neale O'Neil when she said it at the breakfast table) had thrown crackers through the window. She had found some of the crumbs. "And I'll ketch him some day, and then----" She shook her head grimly and relapsed into her accustomed silence. So Neale did not have to confess his fault and try to make peace with Aunt Sarah. It would have been impossible for him to do this last, Ruth was sure. But the story of the bag of crackers delighted Agnes. She teased Neale about it unmercifully, and he showed himself to be better-natured and more patient, than Ruth had at first supposed him to be. The next few days following the appearance of Neale O'Neil at the old Corner House were busy ones indeed. School would open the next week and there was lots to do before that important event. Brooms searched out dust, long-handled brushes searched out cobwebs, and the first and second floors of the old Corner House were subjected to a thorough renovation. Above that the girls and Mrs. MacCall decided not to go. The third floor rooms were scarcely ever entered, save by Sandyface and her kittens in search of mice. As for the great garret that ran the full width of the front of the house, _that_ had been cleaned so recently (at the time of the "Ghost Party," which is told of in the first volume of this series) that there was no necessity of mounting so high. The stranger boy who had come to the old Corner House so opportunely, proved himself of inestimable value in the work in hand. Uncle Rufus was saved many a groan by that lively youth, and Mrs. MacCall and the girls pronounced him a valuable assistant. The young folk were resting on the back porch on Thursday afternoon, chattering like magpies, when suddenly Neale O'Neil spied a splotch of brilliant color coming along Willow Street. "What do you call this?" demanded he. "Is it a locomotive headlight?" "Oh! what a ribbon!" gasped Agnes. "I declare!" said Tess, in her old-fashioned way. "That is Alfredia Blossom. And what a great bow of ribbon she has tied on her head. It's big enough for a sash, Dot." "Looks like a house afire," commented Neale again. By this time Alfredia's smiling face was recognizable under the flaming red bow, and Ruth explained: "She is one of Uncle Rufus' grand-daughters. Her mother, Petunia Blossom, washes for us, and Alfredia is dragging home the wash in that little wagon." The ribbon, Alfredia wore was at least four inches wide and it was tied in front at the roots of her kinky hair into a bow, the wings of which stuck out on each side like a pair of elephant ears. The little colored girl came in at the side gate, drawing the wash-basket after her. "How-do, Miss Ruthie--and Miss Aggie? How-do, Tessie and Dottie? You-all gwine to school on Monday?" "All of us are going, Alfredia," proclaimed Tess. "Are you going?" "Mammy done said I could," said Alfredia, rolling her eyes. "But I dunno fo' sho'." "Why don't you know?" asked Agnes, the curious. "Dunno as I got propah clo'es to wear, honey. Got ter look mighty fetchin' ter go ter school--ya-as'm!" "Is that why you've got that great bow on your head?" giggled Agnes. "To make you look 'fetching'?" "Naw'm. I put dat ol' red sash-bow up dar to 'tract 'tention." "To attract attention?" repeated Ruth. "Why do you want to attract attention?" "I don't _wanter_, Miss Ruthie." "Then why do you wear it?" "So folkses will look at my haid." Agnes and Neale were vastly amused, but Ruth pursued her inquiry. She wished to get to the bottom of the mystery: "Why do you want folks to look at your head, Alfredia?" "So dey won't look at my feet. I done got holes in my shoes--an' dey is Mammy's shoes, anyway. Do you 'spects I kin git by wid 'em on Monday--for dey's de on'iest shoes I got ter wear?" The Kenways laughed--they couldn't help it. But Ruth did not let the colored girl go away without a pair of half-worn footwear of Agnes' that came somewhere near fitting Alfredia. "It's just so nice to have so many things that we can afford to give some away," sighed Agnes. "My! my! but we ought to be four happy girls." One of the Corner House girls was far from happy the next day. Dot came down to breakfast with a most woebegone face, and tenderly caressing her jaw. She had a toothache, and a plate of mush satisfied her completely at the table. "I--I can't che-e-e-ew!" she wailed, when she tried a bit of toast. "I am ashamed of you, Dot," said Tess, earnestly. "That tooth is just a little wabbly one, and you ought to have it pulled." "Ow! don't you touch it!" shrieked Dot. "I'm not going to," said Tess. "I was reaching for some more butter for my toast--not for your tooth." "We-ell!" confessed the smallest Kenway; "it just _jumps_ when anybody comes toward it." "Be a brave little girl and go with sister to the dentist," begged Ruth. "No--please--Ruthie! I can't," wailed Dot. "Let sister tie a stout thread around it, and you pull it out yourself," suggested Ruth, as a last resort. Finally Dot agreed to this. That is, she agreed to have the thread tied on. Neale climbed the back fence into Mr. Murphy's premises and obtained a waxed-end of the cobbler. This, he said, would not slip, and Ruth managed to fasten the thread to the root of the little tooth. "One good jerk, and it's all over!" proclaimed Agnes. But this seemed horrible to Dot. The tender little gum was sore, and the nerve telegraphed a sense of acute pain to Dot's mind whenever she touched the tooth. One good jerk, indeed! "I tell you what to do," said Neale to the little girl. "You tie the other end of that waxed-end to a doorknob, and sit down and wait. Somebody will come through the door after a while and jerk the tooth right out!" "Oh!" gasped Dot. "Go ahead and try it, Dot," urged Agnes. "I'm afraid you are a little coward." This accusation from her favorite sister made Dot feel very badly. She betook herself to another part of the house, the black thread hanging from her lips. "What door are you going to sit behind, Dot?" whispered Tess. "I'll come and do it--_just as easy!_" "No, you sha'n't!" cried Dot. "You sha'n't know. And I don't want to know who is going to j-j-jerk it out," and she ran away, sobbing. Being so busy that morning, the others really forgot the little girl. None of them saw her take a hassock, put it behind the sitting-room door that was seldom opened, and after tying the string to the knob, seat herself upon the hassock and wait for something to happen. She waited. Nobody came near that room. The sun shone warmly in at the windows, the bees buzzed, and Dot grew drowsy. Finally she fell fast asleep with her tooth tied to the doorknob. CHAPTER VI AGNES LOSES HER TEMPER AND DOT HER TOOTH It was on this morning--Friday, ever a fateful day according to the superstitiously inclined--that the incident of the newspaper advertisement arose. The paper boy had very early thrown the Kenways' copy of the Milton _Morning Post_ upon the front veranda. Aunt Sarah spent part of each forenoon reading that gossipy sheet. She insisted upon seeing the paper just as regularly as she insisted upon having her five cents' worth of peppermint-drops to take to church in her pocket on Sunday morning. But on this particular morning she did not take the paper in before going to her room after breakfast, and Neale strolled out and picked up the sheet. Ruth was behind him, but he did not know of her presence. She had been about to secure the morning paper and run upstairs with it, to save Aunt Sarah the bother of coming down again. As she was about to ask the boy for it, Ruth noticed that he was staring rigidly at the still folded paper. His eyes were fixed upon something that appeared in the very first column of the _Post_. Now, the _Morning Post_ devoted the first column of its front page to important announcements and small advertisements--like "Lost and Found," the death and marriage notices, and "personals." Agnes called it the "Agony Column," for the "personals" always headed it. Ruth was sure Neale was staring at something printed very near the top of the column. He stood there, motionless, long enough to have read any ordinary advertisement half a dozen times. Then he laid the paper quietly on one of the porch chairs and tiptoed off the veranda, disappearing around the corner of the house without looking back once; so Ruth did not see his face. "What can be the matter with him?" murmured Ruth, and seized the paper herself. She swiftly scrutinized the upper division of the first column of type. There were the usual requests for the return of absent friends, and several cryptic messages understood only by the advertiser and the person to whom the message was addressed. The second "Personal" was different. It read as follows: STRAYED,OR RUNAWAY FROM HIS GUARDIAN:--Boy, 15, slight figure, very light hair, may call himself Sorber, or Jakeway. His Guardian will pay FIFTY DOLLARS for information of his safety, or for his recovery. Address Twomley & Sorber's Herculean Circus and Menagerie, _en-route_. Ruth read this through; but she read it idly. It made no more appeal to her just then than did half a dozen of the other advertisements--"personal," or otherwise. So she carried the paper slowly upstairs, wondering all the time what Neale O'Neil could have seen in the column of advertising to so affect him. Perhaps had Agnes been at hand to discuss the matter, together the girls might have connected the advertisement of the tow-headed boy with Neale O'Neil. But Agnes was out on an errand, and when she did return she was so full herself of something which she wished to tell Ruth that she quite drove thought of the white-haired boy, for the time being, out of the older girl's mind. As soon as she saw Ruth she began her tale. "What do you think, Ruthie Kenway? I just met Eva Larry on the Parade, and that Trix Severn was with her. You know that Trix Severn?" "Beatrice Severn? Yes," said Ruth, placidly. "A very well-dressed girl. Her parents must be well off." "Her father is Terrence Severn, and he keeps a summer hotel at Pleasant Cove. But I don't like her. And I'm not going to like Eva if she makes a friend of that Trix," cried Agnes, stormily. "Now, Agnes! don't be foolish," admonished Ruth. "You wait till you hear what that nasty Trix said to me--about us all!" "Why, she can't hurt us--much--no matter what she says," Ruth declared, still calmly. "You can talk! I'm just going to tell Eva she needn't ask me to walk with her again when Trix is with her. I came along behind them across the Parade Ground and Eva called me. I didn't like Trix before, and I tried to get away. "'I've got to hurry, Eva,' I said. 'Mrs. MacCall is waiting for this soap-powder.' "'I should think you Corner House girls could afford to hire somebody to run your errands, if you've got all the money they say you have,' says Trix Severn--just like that!" "What did you reply, Aggie!" asked the older Kenway girl. "'It doesn't matter how much, or how little, money we have,' I told her," said Agnes, "'there's no lazy-bones in our family, thank goodness!' For Eva told me that Trix's mother doesn't get up till noon and that their house is all at sixes and sevens." "Oh! that sharp tongue of yours," said Ruth, admonishingly. "I hope she took it," declared Agnes, savagely. "She said to me: 'Oh! people who haven't been used to leisure don't really know how to enjoy money, I suppose, when they _do_ get it.' "'You needn't worry, Miss,' I said. 'We get all the fun there is going, and don't have to be idle, either. And whoever told _you_ we weren't used to money before we came to Milton?'" "Fie! Fie, Aggie! That was in the worst possible taste," cried Ruth. "I don't care," exclaimed Agnes, stormily. "She's a nasty thing! And when I hurried on, I heard her laugh and say to Eva: "'"Put a beggar on horseback," you know. Miss Titus, the dressmaker, says those Kenways never had two cents to bless themselves with before old crazy Peter Stower died and left them all that money.'" "Well, dear, I wouldn't make a mountain out of a molehill," said Ruth, quietly. "If you don't like Beatrice Severn, you need not associate with her--not even if she is going to be in your grade at school. But I would not quarrel with my best friend about her. That's hardly worth while, is it?" "I don't know whether I consider Eva Larry my best friend, or not," said Agnes, reflectively. "Myra Stetson is lots nicer in some ways." That was Agnes' way. She was forever having a "crush" on some girl or other, getting suddenly over it, and seeking another affinity with bewildering fickleness. Eva Larry had been proclaimed her dearest friend for a longer term than most who had preceded her. There was too much to do in completing the housecleaning task to spend either breath, or time, in discussing Beatrice Severn and her impudent tongue. A steady "rap, rap, rapping" from the back lawn told the story of Neale and the parlor rugs. "There!" cried Ruth, suddenly, from the top of the stepladder, where she was wiping the upper shelves in the dining-room china closet. "There's one rug in the sitting room I didn't take out last evening. Will you get it, Aggie, and give it to Neale?" Willing Agnes started at once. She literally ran to the sitting-room and banged open the door. All this time we have left Dot--and her sore tooth--behind this very door! She had selected the wrong side of the door upon which to crouch, waiting for Fate--in the person of an unknowing sister--to pull the tooth. The door opened inward, and against the slumbering little girl on the hassock. Instead of jerking the tooth out by pulling open the door, Agnes banged the door right against the unconscious Dot--and so hard that Dot and her hassock were flung some yards out upon the floor. Her forehead was bumped and a great welt raised upon it. The smallest Kenway voiced her surprise and anguish in no uncertain terms. Everybody in the house came running to the rescue. Even Aunt Sarah came to the top of the stairs and wanted to know "if that young one was killed?" "No-o-o!" sobbed Dot, answering for herself. "No--no-o-o, Aunt Sarah. _Not yet._" But Mrs. MacCall had brought the arnica bottle and the bruise was soon treated. While they were all comforting her, in staggered Neale with a number of rugs on his shoulder. "Hello!" he demanded. "Who's murdered this time?" "Me," proclaimed Dot, with confidence. "Oh-ho! Are you making all that noise about losing a little old tooth? But you got it pulled, didn't you?" Dot clapped a tentative finger into her mouth. When she drew it forth, it was with a pained and surprised expression. The place where the tooth should have been was empty. "There it is," chuckled Neale, "hanging on the doorknob. Didn't I tell you that was the way to get your tooth pulled?" "My!" gasped Dot. "It wasn't pulled out of me, you see. When Aggie ran in and knocked me over, _I was just putted away from the tooth_!" They all burst out laughing at that, and Dot laughed with them. She recovered more quickly from the loss of her tooth than Agnes did from the loss of her temper! CHAPTER VII NEALE IN DISGUISE The Parade Ground was in the center of Milton. Its lower end bordered Willow Street, and the old Corner House was right across from the termination of the Parade's principal shaded walk. Ranged all around the Parade (which had in colonial days been called "the training ground" where the local militia-hands drilled) were the principal public buildings of the town, although the chief business places were situated down Main Street, below the Corner House. The brick courthouse with its tall, square tower, occupied a prominent situation on the Parade. The several more important church edifices, too, faced the great, open common. Interspersed were the better residences of Milton. Some of these were far more modern than the old Stower homestead, but to the Kenway girls none seemed more homelike in appearance. At the upper end of the Parade were grouped the schools of the town. There was a handsome new high school that Ruth was going to enter; the old one was now given over to the manual training departments. The grammar and primary school was a large, sprawling building with plenty of entrances and exits, and in this structure the other three Kenway girls found their grades. The quartette of Corner House girls were not the only young folk anxious about entering the Milton schools for the forthcoming year. There was Neale O'Neil. The Kenways knew by the way he spoke, that his expected experiences at school were uppermost in his thoughts all the time. Ruth had talked the matter over with Mrs. MacCall, although she had not seen Mr. Howbridge, and they had decided that the boy was a very welcome addition to the Corner House household, if he would stay. But Neale O'Neil did not want charity--nor would he accept anything that savored of it for long. Even while he was so busy helping the girls clean house, he had kept his eyes and ears open for a permanent lodging. And on Saturday morning he surprised Ruth by announcing that he would leave them after supper that night. "Why, Neale! where are you going?" asked the oldest Corner House girl. "I am sure there is room enough for you here." "I know all about that," said Neale, grinning quickly at her. "You folks are the best ever." "Then, why----?" "I've made a dicker with Mr. Con Murphy. You see, I won't be far from you girls if you want me any time," he pursued. "You are going to live with Mr. Murphy?" "Yes. He's got a spare room--and it's very neat and clean. There's a woman comes in and 'does' for him, as he calls it. He needs a chap like me to give him a hand now and then--taking care of the pig and his garden, you know." "Not in the winter, Neale," said Ruth, gently. "I hope you are not leaving us for any foolish reason. You are perfectly welcome to stay. You ought to know that." "That is fine of you, Ruth," he said, gratefully. "But you don't _need_ me here. I can feel more independent over there at Murphy's. And I shall be quite all right there, I assure you." The house was now all to rights--"spick and span," Mrs. MacCall said--and Saturday was given up to preparing for the coming school term. It was the last day of the long vacation. Dot had no loose tooth to worry her and she was busy, with Tess, in preparing the dolls' winter nursery. All summer the little girls had played in the rustic house in the garden, but now that September had come, an out-of-door playroom would soon be too cold. Although the great garret made a grand playroom for all hands on stormy days, Ruth thought it too far for Dot and Tess to go to the top of the house alone to play with their dolls. For her dolls were of as much importance to Dot as her own eating or sleeping. She lived in a little world of her own with the Alice-doll and all her other "children"; and she no more thought of neglecting them for a day than she and Tess neglected Billy Bumps or the cats. There was no means of heating the garret, so a room in the wing with their bed chambers, and which was heated from the cellar furnace, was given up to "the kiddies'" nursery. There were many treasures to be taken indoors, and Dot and Tess toiled out of the garden, and up the porch steps, and through the hall, and climbed the stairs to the new playroom--oh! so many times. Mr. Stetson, the groceryman, came with an order just as Dot was toiling along with an armful to the porch. "Hello! hello!" he exclaimed. "Don't you want some help with all that load, Miss Dorothy?" She was a special favorite of his, and he always stopped to talk with her. "Ruthie says we got to move all by ourselves--Tess and me," said Dot, with a sigh. "I'm just as much obliged to you, but I guess you can't help." She had sat down on the porch steps and Sandyface came, purring, to rub against her. "You can go right away, Sandy!" said Dot, sternly. "I don't like you--much. You went and sat right down in the middle of my Alice-doll's old cradle, and on her best knit coverlet, and went to sleep--and you're moulting! I'll never get the hairs off of that quilt." "Moulting, eh!" chuckled Mr. Stetson. "Don't you mean shedding?" "We--ell, maybe," confessed Dot. "But the hens' feathers are coming out and they're moulting--I heard Ruth say so. So why not cats? Anyway, you can go away, Sandyface, and stop rubbing them off on _me_." "What's become of that kitten of yours--Bungle, did you call it?" asked the groceryman. "Why, don't you know?" asked Dot, in evident surprise. "I haven't heard a word," confessed Mr. Stetson. "Did something happen to it?" "Yes, sir." "Was it poisoned?" "Oh, no!" "Drowned?" "No, sir." "Did somebody steal it?" queried Mr. Stetson. "No, indeed!" "Was it hurt in any way?" "No, sir." "Well, then," said the groceryman, "I can't guess. What _did_ happen to Bungle?" "Why," said Dot, "he growed into a cat!" That amused Mr. Stetson immensely, and he went away, laughing. "It seems to me," Dot said, seriously, to Tess, "that it don't take so much to make grown-up people laugh. Is it funny for a kitten to grow into a cat?" Neale disappeared for some time right after dinner. He had done all he could to help Uncle Rufus and Mrs. MacCall that forenoon, and had promised Ruth to come back for supper. "I wouldn't miss Mrs. MacCall's beans and fishcakes for a farm!" he declared, laughing. But he did not laugh as much as he had when he first came to the old Corner House. Ruth, at least, noticed the change in him, and, "harking back," she began to realize that the change had begun just after Neale had been so startled by the advertisment he had read in the _Morning Post_. The two older Kenway girls had errands to do at some of the Main Street stores that afternoon. It was Agnes who came across Neale O'Neil in the big pharmacy on the corner of Ralph Street. He was busily engaged with a clerk at the rear of the store. "Hello, Neale!" cried Agnes. "What you buying?" Sometimes Agnes' curiosity went beyond her good manners. "I'll take this kind," said Neale, hurriedly, touching a bottle at random, and then turned his back on the counter to greet Agnes. "An ounce of question-powders to make askits," he said to her, with a grave and serious air. "_You_ don't need any, do you?" "Funny!" "But I don't _look_ as funny as you do," chuckled Neale O'Neil. "That's the most preposterous looking hat I ever saw, Aggie. And those rabbit-ears on it!" "Tow-head!" responded Agnes, with rather crude repartee. Neale did not usually mind being tweaked about his flaxen hair--at least, not by the Corner House girls, but Agnes saw his expression change suddenly, and he turned back to the clerk and received his package without a word. "Oh, you needn't get mad," she said, quickly. "I'm not," responded Neale, briefly, but he paid for his purchase and hurried away without further remark. Agnes chanced to notice that the other bottles the clerk was returning to the shelves were all samples of dyes and "hair-restorers." "Maybe he's buying something for Mr. Murphy. Mr. Murphy is awfully bald on top," thought Agnes, and that's all she _did_ think about it until the next day. The girls had invited Neale to go to their church, with them and he had promised to be there. But when they filed in just before the sermon they saw nothing of the white-haired boy standing about the porch with the other boys. "There's somebody in our pew," whispered Tess to Ruth. "Aunt Sarah?" "No. Aunt Sarah is in her own seat across the aisle," said Agnes. "Why! it's a boy." "It's Neale O'Neil," gasped Ruth. "But _what_ has he done to his hair?" A glossy brown head showed just above the tall back of the old-fashioned pew. The sun shining through the long windows on the side of the church shone upon Neale's thick thatch of hair with iridescent glory. Whenever he moved his head, the hue of the hair seemed to change--like a piece of changeable silk! "That can't be him," said Agnes, with awe. "Where's all his lovely flaxen hair?" "The foolish boy! He's dyed it," said Ruth, and then they reached the pew and could say no more. Neale had taken the far corner of the pew, so the girls and Mrs. MacCall filed in without disturbing him. Agnes punched Neale with her elbow and scowled at him. "What did you want to do that for?" she hissed. "Do what for?" he responded, trying to look unconscious. "You know. Fix your hair like that?" "Because you called me 'tow-head,'" he whispered, grinning. When Mrs. MacCall caught her first glimpse of him when they got up to sing, she started, stared, and almost expressed her opinion aloud. "What under the canopy's the matter with that boy's head?" she whispered to Ruth when they were seated again. And there was reason for asking! As the service proceeded and Neale's hair grew dryer, the sun shining upon his head revealed a wealth of iridescence that attracted more attention than the minister's sermon. The glossy brown gave way before a greenish tinge that changed to purple at the roots. The dye would have been a success for an Easter egg, but as an application to the hair, it was not an unqualified delight--at least, not to the user. The more youthful and thoughtless of the congregation--especially those behind the unconscious Neale--found amusement enough in the exhibition. The pastor discovered it harder than ever that morning to hold the attention of certain irreverent ones, and being a near-sighted man, he was at fault as to the reason for the bustle that increased as his sermon proceeded. The Corner House girls--especially Ruth and Agnes--began to feel the matter acutely. Neale was quite unconscious of the result of the dye upon his hair. As the minutes passed and the rainbow effect became more and more visible, the disturbance became more pronounced. Suddenly there sounded the important creaking of Deacon Abel's boots down the aisle. Agnes flashed a look over her shoulder. The stern old deacon was aiming straight for their pew! CHAPTER VIII INTRODUCTIONS "Oh, goodness to gracious! Here comes old Mr. Abel--and he has fire in his eye, Ruth!" gasped Agnes. "What--what's he going to do?" stammered Ruth, clinging to Agnes' hand under the hymn-book which they shared together. "Something awful! Poor Neale!" "His head looks a fright," declared Ruth. "And everybody's laughing," groaned Agnes. "Girls!" admonished Mrs. MacCall, "try to behave." The creaking of the deacon's boots drew near. Old Mr. Abel kept a cut-price shoe shop and it was a joke among the young folk of Milton that all the shoes he sold were talking shoes, for when you walked in them they said very plainly: "Cheap! cheap! cheap!" Soon the minister noted the approach of Deacon Abel. As the old man stopped by the Kenway pew, the minister lost the thread of his discourse, and stopped. A dread silence fell upon the church. The deacon leaned forward in front of the little girls and Mrs. MacCall. His face was very red, and he shook an admonitory finger at the startled Neale O'Neil. "Young man!" he said, sonorously. "Young man, you take off that wig and put it in your pocket--or leave this place of worship immediately." It was an awful moment--especially awful for everybody in the Kenway pew. The girls' cheeks burned. Mrs. MacCall glared at the boy in utter stupefaction. Deacon Abel was a very stern man indeed--much more so than the clergyman himself. All the young folk of the congregation stood in particular awe of him. But poor Neale O'Neil, unconscious of any wrong intent, merely gazed at the old gentleman in surprise. "Wha--wha--_what_?" he gasped. "Get out of here, young man!" exclaimed the deacon. "You have got the whole crowd by the ears. A most disgraceful exhibition. If I had the warming of your jacket I certainly would be glad." "Oh!" exclaimed Ruth, horrified. Agnes was really angry. She was an impulsive girl and she could not fail to espouse the cause of anybody whom she considered "put upon." She rose right up when Neale stumbled to his feet. "Never you mind, Neale!" she whispered, shrilly. "He's a mean old thing! I'm coming, too." It was a very wrong thing to say, but Agnes never stopped to think how a thing was going to sound when she was angry. The boy, his face aflame, got out through the next pew, which chanced to be empty, and Agnes followed right on behind him before Ruth could pull her back into her seat. Nobody could have stopped her. She felt that Neale O'Neil was being ill-treated, and whatever else you could say about Aggie Kenway, you could not truthfully say that she was not loyal to her friends. "Cheap! cheap! cheap!" squeaked the deacon's boots as he went back up one aisle while the boy and girl hurried up the other. It seemed to Neale as though the church was filled with eyes, staring at him. His red face was a fine contrast for his rainbow-hued hair, but Agnes was as white as chalk. The minister took up his discourse almost immediately, but it seemed to the culprits making their way to the door as though the silence had held the congregation for an hour! They were glad to get through the baize doors and let them swing together behind them. Neale clapped his cap on his head, hiding a part of the ruin, but Deacon Abel came out and attacked him hotly: "What do you mean by such disgraceful actions, boy?" he asked, with quivering voice. "I don't know who you are--you are a stranger to me; but I warn you never to come here and play such jokes again----" "It isn't a joke, Mr. Abel!" cried Agnes. "What do you call it, then? Isn't that one of them new-fangled wigs I read folks in the city wear to dances and other affairs? What's he got it on for?" "It isn't a wig," Agnes said, while Neale clutched wildly at his hair. "Don't tell me it's his own hair!" almost shouted the old gentleman. "What's the matter with my hair?" demanded the puzzled boy. "Doesn't he know? Do you mean to say he doesn't know what his head looks like?" cried the amazed deacon. "Come! come into this room, boy, and look at your hair." There was the ushers' dressing-room at one end of the vestibule; he led Neale in by the arm. In the small mirror on the wall the boy got a fairly accurate picture of his hirsute adornment. Without a word--after his first gasp of amazement--Neale turned and walked out of the room, and out of the church. It was a hot Sunday and the walks were bathed in sunshine. Neale involuntarily took the path across the Parade in the direction of the old Corner House. At this hour--in the middle of sermon time--there was scarcely anybody in sight. Milton observed Sunday most particularly--especially in this better quarter of the town. Neale had gone some way before he realized that Agnes was just beside him. He looked around at her and now his face was very pale. "What did you come for?" he asked her, ungraciously enough. "I'm so sorry, Neale," the girl whispered, drawing nearer to his elbow. The boy stared for a moment, and then exclaimed: "Why, Aggie! you're a good little sport, all right." Aggie blushed vividly, but she hastened to say: "Why did you do it, Neale?" "I--I can't tell you," replied the boy, in some confusion. "Only I got to change the color of my hair." "But, mercy! you needn't have changed it to so many colors all at once!" cried she. "Huh! do you think--like that old man--that I did it a-purpose?" "But you _did_ dye it!" "I tried to." "That was the stuff you were buying yesterday in the drugstore?" she queried. "Yes. And I put it on just before I started for church. He said it would make the hair a beautiful brown." "_Who_ said so?" "That drugstore clerk," said Neale, despondently. "He never sold you hair-dye at all!" "Goodness knows what it was----" "It's stained your collar--and it's run down your neck and dyed _that_ green." "Do you suppose I can ever get it off, Aggie?" groaned the boy. "We'll try. Come on home and we'll get a lot of soapsuds in a tub in the woodshed--so we can splash it if we want to," said the suddenly practical Agnes. They reached the woodshed without being observed by Uncle Rufus. Agnes brought the water and the soap and a hand-brush from the kitchen. Neale removed his collar and tie, and turned back the neck of his shirt. Agnes aproned her Sunday frock and went to work. But, sad to relate, the more she scrubbed, and the more Neale suffered, the worse his hair looked! "Goodness, Aggie!" he gasped at last. "My whole scalp is as sore as a boil. I don't believe I can stand your scrubbing it any more." "I don't mean to hurt you, Neale," panted Agnes. "I know it. But isn't the color coming out?" "I--I guess it's _set_. Maybe I've done more harm than good. It's a sort of a sickly green all over. I never _did_ see such a head of hair, Neale! And it was so pretty before." "_Pretty!_" growled Neale O'Neil. "It was a nuisance. Everybody who ever saw me remembered me as the 'white-haired boy.'" "Well," sighed Agnes, "whoever sees that hair of yours _now_ will remember you, and no mistake." "And I have to go to school with it to-morrow," groaned Neale. "It will grow out all right--in time," said the girl, trying to be comforting. "It'll take more time than I want to spend with green hair," returned Neale. "I see what I'll have to do, Aggie." "What's that?" "Get a Riley cut. I don't know but I'd better be _shaved_." "Oh, Neale! you'll look so funny," giggled Agnes, suddenly becoming hysterical. "That's all right. You have a right to laugh," said Neale, as Agnes fell back upon a box to have her laugh out. "But I won't be any funnier looking with _no_ hair than I would be with green hair--make up your mind to that." Neale slipped over the back fence into Mr. Murphy's premises, before the rest of the Kenway family came home, and the girls did not see him again that day. "How the folks stared at us!" Ruth said, shaking her head. "It would have been all right if you hadn't gotten up and gone out with him, Aggie." "Oh, yes! let that horrid old Deacon Abel put him out of church just as though he were a stray dog, and belonged to nobody!" cried Agnes. "Well, he doesn't belong to us, does he?" asked Dot, wonderingly. "We're the only folks he has, I guess, Dot," said Tess, as Agnes went off with her head in the air. "He has Mr. Murphy--and the pig," said Dot, slowly. "But I like Neale. Only I wish he hadn't painted his hair so funny." "I'd like to have boxed his ears--that I would!" said Mrs. MacCall, in vexation. "I thought gals was crazy enough nowadays; but to think of a _boy_ dyeing his hair!" Aunt Sarah shook her head and pursed her lips, as one who would say, "I knew that fellow would come to some bad end." But Uncle Rufus, having heard the story, chuckled unctuously to himself. "Tell yo' what, chillen," he said to the girls, "it 'mind me ob de time w'en my Pechunia was a young, flighty gal. Dese young t'ings, dey ain't nebber satisfied wid de way de good Lawd make 'em. "I nebber did diskiver w'y Pechunia was so brack, as I say afore. But 'tain't an affliction. She done t'ink it was. She done talk erbout face-bleach, an' powder, an' somet'ing she call 'rooch' wot white sassiety wimmens fixes up deir faces wid, an' says she ter me, 'Pap, I is gwine fin' some ob dese yere fixin's fur my complexion.' "'Yo' go 'long,' I says ter her. 'Yo's a _fast_ brack, an' dat's all dere is to hit. Ef all de watah an' soap yo' done use ain't take no particle of dat soot off'n yo' yit, dere ain't nottin' eber _will_ remove it.' "But yo' kyan't change a gal's natur. Pechunia done break her back ober de washtub ter earn de money to buy some o' dem make-up stuff, an' she goes down ter de drug sto' ter mak' her purchases. She 'low ter spen' much as six bits fer de trash. "An' firs' t'ing she axed for was face powder--aw, my glo-_ree_! De clerk ask her: 'Wot shade does yo' want, Ma'am? An' Pechunia giggles an' replies right back: "'Flesh color, Mister.' "An' wot you t'ink dat young scalawag ob a clerk gib her?" chuckled Uncle Rufus, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in delight. "W'y, he done gib her _powdered charcoal_! Dat finish Pechunia. She nebber tried to buy nottin' mo' for her complexion--naw, indeedy!" The girls of the old Corner House learned that Neale was up early on Monday morning, having remained in hiding the remainder of Sunday. He sought out a neighbor who had a pair of sheep-shears, and Mr. Murphy cropped the boy's hair close to his scalp. The latter remained a pea-green color and being practically hairless, Neale looked worse than a Mexican dog! He was not at all the same looking youth who had dawned on Agnes' vision the Monday morning previous, and had come to her rescue. She said herself she never would have known him. "Oh, dear!" she said to Ruth. "He looks like a gnome out of a funny picture-book." But Neale O'Neil pulled his cap down to his ears and followed behind the Kenway girls to school. He was too proud and too sensitive to walk with them. He knew that he was bound to be teased by the boys at school, when once they saw his head. Even the old cobbler had said to him: "'Tis a foine lookin' noddle ye have now. Ye look like a tinder grane onion sproutin' out of the garden in the spring. Luk out as ye go over th' fince, me la-a-ad, for if that ormadhoun of a goat sees ye, he'll ate ye alive!" This was at the breakfast table, and Neale had flushed redly, being half angry with the old fellow. "That's right, la-a-ad," went on Mr. Murphy. "Blushin' ain't gone out o' fashion where you kem from, I'm glad ter see. An' begorra! ye're more pathriotic than yer name implies, for I fear that's Scotch instead of Irish. I see now ye've put the grane above the red!" So Neale went to school on this first day in no very happy frame of mind. He looked so much different with his hair cropped, from what he had at church on Sunday, that few of the young folks who had observed his disgrace there, recognized him--for which the boy was exceedingly glad. He remained away from the Kenway girls, and in that way escaped recognition. He had to get acquainted with some of the fellows--especially those of the highest grammar grade. Being a new scholar, he had to meet the principal of the school, as well as Miss Shipman. "Take your cap off, sir," said Mr. Marks, sternly. Unwillingly enough he did so. "For goodness' sake! what have you been doing to your head?" demanded the principal. "Getting my hair clipped, sir," said Neale. "But the color of your head?" "That's why I had the hair clipped." "What did you do to it?" "It was an accident, sir," said Neale. "But I can study just as well." "We will hope so," said the principal, his eyes twinkling. "But green is not a promising color." Ruth had taken Dot to the teacher of the first grade, primary, and Dot was made welcome by several little girls whom she had met at Sunday school during the summer. Then Ruth hurried to report to the principal of the Milton High School, with whom she had already had an interview. Tess found her grade herself. It was the largest room in the whole building and was presided over by Miss Andrews--a lady of most uncertain age and temper, and without a single twinkle in her grey-green eyes. But with Tess were several girls she knew--Mable Creamer; Margaret and Holly Pease; Maria Maroni, whose father kept the vegetable and fruit stand in the cellar of one of the Stower houses on Meadow Street; Uncle Rufus' granddaughter, Alfredia (with the big red ribbon bow); and a little Yiddish girl named Sadie Goronofsky, who lived with her step-mother and a lot of step-brothers and sisters in another of the tenements on Meadow Street which had been owned so many years by Uncle Peter Stower. Agnes and Neale O 'Neil met in the same grade, but they did not have a chance to speak, for the boys sat on one side of the room, and the girls on the other. The second Kenway girl had her own troubles. During the weeks she lived at the old Corner House, she had been looking forward to entering school in the fall, so she had met all the girls possible who were to be in her grade. Now she found that, school having opened, the girls fell right back into their old associations. There were the usual groups, or cliques. She would have to earn her place in the school, just as though she did not know a soul. Beatrice, or "Trix" Severn, was not one of those whom Agnes was anxious to be friendly with; and here Trix was in the very seat beside her, while Eva Larry and Myra Stetson were across the room! The prospect looked cloudy to Agnes, and she began the first school session with less confidence than any of her sisters. CHAPTER IX POPOCATEPETL IN MISCHIEF Miss Georgiana Shipman was a plump lady in a tight bodice--short, dark, with a frankly double chin and eyes that almost always smiled. She did not possess a single beautiful feature; yet that smile of hers--friendly, appreciative of one's failings as well as one's successes--that smile cloaked a multitude of short-comings. One found one's self loving Miss Georgiana--if one was a girl--almost at once; and the boldest and most unruly boy dropped his head and was ashamed to make Miss Georgiana trouble. Sometimes boys with a long record of misdeeds behind them in other grades--misdeeds that blackened the pages of other teachers' deportment books--somehow managed to reach the door of Miss Georgiana's room without being dismissed from the school by the principal. Once having entered the favored portal, their characters seemed to change magically. Mr. Marks knew that if he could bring the most abandoned scapegrace along in his studies so that he could spend a year with Miss Georgiana Shipman, in nine cases out of ten these hard-to-manage boys would be saved to the school. Sometimes they graduated at the very top of their classes. Just as though Miss Georgiana were a fairy god-mother who struck her crutch upon the platform and cried: "Se sesame! _change!_" the young pirates often came through Miss Georgiana's hands and entered high school with the reputation of being very decent fellows after all. Nor was Miss Georgiana a "softie"; far from it. Ask the boys themselves about it? Oh! they would merely hang their heads, and scrape a foot back and forth on the rug, and grunt: "Aw! Miss Shipman understands a fellow." Her influence over the girls was even greater. She expected you to learn your lessons, and if you were lazy she spent infinite pains in urging you on. And if you did not work, Miss Georgiana felt aggrieved, and that made any nice girl feel dreadfully mean! Besides, you took up more of the teacher's time than you had any right to, and the other girls declared it was not fair, and talked pretty harshly about you. If Miss Georgiana had to remain after school for any reason, more than half of her girls would be sure to hang around the school entrance until she came out, and then they all trailed home with her. When you saw a bevy of girls from twelve to fourteen years of age, or thereabout, massed on one of the shady walks of the Parade soon after school closed for the day, or chattering along Whipple Street on which Miss Georgiana Shipman lived, you might be sure that the teacher of the sixth grade, grammar, was in the center of the group. Miss Georgiana lived with her mother--a little old lady in Quaker dress--in a small cottage back from the street-line. There were three big oaks in the front yard, and no grass ever could be coaxed to grow under them, for the girls kept it worn down to the roots. There were seats at the roots of the three huge trees in the open season, and it was an odd afternoon indeed that did not find a number of girls here. To be invited to stay to tea at Miss Georgiana's was the height of every girl's ambition who belonged in Number Six. Nor did the girls when graduated, easily forget Miss Georgiana. She had their confidence and some of them came to her with troubles and perplexities that they could have exposed to nobody else. Of course, girls who had "understanding" mothers, did not need this special inspiration and help, but it was noticeable that girls who had no mothers at all, found in the little, plump, rather dowdy "old maid school teacher" one of those choice souls that God has put on earth to fulfil the duties of parents taken away. Miss Georgiana Shipman had been teaching for twenty years, but she had never grown old. And her influence was--to use a trite description--like a stone flung into a still pool of water; the ever widening circles set moving by it lapped the very outer shores of Milton life. Of course Agnes Kenway was bound to fall in love with this teacher; and Miss Georgiana soon knew her for just the "stormy petrel" that she was. Agnes gravitated to scrapes as naturally as she breathed, but she got out of them, too, as a usual thing without suffering any serious harm. Trix Severn annoyed her. Trix had it in her power to bother the next to the oldest Corner House girl, sitting as she did at the nearest desk. The custom was, in verbal recitation, for the pupil to rise in her (or his) seat and recite. When it came Agnes' time to recite, Trix would whisper something entirely irrelevant to the matter before the class. This sibilant monologue was so nicely attuned by Trix that Miss Georgiana (nor many of the girls besides Agnes herself) did not hear it. But it got on Agnes' nerves and one afternoon, before the first week of school was over, she turned suddenly on the demure Trix in the middle of her recitation and exclaimed, hysterically: "If you don't stop whispering that way, Trix Severn, I'll just go mad!" "Agnes!" ejaculated Miss Shipman. "What does this mean?" "I don't care!" cried Agnes, stormily. "She interrupts me----" "Didn't either!" declared Trix, thereby disproving her own statement in that particular case, at least. "I didn't speak to her." "You did!" insisted Agnes. "Agnes! sit down," said Miss Shipman, and sternly enough, for the whole room was disturbed. "What _were_ you doing, Beatrice?" "Just studying, Miss Shipman," declared Trix, with perfect innocence. "This is not the time for study, but for recitation. You need not recite, and I will see both of you after school. Go on from where Agnes left off, Lluella." "I'll fix you for this!" hissed Trix to Agnes. Agnes felt too badly to reply and the jealous girl added: "You Corner House girls think you are going to run things in this school, I suppose; but you'll see, Miss! You're nothing but upstarts." Agnes did not feel like repeating this when Miss Georgiana made her investigation of the incident after school. She was no "tell-tale." Therefore she repeated only her former accusation that Trix's whispering had confused her in her recitation. "I never whispered to her!" snapped Trix, tossing her head. "I'm not so fond of her as all that, I hope." "Why, I expect all my girls to be fond of each other," said Miss Georgiana, smiling, "too, too fond to hurt each other's feelings, or even to annoy each other." "She just put it all on," sniffed Trix. "Agnes is nervous," said the teacher, quietly, "but she must learn to control her nerves and not to fly into a passion and be unladylike. Beatrice, you must not whisper and annoy your neighbors. I hope you two girls will never take part in such an incident again while you are with me." Agnes said, "I'm sorry, Miss Shipman," but when the teacher's back was turned, Trix screwed her face into a horrid mask and ran out her tongue at Agnes. Her spitefulness fairly boiled over. This was the first day Agnes had been late getting home, so she missed the first part of an incident of some moment. Popocatepetl got herself on this day into serious mischief. Popocatepetl (she was called "Petal" for short) was one of Sandyface's four kittens that had been brought with the old cat from Mr. Stetson's grocery to the old Corner House, soon after the Kenway girls came to live there. Petal was Ruth's particular pet--or, had been, when she was a kitten. Agnes' choice was the black one with the white nose, called Spotty; Tess's was Almira, while Dot's--as we already know--was called Bungle, and which, to Dot's disgust, had already "grown up." All four of the kittens were good sized cats now, but they were not yet of mature age and now and then the girls were fairly convulsed with laughter because of the antics of Sandyface's quartette of children. There was to be a pair of ducks for Sunday's dinner and Uncle Rufus had carefully plucked them into a box in a corner of the kitchen, so that the down would not be scattered. Mrs. MacCall was old-fashioned enough to save all duck and geese down for pillows. When the oldest and the two youngest Kenway girls trooped into the kitchen, Popocatepetl was chasing a stray feather about the floor and in diving behind the big range for it, she knocked down the shovel, tongs and poker, which were standing against the bricked-up fireplace. The clatter scared Petal immensely, and with tail as big as three ordinary tails and fur standing erect upon her back, she shot across the kitchen and into the big pantry. Uncle Rufus had just taken the box of feathers into this room and set it down on the floor, supposedly out of the way. Mrs. MacCall was measuring molasses at the table, for a hot gingerbread-cake was going to grace the supper-table. "Scat, you cat, you!" exclaimed Uncle Rufus. "Dar's too many of you cats erbout disher house, an' dat's a fac'. Dar's more cats dan dar is mices to ketch--ya-as'm!" "Oh, Uncle Rufus! you don't mean that, do you?" asked Tess, the literal. "Aren't there as many as five mice left? You know you said yourself there were hundreds before Sandyface and her children came." "Glo-_ree_! I done s'peck dey got down to purty few numbers," agreed Uncle Rufus. "Hi! wot dat cat do now?" "Scat!" cried Mrs. MacCall. She had left the table for a moment, and Popocatepetl was upon it. "Petal!" shrieked Ruth, and darted for the pantry to seize her pet. All three scolding her, and making for her, made Popocatepetl quite hysterical. She arched her back, spit angrily, and then dove from the table. In her flight she overturned the china cup of molasses which fell to the floor and broke. The sticky liquid was scattered far and wide. "That kitten!" Mrs. MacCall shrieked. "Wait! wait!" begged Ruth, trying to grab up Petal. But the cat dodged her and went right through the molasses on the floor. All her four paws were covered. Wherever she stepped she left an imprint. And when the excited Ruth grabbed for her again, she capped her ridiculous performance by leaping right into the box of feathers! Finding herself hopelessly "stuck-up" now, Popocatepetl went completely crazy! She leaped from the box, scattering a trail of sticky feathers behind her. She made a single lap around the kitchen trying for an outlet, faster than any kitten had ever traveled before in that room. "Stop her!" shrieked Ruth. "My clean kitchen!" wailed Mrs. MacCall. "Looker dem fedders! looker dem fedders!" gasped Uncle Rufus. "She done got dem all stuck on her fo' sho'!" "Oh, oh!" squealed Tess and Dot, in chorus, and clinging together as Petal dashed past them. Just at this moment Agnes opened the door and saw what appeared to be an animated feather-boa dashing about the kitchen, with the bulk of the family in pursuit. "What for goodness' sake is the matter?" gasped Agnes. Popocatepetl saw the open door and she went through it as though she had been shot out of a gun, leaving a trail of feathers in her wake and splotches of molasses all over the kitchen floor. CHAPTER X THE ICE STORM The four girls followed Popocatepetl out of the house in a hurry. Their shrill voices aroused Neale O'Neil where he was spading up a piece of Mr. Con Murphy's garden for a planting of winter spinach. He came over the fence in a hurry and ran up the long yard. "What's the matter? What's the matter?" he shouted. The chorus of explanation was so confused that Neale might never have learned the difficulty to this very moment, had he not looked up into the bare branches of the Keifer pear tree and seen an object clinging close to a top limb. "For pity's sake!" he gasped. "What is that?" "It's Petal," shrilled Dot. "An' she's felled into the merlasses and got herself all feathers." At that her sisters burst out laughing. It was too bad the little cat was so frightened, but it _was_ too comical for anything! "You don't call that a cat?" demanded Neale, when he could control his own risibilities. "Of course it's a cat," said Tess, rather warmly. "You know Ruthie's Popocatepetl, Neale--you know you do." "But a thing with feathers, roosting in a tree, must be some kind of a fowl--yes?" asked Neale, with gravity. "It's a cat-bird," announced Agnes. The younger girls could not see any fun in the situation. Poor Petal, clinging to the high branch of the tree, and faintly mewing, touched their hearts, so Neale went up like a professional acrobat and after some difficulty brought the frightened cat down. "She'll have to be plucked just like a chicken," declared Ruth. "Did you _ever_ see such a mess in all your life?" Neale held the cat so she could not scratch, and Agnes and Ruth "plucked" her and wiped off the molasses as best they could. But it was several days before Popocatepetl was herself again. By this time, too, Neale O'Neil's green halo was beginning to wear off. As Mr. Con Murphy said, he looked less like "a blushin' grane onion" than he had immediately after the concoction the drugstore clerk had sold him took effect. "And 'tis hopin' 'twill be a lesson ye'll allus remimber," pursued the old cobbler. "Niver thrust too much to whativer comes in a bottle! Remimber 'tis not the label ye air to use. The only r'ally honest label that kems out of a drug-sthore is thim that has the skull and crossbones on 'em. You kin be sure of them; they're pizen an' no mistake!" Neale had to listen to a good deal that was harder to bear than any of Mr. Murphy's quaint philosophy. But he restrained himself and did not fight any boy going to school. In the first place, Neale O'Neil was going to school for just one purpose. He wished to learn. To boys and girls who had always had the advantages of school, this desire seemed strange enough. They could not understand Neale. And because of his earnestness about study, and because he refused to tell anything about himself, they counted Neale odd. The Corner House girls were the only real friends the boy had in Milton among the young folk. But some older people began to count Neale as a boy of promise. Green as his head was dyed, it was a perfectly good head when it came to study, as he had assured Mr. Marks. The principal watched the youngster and formed a better opinion of him than he had at first borne. Miss Shipman found him a perfectly satisfactory scholar. The people he worked for at odd jobs, after and before school, learned that he was faithful and smart. Mr. Con Murphy had a good word for the boy to everybody who came into his shop. Yet, withal, he could not make close friends. One must give confidence for confidence if one wishes to make warm friendships. And Neale was as secretive as he could be. Neale kept close to the neighborhood of the cobbler's and the old Corner House. Agnes told Ruth that she believed Neale never turned a corner without first peeking around it! He was always on the _qui vive_--expecting to meet somebody of whom he was afraid. And every morning he ran over to the Corner House early and looked at the first column on the front page of the _Morning Post_, as it lay on the big veranda. The four Corner House girls all achieved some distinction in their school grades within the first few weeks of the fall term. Ruth made friends as she always did wherever she went. Other girls did not get a sudden "crush" on Ruth Kenway, and then as quickly forget her. Friendship for her was based upon respect and admiration for her sense and fine qualities of character. Agnes fought her way as usual to the semi-leadership of her class, Trix Severn to the contrary notwithstanding. She was not quite as good friends with Eva Larry as she had been, and had soon cooled a trifle toward Myra Stetson, but there were dozens of other girls to pick and choose from, and in rotation Agnes became interested in most of those in her grade. Tess was the one who came home with the most adventures to tell. There always seemed to be "something doing" in Miss Andrews' room. "We're all going to save our money toward a Christmas tree for our room," Tess announced, long before cold weather had set in "for keeps." "Miss Andrews says we can have one, but those that aren't good can have nothing to do with it. I'm afraid," added Tess, seriously, "that not many of the boys in our grade will have anything to do with that tree." "Is Miss Andrews so dreadfully strict?" asked Dot, round-eyed. "Yes, she is--awful!" "I hope she'll get married, then, and leave school before I get into her grade." "But maybe she won't ever marry," Tess declared. "Don't all ladies marry--some time?" queried Dot, in surprise. "Aunt Sarah never did, for one." "Oh--well----Don't you suppose there's enough men to go 'round, Tess?" cried Dot, in some alarm. "Wouldn't it be dreadful to grow up like Aunt Sarah--or your Miss Andrews?" Tess tossed her head. "I am going to be a suffragette," she announced. "They don't have to have husbands. Anyway, if they have them," qualified Tess, "they don't never bother about them much!" Tess' mind, however, was full of that proposed Christmas tree. Maria Maroni was going to bring an orange for each pupil--girls and boys alike--to be hung on the tree. Her father had promised her that. Alfredia Blossom, Jackson Montgomery Simms Blossom, and Burne-Jones Whistler Blossom had stored bushels of hickory nuts and butternuts in the cockloft of their mother's cabin, and they had promised to help fill the stockings that the girls' sewing class was to make. Every girl of Tess' acquaintance was going to do something "lovely," and she wanted to know what _she_ could do? "Why, Sadie Goronofsky says maybe she'll _buy_ something to hang on the tree. She is going to have a lot of money saved by Christmas time," declared Tess. "Why, Tess," said Agnes, "isn't Sadie Goronofsky Mrs. Goronofsky's little girl that lives in one of our tenements on Meadow Street?" "No. She's _Mister_ Goronofsky's little girl. The lady Mr. Goronofsky married is only Sadie's step-mother. She told me so." "But they are very poor people," Ruth said. "I know, for they can scarcely pay their rent some months. Mr. Howbridge told me so." "There are a lot of little children in the family," said Agnes. "And Sadie is the oldest," Tess said. "You see, she told me how it was. She has to go home nights and wash and dry the dishes, and sweep, and take care of the baby--and lots of things. She never has any time to play. "But on Friday night--that's just like our Saturday night, you know," explained Tess, "for they celebrate Saturday as Sunday--they're Jewish people. Well, on Friday night, Sadie tells me, her step-mother puts a quarter for her in a big red bank in their kitchen." "Puts a quarter each week in Sarah's bank?" said Ruth. "Why, that's fine!" "Yes. It's because Sadie washes the dishes and takes care of the baby so nice. And before Christmas the bank is going to be opened. Then Sadie is going to get something nice for all her little step-brothers and sisters, and something nice for our tree, too." "She'll have a lot of money," said Agnes. "Must be they're not so poor as they make out, Ruth." "Mr. Goronofsky has a little tailor business, and that's all," Ruth said, gravely. "I--I sha'n't tell Mr. Howbridge about Sadie and her bank." Thanksgiving came and went--and it was a real Thanksgiving for the Corner House girls. They had never had such a fine time on that national festival before, although they were all alone--just the regular family--at the table. Neale was to have helped eat the plump hen turkey that Mrs. MacCall roasted, but the very night before Thanksgiving he came to Ruth and begged off. "I got to talking with Mr. Murphy this afternoon," said Neale, rather shamefacedly, "and he said he hadn't eaten a Thanksgiving dinner since his wife and child drowned in the Johnstown flood--and that was years and years ago, you know. "So I asked him if he'd have a good dinner if I stayed and ate it with him, and the old fellow said he would," Neale continued. "And Mrs. Judy Roach--the widow woman who does the extra cleaning for him--will come to cook the dinner. "He's gone out to buy the turkey--the biggest gobbler he can get, he told me--for Mrs. Judy has a raft of young ones, 'all av thim wid appetites like a famine in ould Ireland,' he told me." "Oh, Neale!" cried Ruth, with tears in her eyes. "He's a fine old man," declared Neale, "when you get under the skin. Mrs. Judy Roach and her brood will get a square meal for once in their lives--believe me." So Neale stayed at the cobbler's and helped do the honors of that Thanksgiving dinner. He reported to the Corner House girls later how it "went off." "'For phat we are about to resave,' as Father Dooley says--Aloysius, ye spalpane! ye have an eye open, squintin' at the tur-r-rkey!--'lit us be trooly thankful,'" observed Mr. Con Murphy, standing up to carve the huge, brown bird. "Kape your elbows off the table, Aloysius Roach--ye air too old ter hev such bad manners. What par-r-rt of the bir-r-d will ye have, Aloysius?" "A drumstick," announced Aloysius. "A drumstick it is--polish that now, ye spalpane, and polish it well. And Alice, me dear, phat will _youse_ hev?" pursued Mr. Murphy. "I'll take a leg, too, Mr. Murphy," said the oldest Roach girl. "Quite right. Iv'ry par-r-rt stringthens a par-r-rt--an' 'tis a spindle-shanks I notice ye air, Alice. And you, Patrick Sarsfield?" to the next boy. "Leg," said Patrick Sarsfield, succinctly. Mr. Murphy dropped the carver and fork, and made a splotch of gravy on the table. "_What?_" he shouted. "Hev ye not hear-r-rd two legs already bespoke, Patrick Sarsfield, an' ye come back at me for another? Phat for kind of a baste do ye think this is? I'm not carvin' a cinterpede, I'd hev ye know!" At last the swarm of hungry Roaches was satisfied, and, according to Neale's report, the dinner went off very well indeed, save that his mother feared she would have to grease and roll Patrick Sarsfield before the fire to keep him from bursting, he ate so much! It was shortly after Thanksgiving that Milton suffered from its famous ice-storm. The trees and foliage in general suffered greatly, and the _Post_ said there would probably be little fruit the next year. For the young folk of the town it brought great sport. The Corner House girls awoke on that Friday morning to see everything out-of-doors a glare of ice. The shade trees on the Parade were borne down by the weight of the ice that covered even the tiniest twig on every tree. Each blade of grass was stiff with an armor of ice. And a scum of it lay upon all the ground. The big girls put on their skates and dragged Tess and Dot to school. Almost all the older scholars who attended school that day went on steel. At recess and after the session the Parade was the scene of races and impromptu games of hockey. The girls of the sixth grade, grammar, held races of their own. Trix Severn was noted for her skating, and heretofore had been champion of all the girls of her own age, or younger. She was fourteen--nearly two years older than Agnes Kenway. But Agnes was a vigorous and graceful skater. She skated with Neale O'Neil (who at once proved himself as good as any boy on the ice) and _that_ offended Trix, for she had wished to skate with Neale herself. Since the green tinge had faded out of Neale's hair, and it had grown to a respectable length, the girls had all cast approving glances at him. Oddly enough, his hair had grown out a darker shade than before. It could not be the effect of the dye, but he certainly was no longer "the white-haired boy." Well! Trix was real cross because Agnes Kenway skated with Neale. Then, when the sixth grade, grammar, girls got up the impromptu races, Trix found that Agnes was one of her closest competitors. While the boys played hockey at the upper end of the Parade, the girls raced 'way to Willow Street and back again. Best two out of three trials it was, and the first trial was won by Agnes--and she did it easily! "Why! you've beaten Trix," Eva Larry cried to Agnes. "However did you do it? She always beats us skating." "Oh, I broke a strap," announced Trix, quickly. "Come on! we'll try it again, and I'll show you." "I believe Agnes can beat you every time, Trix," laughed Eva, lightly. Trix flew into a passion at this. And of course, all her venom was aimed at Agnes. "I'll show that upstart Corner House girl that she sha'n't ride over _me_," she declared, angrily, as the contestants gathered for the second trial of speed. CHAPTER XI THE SKATING RACE There were nearly thirty girls who lined up for the second heat. Many who had tried the first time dropped out, having been distanced so greatly by the leaders. "But that is no way to do!" laughed Agnes, ignoring Trix Severn and her gibes. "It is anybody's race yet. One never knows what may happen in a free-for-all like this. Trix, or Eva, or I, may turn an ankle----" "Or break another strap," broke in Eva, laughing openly at Trix. "Just you wait!" muttered Trix Severn, in a temper. Now, giving way to one's temper never helps in a contest of strength or skill. Agnes herself was trying to prove that axiom; but Trix had never tried to restrain herself. Ere this Miss Shipman had changed Agnes' seat in the class-room, seeing plainly that Trix continued her annoying actions; Agnes had striven to be patient because she loved Miss Shipman and did not want to make trouble in her grade. Agnes took her place now as far from Trix as she could get. Ruth, and another of the older girls were at the line, and one of the high school boys who owned a stop-watch timed the race. "Ready!" he shouted. "Set!" The race was from a dead start. The girls bent forward, their left feet upon the mark. "Go!" shouted the starter. The smoothest stretch of ice was right down the center of the Parade. It was still so cold that none of the trees had begun to drip. Some employees of the town Highway Department were trying to knock the ice off the trees, so as to save the overweighted branches. But thus far these workmen had kept away from the impromptu race-course. Down the middle of the park the girls glided toward the clump of spruce trees, around which they must skate before returning. Trix, Eva, Myra, Pearl Harrod and Lucy Poole all shot ahead at the start. Agnes "got off on the wrong foot," as the saying is, and found herself outdistanced at first. But she was soon all right. She had a splendid stroke for a girl, and she possessed pluck and endurance. She crept steadily up on the leading contestants, passing Eva, Myra, and Lucy before half the length of the Parade Ground was behind them. Trix was in the lead and Pearl Harrod was fighting her for first place. Agnes kept to one side and just before the trio reached the spruce clump at Willow Street, she shot in, rounded the clump alone, and started up the course like the wind upon the return trip! Trix fairly screamed after her, she was so vexed. Trix, too, had endurance. She left Pearl behind and skated hard after Agnes Kenway. She never would have caught her, however, had it not been for an odd accident that happened to the Corner House girl. As Agnes shot up the course, one of the workmen came with a long pole with a hook on the end of it, and began to shake the bent branches of a tree near the skating course. Off rattled a lot of ice, falling to the hard surface below and breaking into thousands of small bits. Agnes was in the midst of this rubbish before she knew it. One skate-runner got entangled in some pieces and down she went--first to her knees and then full length upon her face! Some of the other girls shrieked with laughter. But it might have been a serious accident, Agnes was skating so fast. Trix saved her breath to taunt her rival later, and, skating around the bits of ice, won the heat before Agnes, much shaken and bruised, had climbed to her feet. "Oh, Aggie! you're not really hurt, are you?" cried Ruth, hurrying to her sister. "My goodness! I don't know," gasped Agnes. "I saw stars." "You have a bump on your forehead," said one girl. "I feel as though I had them all over me," groaned Agnes. "I know that will turn black and blue," said Lucy, pointing to the lump on Agnes' forehead. "And yellow and green, too," admitted Agnes. Then she giggled and added in a whisper to Ruth: "It will be as brilliant as Neale's hair was when he dyed it!" "Well, you showed us what you could do in the first heat, Aggie," said Pearl, cheerfully. "I believe that you can easily beat Trix." "Oh, yes!" snarled the latter girl, who over-heard this. "A poor excuse for not racing is better than none." "Well! I declare, Trix, if _you'd_ fallen down," began Eva; but Agnes interrupted: "I haven't said I wasn't going to skate the third heat." "Oh! you can't, Aggie," Ruth said. "I'd skate it if I'd broken both legs and all my promises!" declared Agnes, sharply. "That girl isn't going to put it all over me without a fight!" "Great!" cried Eva. "Show her." "I admire your pluck, but not your language, Aggie," said her older sister. "And if you _can_ show her----" Agnes did show them all. She had been badly shaken up by her fall, and her head began to throb painfully, but the color had come back into her cheeks and she took her place in the line of contestants again with a bigger determination than ever to win. She got off on the right foot this time! Only eighteen girls started and all of them were grimly determined to do their best. The boys had left off their hockey games and crowded along the starting line and the upper end of the track, to watch the girls race. People had come out from their houses to get a closer view of the excitement, and some of the teachers--including Mr. Marks and the physical instructors--were in the crowd. The boys began to root for their favorites, and Agnes heard Neale leading the cheers for her. Trix Severn was not much of a favorite with the boys; she wasn't "a good sport." But the second Kenway girl had showed herself to be good fun right from the start. "Got it, Agnes! Hurrah for the Corner House girl!" shrieked one youngster who belonged in the sixth grade, grammar. "Eva Larry for mine," declared another. "She's some little skater, and don't you forget it." Some of the boys started down the track after the flying contestants, but Ruth darted after them and begged them to keep out of the way so as not to confuse the racers when they should come back up the Parade Ground. Meanwhile Agnes was taking no chances of being left behind this time. She had gotten off right and was in the lead within the first few yards. Putting forth all her strength at first, she easily distanced most of the eighteen. It was, after all, a short race, and she knew that she must win it "under the whip," if at all. Her fall would soon stiffen and lame her; Agnes knew that very well. Ordinarily she would have given in to the pain she felt and owned that she had been hurt. But Trix's taunts were hard to bear--harder than the pain in her knee and in her head. Once she glanced over her shoulder and saw Trix right behind--the nearest girl to her in the race. The glance inspired her to put on more steam. She managed to lead the crowd to the foot of the Parade. She turned the clump of spruce trees on the "long roll" and found a dozen girls right at her heels as she faced up the Parade again. Trix was in the midst of them. There was some confusion, but Agnes kept out of it. She had her wits very much about her, too; and she saw that Trix cut the spruce clump altogether--turning just before reaching the place, and so saving many yards. In the excitement none of the other racers, save Agnes, noticed this trick. "Cheat!" thought Agnes. But the very fact that her enemy was dishonest made Agnes the more determined to beat her. Agnes' breath was growing short, however; _how_ her head throbbed! And her right knee felt as though the skin was all abrased and the cap fairly cracked. Of course, she knew this last could not be true, or she would not be skating at all; but she was in more pain than she had ever suffered in her life before without "giving in" to it. She gritted her teeth and held grimly to her course. Trix suddenly pulled up even with her. Agnes knew the girl never would have done so had she not cheated at the bottom of the course. "I'll win without playing baby, or I won't win at all!" the Corner House girl promised herself. "If she can win after cheating, let her!" And it looked at the moment as though Trix had the better chance. She drew ahead and was evidently putting forth all her strength to keep the lead. Right ahead was the spot where the broken ice covered the course. Agnes bore well away from it; Trix swept out, too, and almost collided with her antagonist. "Look where you're going! Don't you dare foul me!" screamed the Severn girl at Agnes. That flash of rage cost Trix something. Agnes made no reply--not even when Trix flung back another taunt, believing that the race was already won. But it was not. "I will! _I will!_" thought Agnes, and she stooped lower and shot up the course passing Trix not three yards from the line, and winning by only an arm's length. "I beat her! I beat her!" cried Trix, blinded with tears, and almost falling to the ice. "Don't you dare say I didn't." "It doesn't take much courage to say that, Beatrice," said Miss Shipman, right at her elbow. "We all saw the race. It was fairly won by Agnes." "It wasn't either! She's a cheat!" gasped the enraged girl, without realizing that she was speaking to her teacher instead of to another girl. This was almost too much for Agnes' self-possession. She was in pain and almost hysterical herself. She darted forward and demanded: "Where did _I_ cheat, Miss? You can't say _I_ didn't skate around the spruce clump down there." "That's right, Aggie," said the high school girl who had been on watch with Ruth. "I saw Trix cut that clump, and if she'd gotten in first, she'd have lost on that foul." "That's a story!" exclaimed Trix; but she turned pale. "Say no more about it, girls. The race is won by Agnes--and won honestly," Miss Georgiana said. But Trix Severn considered she had been very ill-used by Agnes. She buried _that_ bone and carefully marked the spot where it lay. CHAPTER XII THE CHRISTMAS PARTY "What do you think Sammy Pinkney said in joggerfry class to-day?" observed Tess, one evening at the supper table. "'Geography,' dear. Don't try to shorten your words so," begged Ruth. "I--I forgot," admitted Tess. "'Ge-og-er-fry!' Is that right?" "Shucks!" exclaimed Agnes. "Let's have the joke. I bet Sammy Pinkney is always up to something." "He likes Tess, Sammy does," piped up Dot, "for he gave her Billy Bumps." Tess grew fiery red. "I don't want boys liking me!" she declared. "Only Neale." "And especially not Sam Pinkney, eh?" said Agnes. "But what happened? You have us all worked up, Tess." "Why, Miss Andrews was telling us that the 'stan' at the end of any word meant 'the place of'--like Afghanistan, the place the Afghans live----" "That's what Mrs. Adams is knitting," interposed Dot, placidly. "_What?_" demanded Agnes. "Why, the Afghans are a people--in Asia--right near India." "She's knitting one; she told me so," declared Dot, holding her ground obstinately. "She knits it out of worsted." "That's right," laughed Ruth. "It's a crocheted 'throw' for a couch. You are right, Dot; and so are you, too, Aggie." "Are we ever going to get to Sammy Pinkney?" groaned Agnes. "Well!" said Tess, indignantly, "I'll tell you, if you'll give me a chance." "Sail right in, sister," chuckled Agnes. "So Miss Andrews said 'stan' meant 'the place of,'" rushed on Tess, "like Afghanistan, and Hindoostan, 'the place of the Hindoos,' and she says: "'Can any of you give another example of the use of "stan" for the end of a word?' and Sammy says: "'I can, Miss Andrews. Umbrellastan--the place of the umbrellars,' and now Sammy," concluded Tess, "can't have any stocking on our Christmas tree." "I guess Sammy was trying to be smart," said Dot, gravely. "He's a smart boy, all right," Agnes chuckled. "I heard him last Sunday in Sunday school class. He's in Miss Pepperill's class right behind ours. Miss Pepperill asked Eddie Collins: "'What happened to Babylon?' "'It fell,' replied Ed. "'And what happened to Sodom and Gomorrah?' she asked Robbie Foote, and Robbie said: "'They were destroyed, Miss Pepperill.' "Then she came to Sammy. 'What of Tyre, Sammy?' she asked. "'Punctured,' said Sammy, and got the whole class to laughing." "Oh, now, Aggie!" queried Ruth, doubtfully, "isn't that a joke?" "No more than Tess's story is a joke," giggled the plump girl. "But it's no joke for Sammy to lose his part in the Christmas entertainment," said Tess, seriously. "I'm going to buy him a pair of wristlets, his wrists are so chapped." "You keep on planning to buy presents for all the boys that are shut out of participating in the Christmas tree," laughed Ruth, "and you'll use up all your spending money, Tess." Tess was reflective. "Boys are always getting into trouble, aren't they?" she observed. "It's lucky we haven't any in this family." "I think so myself, Tess," agreed Ruth. "Well! Nice boys like Neale," spoke up the loyal Dot, "wouldn't hurt any family." "But there aren't many nice ones like Neale," said Tess, with conviction. "'Most always they seem to be getting into trouble and being punished. The teachers don't like them much." "Oh, _our_ teacher does," said Dot, eagerly. "There's Jacob Bloomer. You know--his father is the German baker on Meadow Street. Our teacher used to like him a lot." "And what's the matter with Jakey now?" asked Agnes. "Is he in her bad books?" "I don't know would you call it 'bad books,'" Dot said. "But he doesn't bring the teacher a pretzel any more." "A pretzel!" exclaimed Ruth. "What a ridiculous thing to bring," said Agnes. "She liked them," Dot said, nodding. "But she doesn't eat them any more." "Why not?" asked Ruth. "We--ell, Jacob doesn't bring them." "Do tell us why not!" "Why," said Dot, earnestly, "you see teacher told Jacob one day that she liked them, but she wished his father didn't make them so salty. So after that Jacob always brought teacher a pretzel without any salt on it. "'It's very kind,' teacher told Jacob, 'of your father to make me a pretzel 'specially every day,' she told him, 'without the salt.' And Jacob told her his father didn't do any such thing; _he_ licked the salt off before he gave teacher the pretzel--an' she hasn't never eaten any since, and Jacob's stopped bringing them," concluded Dot. "Well! what do you think of that?" gasped Agnes. "I should think your teacher _would_ lose her taste for pretzels." "But I don't suppose Jacob understands," said Ruth, smiling. "Oh, Ruth!" cried Agnes, suddenly. "It's at Mr. Bloomer's where Carrie Poole's having her big party cake made. Lucy told me so. Lucy is Carrie's cousin, you know." "I heard about that party," said Tess. "It's going to be _grand_. Are you and Aggie going, Ruth?" "I'm sure I don't know," said the oldest Corner House girl. "I haven't been invited yet." "Nor me, either," confessed Agnes. "Don't you suppose we shall be? I want to go, awfully, Ruthie." "It's the first really _big_ party that's been gotten up this winter," agreed Ruth. "I don't know Carrie Poole very well, though she's in my class." "They live in a great big farmhouse on the Buckshot Road," Agnes said. "Lucy told me. A beautiful place. Lots of the girls in my grade are going. Trix Severn is very good friends with Carrie Poole, they say. Why, Ruth! can _that_ be the reason why we haven't been invited?" "_What's_ the reason?" "'Cause Trix is good friends with Carrie? Trix's mother is some relation to Mrs. Poole. That Trix girl is so mean I _know_ she'll just work us out of any invitation to the party." Agnes' eyes flashed and it looked as though a storm was coming. But Ruth remained tranquil. "There will be other parties," the older girl said. "It won't kill us to miss this one." "Speak for yourself!" complained Agnes. "It just kill us with some of the girls. The Pooles are very select. If we are left out of Carrie's party, we'll be left out of the best of everything that goes on this winter." Ruth would not admit to Agnes just how badly she felt about the fact that they were seemingly overlooked by Carrie Poole in the distribution of the latter's favors. The party was to be on the Friday night of the week immediately preceding Christmas. There had been no snow of any consequence as yet, but plenty of cold weather. Milton Pond was safely frozen over and the Corner House girls were there almost every afternoon. Tess was learning to skate and Ruth and Agnes took turns drawing Dot about the pond on her sled. Neale O'Neil had several furnaces to attend to now, and he always looked after the removal of the ashes to the curbline, and did other dirty work, immediately after school. But as soon as his work was finished he, too, hurried to the pond. Neale was a favorite with the girls--and without putting forth any special effort on his part to be so. He was of a retiring disposition, and aside from his acquaintanceship with some of the boys of his grade and his friendship with the Corner House girls, Neale O'Neil did not appear to care much for youthful society. For one thing, Neale felt his position keenly. He was the oldest scholar in his class. Miss Shipman considered him her brightest pupil, but the fact remained that he really should have been well advanced in high school. Ruth Kenway was only a year older than Neale. His size, his good looks, and his graceful skating, attracted the attention of the older girls who sought the Milton Pond for recreation. "There's that Neale O'Neil," said Carrie Poole, to some friends, on this particular afternoon, when she saw the boy putting on his skates. "Don't any of you girls know him? I want him at my party." "He's dreadfully offish," complained Pearl Harrod. "He seems to be friendly enough with the Corner House girls," said Carrie. "If they weren't such stuck-up things----" "Who says they're stuck up?" demanded her cousin Lucy. "I'm sure Aggie isn't." "Trix says she is. And I must say Ruth keeps to herself a whole lot. She's in my class but I scarcely ever speak to her," said Carrie. "Now you've said something," laughed Eva Larry. "Ruth isn't a girl who puts herself forward, believe me!" "They're all four jolly girls," declared Lucy. "The kids and all." "Oh! I don't want any kids out to the house Friday night," said Carrie. "Do you mean to say you haven't asked Aggie and Ruth?" gasped Pearl. "Not yet." "Why not?" demanded Lucy, bluntly. "Why----I don't know them very well," said Carrie, hastily. "But I _do_ want that Neale O'Neil. So few boys know how to act at a party. And I wager _he_ dances." "I can tell you right now," said Lucy, "you'll never get him to come unless the Corner House girls are invited. Why! they're the only girls of us all who know him right well." "I am going to try him," said Carrie Poole, with sudden decision. She skated right over to Neale O'Neil just as he had finished strapping on the cobbler's old skates that had been lent him. Carrie Poole was a big girl--nearly seventeen. She was too wise to attack Neale directly with the request she had to make. "Mr. O'Neil," she said, with a winning smile, "I saw you doing the 'double-roll' the other day, and you did it so easily! I've been trying to get it for a long while. Will you show me--please--just a little?" Even the gruffest boy could scarcely escape from such a net--and Neale O'Neil was never impolite. He agreed to show her, and did so. Of course they became more or less friendly within a few minutes. "It's so kind of you," said Carrie, when she had managed to get the figure very nicely. "I'm a thousand times obliged. But it wasn't just this that I wanted to talk with you about." Neale looked amazed. He was not used to the feminine mind. "I wanted to pluck up my courage," laughed Carrie, "to ask you to come to my party Friday evening. Just a lot of the boys and girls, all of whom you know, I am sure. I'd dearly love to have you come, Mr. O'Neil." "But--but I don't really know _your_ name," stammered Neale. "Why! I'm Carrie Poole." "And I'm sure I don't know where you live," Neale hastened to say. "It's very kind of you----" "Then you'll come?" cried Carrie, confidently. "We live out of town--on the Buckshot Road. Anybody will tell you." "I suppose the Kenway girls will know," said Neale, doubtfully. "I can go along with them." Carrie was a girl who thought quickly. She had really promised Trix Severn that she would not invite Ruth and Agnes Kenway to her party; but how could she get out of doing just that under these circumstances? "Of course," she cried, with apparently perfect frankness. "I sincerely hope they'll both come. And I can depend upon you to be there, Mr. O'Neil?" Then she skated straight away and found Ruth and Agnes and invited them for Friday night in a most graceful way. "I wanted to ask you girls personally instead of sending a formal invite," she said, warmly. "You being new girls, you know. You'll come? That's so kind of you! I shouldn't feel that the party would be a success if you Corner House girls were not there." So that is how they got the invitation; but at the time the Kenway sisters did not suspect how near they came to not being invited at all to the Christmas party. CHAPTER XIII THE BARN DANCE Such a "hurly-burly" as there was about the old Corner House on Friday afternoon! Everybody save Aunt Sarah was on the _qui vive_ over the Christmas party--for this was the first important social occasion to which any of the Kenway sisters had been invited since coming to Milton to live. Miss Titus, that famous gossip and seamstress, had been called in again, and the girls all had plenty of up-to-date winter frocks made. Miss Titus' breezy conversation vastly interested Dot, who often sat silently nursing her Alice-doll in the sewing room, ogling the seamstress wonderingly as her tongue ran on. "'N so, you see, he says to her," was a favorite phrase with Miss Titus. Mrs. MacCall said the seamstress' tongue was "hung in the middle and ran at both ends." But Dot's comment was even more to the point. After Miss Titus had started home after a particularly gossipy day at the old Corner House, Dot said: "Ruthie, don't you think Miss Titus seems to know an awful lot of _un-so news_?" However, to come to the important Friday of Carrie Poole's party: Ruth and Agnes were finally dressed. They only _looked_ at their supper. Who wanted to eat just before going to a real, country barn-dance? That is what Carrie had promised her school friends. Ruth and Agnes had their coats and furs on half an hour before Neale O'Neil came for them. It was not until then that the girls noticed how really shabby Neale was. His overcoat was thin, and plainly had not been made for him. Ruth knew she could not give the proud boy anything of value. He was making his own way and had refused every offer of assistance they had made him. He bore his poverty jauntily and held his head so high, and looked at the world so fearlessly, that it would have taken courage indeed to have accused him of being in need. He strutted along beside the girls, his unmittened hands deep in his pockets. His very cheerfulness denied the cold, and when Ruth timidly said something about it, Neale said gruffly that "mittens were for babies!" It was a lowery evening as the trio of young folk set forth. The clouds had threatened snow all day, and occasionally a flake--spying out the land ahead of its vast army of brothers--drifted through the air and kissed one's cheek. Ruth, Agnes, and Neale talked of the possible storm, and the coming Christmas season, and of school, as they hurried along. It was a long walk out the Buckshot Road until they came in sight of the brilliantly lighted Poole farmhouse. It stood at the top of the hill--a famous coasting place--and it looked almost like a castle, with all its windows alight, and now and then a flutter of snowflakes falling between the approaching young people and the lampshine from the doors and windows. The girls and boys were coming from all directions--some from across the open, frozen fields, some from crossroads, and other groups, like the Corner House girls and Neale O'Neil, along the main highway. Some few came in hacks, or private carriages; but not many. Milton people were, for the most part, plain folk, and frowned upon any ostentation. The Corner House girls and their escort reached the Poole homestead in good season. The entire lower floor was open to them, save the kitchen, where Mother Poole and the hired help were busy with the huge supper that was to be served later. There was music and singing, and a patheoscope entertainment at first, while everybody was getting acquainted with everybody else. But the boys soon escaped to the barn. The Poole barn was an enormous one. The open floor, with the great mows on either side, and the forest of rafters overhead, could have accommodated a full company of the state militia, for its drill and evolutions. Under the mows on either hand were the broad stalls for the cattle--the horses' intelligent heads looking over the mangers at the brilliantly lighted scene, from one side, while the mild-eyed cows and oxen chewed their cud on the other side of the barn floor. All the farm machinery and wagons had been removed, and the open space thoroughly swept. Rows of Chinese lanterns, carefully stayed so that the candles should not set them afire, were strung from end to end of the barn. Overhead the beams of three great lanterns were reflected downward upon the dancing-floor. When the boys first began to crowd out to the barn, all the decorating was not quite finished, and the workmen had left a rope hanging from a beam above. Some of the boys began swinging on that rope. "Here's Neale! Here's Neale O'Neil!" cried one of the sixth grade boys when Neale appeared. "Come on, Neale. Show us what you did on the rope in the school gym." Most boys can easily be tempted to "show off" a little when it comes to gymnastic exercises. Neale seized the rope and began to mount it, stiff-legged and "hand over hand." It was a feat that a professional acrobat would have found easy, but that very few but professionals could have accomplished. It was when he reached the beam that the boy surprised his mates. He got his legs over the beam and rested for a moment; then he commenced the descent. In some way he wrapped his legs around the rope and, head down, suddenly shot toward the floor at a fear-exciting pace. Several of the girls, with Mr. Poole, were just entering the barn. The girls shrieked, for they thought Neale was falling. But the boy halted in midflight, swung up his body quickly, seized the rope again with both hands, and dropped lightly to the floor. "Bravo!" cried Mr. Poole, leading the applause. "I declare, that was well done. I saw a boy at Twomley & Sorber's Circus this last summer do that very thing--and he did it no better." "Oh, but that couldn't have been Neale, Mr. Poole," Agnes Kenway hastened to say, "for Neale tells us that he never went to a circus in his life." "He might easily be the junior member of an acrobatic troupe, just the same," said Mr. Poole; but Neale had slipped away from them for the time being and the farmer got no chance to interview the boy. A large-sized talking machine was wheeled into place and the farmer put in the dance records himself. The simple dances--such as they had learned at school or in the juvenile dancing classes--brought even the most bashful boys out upon the floor. There were no wallflowers, for Carrie was a good hostess and, after all, had picked her company with some judgment. The girls began dancing with their furs and coats on; but soon they threw their wraps aside, for the barn floor seemed as warm as any ballroom. They had lots of fun in the "grand march," and with a magic-lantern one of the boys flashed vari-colored lights upon the crowd from the loft-ladder at the end of the barn. Suddenly Mr. Poole put a band record in the machine, and as the march struck up, the great doors facing the house were rolled back. They had been dancing for more than two hours. It was after ten o 'clock. "Oh!" shouted the girls. "Ah!" cried the boys. The snow was now drifting steadily down, and between the illumination by the colored slides in the lantern, and that from the blazing windows of the big house, it was indeed a scene to suggest fairyland! "Into the house--all of you!" shouted Mr. Poole. "Boys, assist your partners through the snow." "Come on! Come on!" shouted Carrie, in the lead with Neale O'Neil. "Forward, the Light Brigade!" "Charge for the _eats_, they said!" added Agnes. "Oh--ow--ouch! over my shoe in the snow." "And it's we-e-e-et!" wailed another of the girls. "Right down my neck!" "'Be-you-ti-ful snow! He may sing whom it suits-- I object to the stuff 'cause it soaks through my boots!'" quoted Agnes. "Hurry up, you ahead!" So the march was rather ragged--more in the nature of a raid, indeed. But they had to halt at the side door where the two maids stood armed with brooms, for Mrs. Poole did not propose that the crowd should bring in several bushels of snow on their feet. In the dining and sitting-rooms were long tables, and all loaded with good things. There were no seats, but plenty of standing room about the tables. Everybody helped everybody else, and there was a lot of fun. Some of the girls began to be troubled by the storm. They made frequent trips to the windows to look out of doors. Soon wraps appeared and the girls began to say good-night to their young hostess. "I don't see how we're ever going to get home!" cried one of the girls who lived at the greatest distance. Farmer Poole had thought of that. He had routed out his men again, and they harnessed the horses to a big pung and to two smaller sleighs. Into these vehicles piled both boys and girls who lived on the other side of Milton. A few private equipages arrived for some of the young folk. The fathers of some had tramped through the snow to the farmhouse to make sure that their daughters were properly escorted home in the fast quickening storm. To look out of doors, it seemed a perfect wall of falling snow that the lamplight streamed out upon. Fortunately it was not very cold, nor did the wind blow. But at the corner of the house there was a drift as deep as Neale O'Neil's knees. "But we'll pull through all right, girls, if you want to try it," he assured Ruth and Agnes. They did not like to wait until the sledges got back; that might not be for an hour. And even then the vehicles would be overcrowded. "Come on!" said Agnes. "Let's risk it, Ruth." "I don't know but that we'd better----" "Pshaw! Neale will get us through. He knows a shortcut--so he says." "Of course we can trust Neale," said the older Corner House girl, smiling, and she made no further objection. They had already bidden their hostess and her father and mother good-night. So when the trio set off toward town nobody saw them start. They took the lane beside the barn and went right down the hill, between the stone fences, now more than half hidden by the snow. When they got upon the flats, and the lights of the house were hidden, it did seem as though they were in a great, white desert. "Who told you this was a short way to town?" demanded Agnes, of Neale. "Why, one of the girls told me," Neale said, innocently enough. "You know--that Severn girl." "What! Trix Severn?" shrieked Agnes. "Yes." "I believe she started you off this way, just for the sake of getting us all into trouble," cried Agnes. "Let's go back!" But they were now some distance out upon the flats. Far, far ahead there were faint lights, denoting the situation of Milton; but behind them all the lights on the hill had been quenched. The Pooles had extinguished the lamps at the back of the house, and of course ere this the great barn itself was shrouded in darkness. The snow came thicker and faster. They were in the midst of a world of white and had there been any shelter at all at hand, Neale would have insisted upon taking advantage of it. But there was nothing of the kind. CHAPTER XIV UNCLE RUFUS' STORY OF THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE "Trix is going to stay all night with Carrie. If we go back she will only laugh at us," Ruth Kenway said, decidedly. "We-ell," sighed Agnes. "I don't want to give that mean thing a chance to laugh. We can't really get lost out here, can we, Neale?" "I don't see how we can," said Neale, slowly. "I'm game to go ahead if you girls are." "It looks to me just as bad to go back," Ruth observed. "Come on!" cried Agnes, and started forward again through the snow. And, really, they might just as well keep on as to go back. They must be half way to the edge of Milton by this time, all three were sure. The "swish, swish, swish" of the slanting snow was all they heard save their own voices. The falling particles deadened all sound, and they might have been alone in a wilderness as far as the presence of other human beings was made known to them. "Say!" grumbled Neale, "she said there was a brook here somewhere--at the bottom of a hollow." "Well, we've been going down hill for some time," Ruth remarked. "It must be near by now." "Is--isn't there a--a bridge over it?" quavered Agnes. "A culvert that we can walk over," said Neale. "Let me go ahead. Don't you girls come too close behind me." "But, goodness, Neale!" cried Agnes. "We mustn't lose sight of you." "I'm not going to run away from you." "But you're the last boy on earth--as far as we can see," chuckled Agnes. "You have suddenly become very precious." Neale grinned. "Get you once to the old Corner House and neither of you would care if you didn't ever see a boy again," he said. He had not gone on five yards when the girls, a few paces behind, heard him suddenly shout. Then followed a great splashing and floundering about. "Oh! oh! Neale!" shrieked Agnes. "Have you gone under?" "No! But I've gone through," growled the boy. "I've busted through a thin piece of ice. Here's the brook all right; you girls stay where you are. I can see the culvert." He came back to them, sopping wet to his knees. In a few moments the lower part of his limbs and his feet were encased in ice. "You'll get your death of cold, Neale," cried Ruth, worriedly. "No, I won't, Ruth. Not if I keep moving. And that's what we'd all better do. Come on," the boy said. "I know the way after we cross this brook. There is an unfinished street leads right into town. Comes out there by your store building--where those Italian kids live." "Oh! If Mrs. Kranz should be up," gasped Agnes, "she'd take us in and let you dry your feet, Neale." "We'll get her up," declared Ruth. "She's as good-hearted as she can be, and she won't mind." "But it's midnight," chattered Neale, beginning to feel the chill. They hurried over the culvert and along the rough street. Far ahead there was an arc light burning on the corner of Meadow Street. But not a soul was astir in the neighborhood as the trio came nearer to the German woman's grocery store, and the corner where Joe Maroni, the father of Maria, had his vegetable and fruit stand. The Italians were all abed in their miserable quarters below the street level; but there was a lamp alight behind the shade of Mrs. Kranz's sitting room. Agnes struggled ahead through the drifts and the falling snow, and tapped at the window. There were startled voices at once behind the blind. The window had a number of iron bars before it and was supposed to be burglar-proof. Agnes tapped again, and then the shade moved slightly. "Go avay! Dere iss noddings for you here yedt!" exclaimed Mrs. Kranz, threateningly. "Go avay, or I vill de berlice call." They saw her silhouette on the blind. But there was another shadow, too, and when this passed directly between the lamp and the window, the girls saw that it was Maria Maroni. Maria often helped Mrs. Kranz about the house, and sometimes remained with her all night. "Oh, Maria! Maria Maroni!" shrieked Agnes, knocking on the pane again. "Let us in--_do_!" The Italian girl flew to the window and ran up the shade, despite the expostulations of Mrs. Kranz, who believed that the party outside were troublesome young folk of the neighborhood. But when she knew who they were--and Maria identified them immediately--the good lady lumbered to the side door of the store herself, and opened it wide to welcome Ruth and Agnes, with their boy friend. "Coom in! Coom in by mine fire," she cried. "Ach! der poor kinder oudt in dis vedder yedt. Idt iss your deaths mit cold you vould catch--no?" Ruth explained to the big-hearted German widow how they came to be struggling in the storm at such an hour. "Undt dot boy iss vet? Ach! Ledt him his feet dake off qvick! Maria! make de chocolate hot. Undt de poy--ach! I haf somedings py mine closet in, for _him_." She bustled away to reappear in a moment with a tiny glass of something that almost strangled Neale when he drank it, but, as he had to admit, "it warmed 'way down to the ends of his toes!" "Oh, this is _fine_!" Agnes declared, ten minutes later, when she was sipping her hot chocolate. "I _love_ the snow--and this was almost like getting lost in a blizzard." Mrs. Kranz shook her head. "Say nodt so--say nodt so," she rumbled. "Dis iss pad yedt for de poor folk. Yah! idt vill make de coal go oop in brice." "Yes," said Maria, softly. "My papa says he will have to charge twelve cents a pail for coal to-morrow, instead of ten. He has to pay more." "I never thought of _that_ side of it," confessed Agnes, slowly. "I suppose a snow storm like this _will_ make it hard for poor people." "Undt dere iss blenty poor folk all about us," said Mrs. Kranz, shaking her head. "Lucky you are, dot you know noddings about idt." "Why shouldn't we know something about it?" demanded Ruth, quickly. "Do you mean there will be much suffering among _our_ tenants because of this storm, Mrs. Kranz?" "Gott sie dank! nodt for _me_," said the large lady, shaking her head. "Undt not for Maria's fadder. Joe Maroni iss doin' vell. But many are nodt so--no. Undt der kinder----" "Let's give them all a Christmas," exclaimed Ruth, having a sudden bright, as well as kind, thought. "I'll ask Mr. Howbridge. You shall tell us of those most in need, Mrs. Kranz--you and Maria." "Vell dem poor Goronofskys iss de vorst," declared the grocery-store woman, shaking her head. Ruth and Agnes remembered the reported riches in Sadie Goronofsky's bank, but although they looked at each other, they said nothing about it. "Sadie has an awful hard time," said Maria. "De sthep-mudder does nodt treat her very kindly----Oh, I know! She has so many kinder of her own. Sadie vork all de time ven she iss de school oudt." They discussed the other needy neighbors for half an hour longer. Then Neale put on his dried shoes and stockings, tied his trouser-legs around his ankles, and announced himself ready to go. The girls were well protected to their knees by leggings, so they refused to remain for the night at Mrs. Kranz's home. They set out bravely to finish their journey to the old Corner House. Some of the drifts were waist deep and the wind had begun to blow. "My! but I'm glad we're not over on those flats now," said Agnes. It was almost one o'clock when they struggled through the last drift and reached the back door of the old Corner House. Uncle Rufus, his feet on the stove-hearth, was sleeping in his old armchair, waiting up for them. "Oh, Uncle Rufus! you ought to be abed," cried Ruth. "You've lost your beauty sleep, Uncle Rufus," added Agnes. "Sho', chillen, dis ain't nottin' fo' ol' Unc' Rufus. He sit up many a night afore dis. An' somebody has ter watch de Christmas goose." "Oh! The Christmas goose?" cried Agnes. "Has it come?" "You wanter see him, chillen?" asked the old colored man, shuffling to the door. "Looker yere." They followed him to the woodshed door. There, roosting on one leg and blinking at them in the lamplight, was a huge gray goose. It hissed softly at them, objecting to their presence, and they went back into the warm kitchen. "Why does it stand that way--on one leg--Uncle Rufus?" asked Agnes. "Perhaps it's resting the other foot," Ruth said, laughing. "Maybe it has only one leg," Neale observed. At that Uncle Rufus began chuckling enormously to himself. His eyes rolled, and his cheeks "blew out," and he showed himself to be very "tickled." The door latch clicked and here appeared Tess and Dot in their warm robes and slippers. They had managed to wake up when the big girls and Neale came in, and had now stolen down to hear about the party. Mrs. MacCall had left a nice little lunch, and a pot of cocoa to warm them up. The girls gathered their chairs in a half circle about the front of the kitchen range, with Neale, and while Uncle Rufus got the refreshments ready, Ruth and Agnes told their sisters something about the barn dance. But Neale had his eye on the old colored man. "What's the matter, Uncle?" he asked. "What's amusing you so much?" "I done been t'inkin' ob 'way back dar befo' de wah--yas-sir. I done been t'inkin' ob das Christmas goose--he! he! he! das de funniest t'ing----" "Oh, tell us about it, Uncle Rufus!" cried Ruth. "Do tell us," added Agnes, "for we're not a bit sleepy yet." "Make room for Uncle Rufus' armchair," commanded Ruth. "Come, Uncle Rufus: we're ready." Nothing loath the old fellow settled into his creaking chair and looked into the glowing coals behind the grated fire-box door. "Disher happen' befo' de wah," he said, slowly. "I warn't mo' dan a pickerninny--jes' knee-high to a mus'rat, as yo' might say. But I kin member ol' Mars' Colby's plantation de bery yeah befo' de wah. "Well, chillen, as I was sayin', disher Christmas I kin 'member lak' it was yestidy. My ol' mammy was de sho' 'nuff cook at de big house, an' Mars' Colby t'ought a heap ob her. But she done tuk down wid de mis'ry in her back jes' two days fore Christmas--an' de big house full ob comp'ny! "Sech a gwine 'bout yuh nebber _did_ see, w'en mammy say she couldn't cook de w'ite folkses' dinner. Dere was a no-'count yaller gal, Sally Alley dey call her, wot he'ped erbout de breakfas' an' sech; but she warn't a sho' 'nuff cook--naw'm! "She 'lowed she was. She was de beatenes' gal for t'inkin' she knowed eberyt'ing. But, glo-_ree_! dar wasn't nobody on dat plantation wot could cook er goose tuh suit Mars' Colby lak' my ol' mammy. "And de goose dey'd picked out fo' dat Christmas dinner sho' was a noble bird--ya-as'm! Dere was an army ob geese aroun' de pond, but de one dey'd shet up fo' two weeks, an' fed soft fodder to wid er spoon, was de noblest ob de ban'," said Uncle Rufus, unctuously. "Well, dar warn't time tuh send on to Richmon' fo' a sho' 'nuff cook, an' de dinnah pahty was gaddered togedder. So Mars' Colby had ter let dat uppity yaller gal go ahead an' do her worstest. "She sho' done it," said Uncle Rufus, shaking his head. "Dar nebber was sech anudder dinner sarbed on de Colby table befo' dat time, nor, since. "My mammy, a-layin' on her back in de quahtahs, an' groanin', sent me up to de big house kitchen tuh watch. I was big 'nuff to he'p mammy, and it was in dat kitchen I begin ter l'arn ter be a house sarbent. "Well, chillen, I kep' my two eyes open, an' I sabed de sauce from burnin', an' de roun' 'taters from bilin' over, an' de onions from sco'chin' an' de sweet-er-taters f'om bein' charcoal on one side an' baked raw on de odder. Glo-_ree_! dat was one 'citin' day in dat kitchen. "But I couldn't sabe de goose from bein' sp'ilt. Dat was beyon' my powah. An' it happen disher way: "De yaller gal git de goose all stuffed an' fixed propah, fo' she done use my mammy's resate fo' stuffin'. But de no-'count critter set it right down in de roastin' pan on de flo' by de po'ch door. Eroun' come snuffin' a lean houn' dawg, one ob de re'l ol' 'nebber-git enuff' breed. He's empty as er holler stump--er, he! he! he!" chuckled Uncle Rufus. "Glo-_ree_! dar allus was a slather of sech houn's aroun' dat plantation, fo' Mars' Colby was a fox huntah. "Dat dawg git his eye on dat goose for jes' a secon'--an' de nex' secon' he grab hit by de laig! "Lawsy me! My soul an' body!" chortled Uncle Rufus, rocking himself to and fro in his chair in an ecstasy of enjoyment. "How dem niggers did squeal! Dar was more'n 'nuff boys an' gals 'roun' undah foot at dat time, but none ob dem git near de fracas but Unc' Rufus--naw'm!" "My goodness! the dog didn't get away with the goose, did he, Uncle Rufus?" asked Ruth. "I's a-comin' tuh dat--I's a-comin' tuh dat," repeated the old man. "I seen de goose gwine out de do', an' I grab hit--I sho' did! I grab it by de two wingses, an' I hang on liker chigger. De odder pickaninnies jes' a jumpin' eroun' an er-hollerin'. But Unc' Rufus knowed better'n _dat_. "Dat houn' dawg, he pull, an' I pull, an' it sho' a wondah we didn' pull dat bird all apaht betwixt us. But erbout de secon' wrench dat hongry beast gib, he pull de laig clean off'n dat ol' goose! "Glo-_ree_!" chuckled Uncle Rufus, rolling his eyes and weaving back and forth on his chair, in full enjoyment of his own story. "Glo-_ree_! Dat is a 'casion I ain't nebber lak'ly tuh fo'git. Dar I was on my back on de kitchen flo', wid de goose on top ob me, w'ile de houn'-dawg beat it erway from dar er mile-er-minit--ya-as'm! "Dat yaller gal jerked dat goose out'n my arms an' put hit back in de pan, an clapped de pan inter de oven. 'Wedder hit's got one laig, or two,' says she, 'dat's de onliest one de w'ite folkses has got fo' dey's dinner." "An dat was true 'nuff--true 'nuff," said Uncle Rufus. "But I begin tuh wondah wot Mars' Colby say 'bout dat los' laig? He was right quick wid hes temper, an' w'en hes mad was up----Glo-_ree_! he made de quahtahs _hot_! I wondah wot he do to dat yaller gal w'en dat raggedty goose come on de table. "It done got cooked to a tu'n--ya-as! I nebber see a browner, nor a plumper goose. An' w'en dat Sally Alley done lay him on hes side, wid de los' laig _down_, hit was jes' a pitcher--jes' a pitcher!" declared Uncle Rufus, reminiscent yet of the long past feast-day. "Wal, dar warn't ne'der ob de waitresses willin' tuh tak' dat goose in an' put it down befo' Mars' Colby--naw'm! So dat yaller gal had to put on a clean han'kercher an' ap'on, an' do it her own se'f. I was jes' leetle 'nuff so I crope th'u de do' an' hides behin' de co'nah ob de sidebo'd. "I was moughty cur'ous," confessed Uncle Rufus. "I wanted tuh know jes' wot Mars' Colby say w'en he fin' dat goose ain' got but one laig on him." "And what did he say, Uncle Rufus?" asked Agnes, breathless with interest like the other listeners. "Das is wot I is a-comin' to. You be patient, chile," chuckled Uncle Rufus. "Dar was de long table, all set wid shinin' silber, an' glistenin' cut glass, an' de be-you-ti-ful ol' crockery dat Madam Colby--das Mars' Colby's gre't-gran-mammy--brought f'om Englan'. Dar was ten plates beside de famb'ly. "De waitresses am busy, a-flyin' eroun' wid de side dishes, an' Mis' Colby, she serbs at her side ob de table, w'en Mars' Colby, he get up tuh carve. "'Wot paht ob de goose is yo' mos' fon' of, Miss Lee?' he say to de young lady on hes right han', monst'ous perlite lak. "'I'd lak' a slice ob de laig, Cunnel,' she say; 't'ank yo'.'" Uncle Rufus was surely enjoying himself. He was imitating "the quality" with great gusto. His eyes rolled, his sides shook, and his brown face was all one huge smile. "De bery nex' lady he ax dat same question to, mak' de same reply," went on Uncle Rufus, "an' Mars' Colby done cut all de laig meat erway on dat side. Den it come ergin. Somebody else want er piece ob de secon' j'int. "Mars' Colby stick his fo'k in de goose an' heave him over in de plattah. Glo-_ree_! dar de under side ob dat goose were all nice an' brown; but dar warn't no sign ob a laig erpon hit! "'Wha' dis? Wha' dis?' Mars' Colby cry. 'Who been a-tamperin' wid dis goose? Sen' dat no-'count Sally Alley in yeah dis minute!' he say to one ob de waitresses. "Glo-_ree_! how scar't we all was. My knees shak' tergedder, an' I bit my tongue tryin' ter hol' my jaws shet. W'en Mars' Colby done let loose----well!" and Uncle Rufus sighed. "Den dey come back wid Sally Alley. If eber dar was a scar't nigger on dat plantation, it was dat same yaller gal. An' she warn't saddle color no mo'; she was grayer in de face dan an ol' rat. "Dey stan' her up befo' Mars' Colby, an' hes eyes look lak' dey was red--ya-as'm! 'Sally Alley,' he roar at her, 'whar de odder laig ob dis goose?' "Sally Alley shake like a willer by de ribber, an' she blurt out: 'Mars' Colby! sho' 'nuff dar warn't no odder laig _on_ dat goose.' "'Wha' dat?' say he, moughty savage. 'On'y _one_ laig on dis goose?' "'Ya-as, suh--sho' 'nuff. Das de onliest laig it had,' says she. "'What do yo' mean?' Mars' Colby cry. 'Yo' tell me my goose ain' hab but one laig?' "'Ya-as, suh. Das hit. On'y one laig,' says dat scar't yaller gal, an' ter clinch it she added, '_All_ yo' geese dat a-ways, Mars' Colby. Dey all ain' got but one laig.'" "Oh!" squealed Dot. "Was it sure enough _so_, Uncle Rufus?" asked Tess, in awe. "Yo' wait! yo' wait, chillen! I'se gittin' tuh dat," declared the old man, chuckling. "Co'se dat Sally Alley say dat, hysterical lak'. She was dat scar't. Mars' Colby scowl at her mo' awful. "'I mak' yo' prove dat to me atter dinner,' he say, savage as he kin be. 'Yo'll tak' us all out dar an' show us my one-laiged geese. An' if it _ain't_ so, I'll send yo' to de fiel' oberseer.' "De fiel' oberseer do de whippin' on dat plantation," whispered Uncle Rufus, "an' Sally Alley knowed wot dat meant." "Oh, dear me!" cried tender-hearted Tess. "They didn't re'lly _beat_ her?" "Don't try to get ahead of the story, Tess," said Agnes, but rather shakingly. "We'll all hear it together." "Das it," said Uncle Rufus. "Jes' gib Unc' Rufus time an' he'll tell it all. Dat yaller gal sho' was in a fix. She don' know w'ich way to tu'n. "Das dinner was a-gettin' nearer an' nearer to de en'. Mars' Colby do lak' he say den. He come out an' mak' Sally Alley show de one-laiged geese. "'I has a po'erful min',' dat Sally gal say, 'ter go down dar an' chop er laig off'n ebery goose in de yard.' "But she didn't hab no min' to do dat," pursued Uncle Rufus. "Naw'm. She didn't hab no min' for nottin', she was dat flabbergastuated. "She t'ink she run erway; but she wouldn't git far befo' Mars' Colby be atter her wid de houn's. Dar ain't no place to run to, an' she ain't got no mammy, so she run tuh mine," said Uncle Rufus, shaking his head. "An' my mammy was a wise ol' woman. She done been bawn in de Colby famb'ly, an' she know Mars' Colby better dan he know he'self. Fiery as he was, she know dat if yo' kin mak' him laff, he'd fo'give a nigger 'most anyt'ing. "So my ol' mammy tol' Sally Alley wot tuh say an' do. Sally wipe her eyes an' mak' herse'f neat erg'in, an' wa'k up ter de big house brave as a lion--in de seemin'--jes' as de gran' folkses comes out upon de lawn. "'Here, yo',' 'sclaim Mars' Colby, we'n he see her. 'Yo' come an' show me all dem one-laiged geese.' "'Ya-as, Mars',' says Sally Alley, an' she haid right off fo' de goose pon'. Dar was de whole flock roostin' erlong de aidge ob de pon'--an' all wid one foot drawed up in deir fedders lak' dat goose roostin' out dar in dat woodshed dis bressed minute! "'Wot I tell yo'? Wot I tell yo', Mars' Colby?' cry Sally Alley. 'Ain't all dem gooses got one laig lak' I tol' yo'?' "But Mars' stride right ober to de fence an' clap hes han's. Ebery one o' dem geese puts down hes foot an' tu'ns to look at him. "'Das ain' no fair! das ain' no fair, Mars' Colby!' squeals dat yaller gal, all 'cited up. '_Yo' didn't clap yo' han's at dat goose on de table!_'--er, he! he! he!" And so Uncle Rufus finished the story of the Christmas goose. Ruth started the younger ones to bed immediately; but Tess called down from the stair: "Uncle Rufus! He _didn't_ make her go see the field overseer, did he?" "Sho'ly not, chile. Dat wasn' Cunnel Mark Colby's way. My ol' mammy knowed wot would han'le him. He done give one big laff, an' sent Sally Alley off to Aunt Jinny, de housekeeper, tuh cut her off a new kaliker dress pattern. But dem quality folkses sho' was tickled erbout dat one-laiged goose." CHAPTER XV SADIE GORONOFSKY'S BANK When Ruth Kenway had an idea--a real _good_ idea--it usually bore fruit. She had evolved one of her very best that snowy night while she and Agnes and Neale O'Neil were drinking hot chocolate in Mrs. Kranz's parlor. It was impossible for Ruth to get downtown on Saturday. One reason was, they all got up late, having crept into bed at half-past four. Then, there were the usual household tasks, for all four of the Corner House girls had their established duties on Saturday. The streets were so full of snow that it would have been almost impossible for Ruth to have gotten to Mr. Howbridge's office then; but she went there Monday afternoon. Mr. Howbridge had been Uncle Peter Stower's lawyer, and it was he who had brought the news to the four Kenway girls when they lived in Bloomingsburg, that they were actually rich. He was a tall, gray gentleman, with sharp eyes and a beaklike nose, and he looked wonderfully stern and implacable unless he smiled. But he always had a smile for Ruth Kenway. The lawyer had acquired a very deep respect for Ruth's good sense and for her character in general. As he said, there were so many narrow, stingy souls in the world, it was refreshing to meet a generous nature like that of the oldest Corner House girl. "And what is it now, Miss Ruth?" asked the gentleman when she entered his private office, and shaking hands with her. "Have you come to consult me professionally, or am I honored by a social call?" "You are almost the best man who ever lived, Mr. Howbridge," laughed Ruth. "I _know_ you are the best guardian, for you let me do mostly just as I please. So I am confident you are going to grant _this_ request----" Mr. Howbridge groaned. "You are beginning in your usual way, I see," he said. "You want something of me--but it is for somebody else you want it, I'll be bound." "Oh, no, sir! it is really for me," declared Ruth. "I'd like quite some money." "What for, may I ask?" "Of course, sir. I've come to consult you about it. You see, it's the tenants." "Those Meadow Street people!" exclaimed the lawyer. "Your Uncle Peter made money out of them; and his father did before him. But my books will show little profit from those houses at the end of this year--of that I am sure." "But, if we have made so much out of the houses in the past, shouldn't we spend some of the profit on the tenants _now_?" asked Ruth earnestly. "You are the most practical _im_practical person I ever met," declared Mr. Howbridge, laughing rather ruefully. Ruth did not just understand that; but she was much in earnest and she put before the lawyer the circumstances of some of the tenants of the old houses on Meadow Street, as she had heard them from Mrs. Kranz and Maria Maroni. She did not forget the Goronofskys, despite Tess' story of Sadie's bank in which she was saving her Christmas money; but she did not mention this last to the lawyer. Ruth wanted of the lawyer details of all the families on the estate's books. She wished to know the earning capacity of each family, how they lived, the number of children in each, and their ages and sex. "You see, Mr. Howbridge, a part of our living--and it is a good living--comes from these people. We girls should know more about them. And I am anxious to do something for them this Christmas--especially for the little children." "Well, I suppose I shall give in to you; but my better judgment cries out against it, Miss Ruth," declared the lawyer. "You see Perkins--my clerk. He collects the rents and knows all the tenants. I believe he knows when each man gets paid, how much he gets, and all about it. And, of course, as you say, you'll want some money." "Yes, sir. This is for all of us--all four of us Corner House girls. Agnes, and Tess, and Dot, are just as anxious to help these people as I am. I am sure, Mr. Howbridge, whatever else you may do with money of the estate, _this_ expense will never be questioned by any of us." From Mrs. Kranz and Perkins, Ruth obtained the information that she wished. The Corner House girls knew they could do no great thing; but for the purchase of small presents that children would appreciate, the twenty-five dollars Ruth got from Mr. Perkins, would go a long way. And what fun the Corner House girls had doing that shopping! Tess and Dot did their part, and that the entire five and ten cent store was not bought out was not _their_ fault. "You can get such a lot for your money in that store," Dot gravely announced, "that a dollar seems twice as big as it does anywhere else." "But I don't want the other girls to think we are just 'ten-centers,'" Agnes said. "Trix Severn says she wouldn't be seen going into such a cheap place." "What do you care what people call you?" asked Ruth. "If you had been born in Indiana they'd have called you a 'Hoosier'; and if in North Carolina, they'd call you a 'Tar Heel.'" "Or, if you were from Michigan, they'd say you were a 'Michigander,'" chuckled Neale, who was with them. "In _your_ case, Aggie, it would be 'Michigoose.'" "Is that so?" demanded Agnes, to whom Neale had once confessed that he was born in the state of Maine. "Then I suppose we ought to call _you_ a 'Maniac,' eh?" "Hit! a palpable hit!" agreed Neale, good-naturedly. "Come on! let's have some of your bundles. For goodness' sake! why didn't you girls bring a bushel basket--or engage a pack-mule?" "We seem to have secured a very good substitute for the latter," said Ruth, demurely. All this shopping was done early in Christmas week, for the Corner House girls determined to allow nothing to break into their own home Christmas Eve celebration. The tree in Tess' room at school was going to be lighted up on Thursday afternoon; but Wednesday the Kenway girls were all excused from school early and Neale drove them over to Meadow Street in a hired sleigh. They stopped before the doors of the respective shops of Mrs. Kranz and Joe Maroni. Joe's stand was strung with gay paper flowers and greens. He had a small forest of Christmas trees he was selling, just at the corner. "Good-a day! good-a day, leetla padrona!" was his welcome for Ruth, and he bowed very low before the oldest Kenway girl, whom he insisted upon considering the real mistress of the house in which he and his family lived. The little remembrances the girls had brought for Joe's family--down to a rattle for the baby--delighted the Italian. Tess had hung a special present for Maria on the school tree; but that was a secret as yet. They carried all the presents into Mrs. Kranz's parlor and then Neale drove away, leaving the four Corner House girls to play their parts of _Lady Bountiful_ without his aid. They had just sallied forth for their first visit when, out of the Stower tenement in which the Goronofskys lived, boiled a crowd of shrieking, excited children. Sadie Goronofsky was at their head and a man in a blue suit and the lettered cap of a gas collector seemed the rallying point of the entire savage little gang. "Oh! what is the matter, Sadie?" cried Tess, running to the little Jewish girl's side. "He's a thief! he's a gonnif! he's a thief!" shrieked Sadie, dragging at the man's coat. "He stole mine money. He's busted open mine bank and stoled all mine money!" "That red bank in the kitchen?" asked Tess, wonderingly. "That one your mother put the quarter in every week for you?" "Sure!" replied the excited Sadie. "My mother's out. I'm alone with the kids. In this man comes and robs mine bank----" "What _is_ the trouble?" asked Ruth of the man. "Why, bless you, somebody's been fooling the kid," he said, with some compassion. "And it was a mean trick. They told her the quarter-meter was a bank and that all the money that was put in it should be hers. "She's a good little kid, too. I've often seen her taking care of her brothers and sisters and doing the work. The meter had to be opened to-day and the money taken out--and she caught me at it." Afterward Agnes said to Ruth: "I could have _hugged_ that man, Ruthie--for he didn't laugh!" CHAPTER XVI A QUARTETTE OF LADY BOUNTIFULS For once the stolid little Sadie was unfaithful to her charges. She forgot the little ones her step-mother had left in her care; but the neighbors looked out for them. She stood upon the icy walk, when she understood the full truth about "the big red bank in the kitchen," and watched with tearless eyes the gas collector walk away. Her face worked pitifully; her black eyes grew hot; but she would not let the tears fall. She clenched her little red hands, bit her lower lip, and stamped her worn shoe upon the walk. Hatred of all mankind--not alone of the woman who had so wickedly befooled her--was welling up in little Sadie Goronofsky's heart. It was then that Ruth Kenway put her arm around the little Jewish girl's shoulders and led her away to Mrs. Kranz's back parlor. There the Corner House girls told her how sorry they were; Mrs. Kranz filled her hands with "coffee kringle." Then some of the very best of the presents the Corner House girls had brought were chosen for Sadie's brothers and sisters, and Sadie was to be allowed to take them home herself to them. "I don't mind being guyed by the kids at school because I can't put nothin' on that old Christmas tree. But I been promisin' _her_ kids they should each have suthin' fine. She's been foolin' them jest the same as she has me. I don't know what my papa ever wanted ter go and marry _her_ for," concluded Sadie, with a sniff. "Hey! hey!" exclaimed Mrs. Kranz, sternly. "Iss dot de vay to talk yedt about your mamma?" "She ain't my mamma," declared Sadie, sullenly. "Sthop dot, Sadie!" said Mrs. Kranz. "You cand't remember how sweedt your papa's wife was to you when you was little. Who do you s'pose nursed you t'rough de scarlet fever dot time? Idt wass her." "Huh!" grunted Sadie, but she took a thoughtful bite of cake. "Undt de measles, yedt," went on Mrs. Kranz. "Like your own mamma, she iss dot goot to you. But times iss hardt now, undt poor folks always haf too many babies." "She don't treat me like she was my mamma now," complained Sadie, with a sob that changed to a hiccough as she sipped the mug of coffee that had been the accompaniment of the cake. "She hadn't ought to told me those quarters she put in that box was mine, when they was to pay the gas man." Mrs. Kranz eyed the complainant shrewdly. "Why vor shouldt you pe paid vor he'pin' your mamma yedt?" she asked. "You vouldn't haf gone from school home yedt undt helped her, if it hadn't been for vat she toldt you about de money. You vorked for de money every time--aind't idt?" Sadie hung her head. "Dot is idt!" cried the good German woman. "You make your poor mamma tell things to fool you, else you vould sthay avay an' blay. She haf to bribe you to make you help her like you should. Shame! Undt she nodt go to de school like you, undt learn better." "I s'pose that's so," admitted Sadie, more thoughtfully. "She ain't a 'Merican like what I am, that goes to school an' learns from books." In the end, between the ministrations of the Corner House girls and Mrs. Kranz, the whole Goronofsky family was made happy. Sadie promised to help her mamma without being bribed to do so; Mrs. Goronofsky, who was a worn, tired out little woman, proved to have some heart left for her step-daughter, after all; "the kids" were made delighted by the presents Sadie was enabled to bring them; and Ruth went around to Mr. Goronofsky's shop and presented him with a receipted bill for his house rent for December. The work of the quartette of Lady Bountifuls by no means ended with the Goronofskys. Not a tenant of the Stower Estate was missed. Even Mrs. Kranz herself was remembered by the Corner House girls, who presented her, in combination, a handsome shopping bag to carry when she went downtown to the bank. It was a busy afternoon and evening they spent on Meadow Street--for they did not get home to a late supper until eight o'clock. But their comments upon their adventures were characteristic. "It is _so_ satisfactory," said Ruth, placidly, "to make other people happy." "I'm dog tired," declared Agnes, "but I'd love to start right out and do it all over again!" "I--I hope the little Maroni baby won't lick all the red paint off that rattle and make herself sick," sighed Tess, reflectively. "If she does we can buy her a new rattle. It didn't cost but ten cents," Dot rejoined, seeing at the moment but one side of the catastrophe. CHAPTER XVII "THAT CIRCUS BOY" The first Christmas since the Kenway girls had "come into" Uncle Peter's estate was bound to be a memorable one for Ruth and Agnes and Tess and Dot. Mother Kenway, while she had lived, had believed in the old-fashioned New England Christmas. The sisters had never had a tree, but they always hung their stockings on a line behind the "base-burner" in the sitting-room of the Bloomingsburg tenement. So now they hung them in a row by the dining-room mantelpiece in the old Corner House. Uncle Rufus took a great deal of interest in this proceeding. He took out the fire-board from the old-fashioned chimneyplace, so as to give ingress to Santa Clans when the reindeers of that good saint should land upon the Corner House roof. Dot held to her first belief in the personal existence of Saint Nick, and although Tess had some doubts as to his real identity, she would not for the world have said anything to weaken Dot's belief. There was no stove in the way in the dining-room, for the furnace--put into the cellar by Uncle Peter only shortly before his death--heated the two lower floors of the main part of the house, as well as the kitchen wing, in which the girls and Mrs. MacCall slept. The girls had begged Neale O'Neil to hang up his stocking with theirs, but he refused--rather gruffly, it must be confessed. Mrs. MacCall and Uncle Rufus, however, were prevailed upon to add their hose to the line. Aunt Sarah rather snappishly objected to "exposing her stockings to the public view, whether on or off the person,"--so she said. The four Corner House girls felt thankful to the queer old woman, who was really no relation to them at all, but who accepted all their bounty and attentions as though they were hers by right. Indeed, at the time when there seemed some doubt as to whether Mr. Howbridge could prove for the Kenway girls a clear title to Uncle Peter's property, Aunt Sarah had furnished the necessary evidence, and sent away the claimant from Ipsilanti. There was, too, a soft side to Aunt Sarah's character; only, like the chestnutburr, one had to get inside her shell to find it. If one of the children was ill, Aunt Sarah was right there with the old fashioned remedies, and although some of her "yarb teas" might be nasty to take, they were efficacious. Then, she was always knitting, or embroidering, something or other for the girls. Now that there was plenty of money in the family purse, she ordered materials just as she pleased, and knit jackets, shawls, mittens, and "wristlets." She was a very grim lady and dressed very plainly; although she never said so, she liked to have the girls sit with her at their sewing. She took infinite pains to teach them to be good needle-women, as her mother had doubtless taught her. So the chief present the girls bought this Christmas for Aunt Sarah was a handsome sewing table, its drawers well supplied with all manner of threads, silks, wools, and such like materials. This the Kenway sisters had all "chipped in" to purchase, and the table was smuggled into the house and hidden away in one of the spare rooms, weeks before Christmas. The girls had purchased a new dress for Mrs. MacCall, and had furnished out Uncle Rufus from top to toe in a suit of black clothes, with a white vest, in which he could wait at table on state and date occasions, as well as wear to church on Sundays. There were, of course, small individual presents from each girl to these family retainers, and to Aunt Sarah. The stockings bulged most delightfully in the dining-room when they trooped down to breakfast on Christmas morning. Tess and Dot could scarcely eat, their eyes were so fixed upon the delightfully knobby bundles piled under each of their stockings on the hearth. Agnes declared Tess tried to drink her buckwheat cakes and eat her coffee, and that Dot was in danger of sticking her fork into her eye instead of into her mouth. But the meal was ended at last and Uncle Rufus wheeled out Aunt Sarah's beautiful sewing table, with her other smaller presents upon it. Ruth told her how happy it made them all to give it to her. Aunt Sarah's keen eye lit up as she was shown all the interesting things about her new acquisition; but all the verbal comment she made was that she thought "you gals better be in better business than buying gewgaws for an old woman like me." "Just the same, she is pleased as Punch," Mrs. MacCall whispered to Ruth. "Only, she doesn't like to show it." The girls quickly came to their own presents. None of the articles they had bought for each other were of great value intrinsically; but they all showed love and thoughtfulness. Little things that each had at some time carelessly expressed a wish for, appeared from the stockings to delight and warm the heart of the recipient. There was nobody, of course, to give the two older girls any very valuable gifts; but there was a pretty locket and chain for Ruth which she had seen in the jewelry-store window and expressed a fondness for, while the desire of Agnes' eyes was satisfied when she found a certain bracelet in the toe of her stocking. Tess had a bewildering number of books and school paraphernalia, as well as additions to her dolls' paraphernalia; but it was Dot who sat down breathlessly in the middle of the floor under a perfect avalanche of treasures, all connected with her "children's" comfort and her personal house-keeping arrangements. It would have been almost sacrilege to have presented Dot with another doll; for the Alice-doll that had come the Christmas before and had only lately been graduated into short clothes, still held the largest place in the little girl's affections. Battered by adversity as the Alice-doll was, Dot's heart could never have warmed toward another "child" as it did toward the unfortunate that "Double Trouble"--that angel-faced young one from Ipsilanti--had buried with the dried apples. But Dot's sisters had showered upon her every imaginable comfort and convenience for the use of a growing family of dolls, as well as particular presents to the Alice-doll herself. "What's the matter, child?" asked Mrs. MacCall, seeing the expression on Dot's face as she sat among her possessions. "Don't they suit?" "Mrs. MacCall," declared Dot, gravely, "I think I shall faint. My heart's just jumping. If gladness could kill anybody, I know I'd have to die to show how happy I am. And I know my Alice-doll will feel just as I do." Uncle Rufus' daughter, Petunia Blossom, came after breakfast with several of her brood--and the laundry cart--to take away the good things that had been gathered for her and her family. Petunia was "fast brack," as her father declared--an enormously fat, jetty-black negress, with a pretty face, and a superabundance of children. To enumerate the Blossom family, as Petunia had once done for Ruth's information, there were: "Two married and moved away; two at work; twins twice makes eight; Alfredia; Jackson Montgomery Simms; Burne-Jones Whistler; the baby; and Louisa Annette." Ruth and her sisters had purchased, or made, small and unimportant presents for Neale O'Neil. Neale had remembered each of them with gifts, all the work of his own hands; a wooden berry dish and ladle for Tess' doll's tea-table; a rustic armchair for the Alice-doll, for Dot; a neatly made pencil box for Agnes; and for Ruth a new umbrella handle, beautifully carved and polished, for Ruth had a favorite umbrella the handle of which she had broken that winter. Neale was ingenious in more ways than one. He showed this at school, too, on several occasions. It was just after the midwinter holidays that Mr. Marks, the grammar school principal, wished to raise the school flag on the roof flag-staff, and it was found that the halyard and block had been torn away by the wind. The janitor was too old a man to make the repair and it looked as though a professional rigger must be sent for, when Neale volunteered. Perhaps Mr. Marks knew something about the boy's prowess, for he did not hesitate to give his permission. Neale went up to the roof and mounted the staff with the halyard rove through the block, and hooked the latter in place with ease. It took but a few minutes; but half the school stood below and held its breath, watching the slim figure swinging so recklessly on the flag-staff. His mates cheered him when he came down, for they had grown fond of Neale O'Neil. The Corner House girls too, were proud of him. But Trix Severn, who disliked Neale because he paid her no attention, hearing Agnes praising the boy's courage and skill, exclaimed in her sneering way: "That circus boy! Why wouldn't he be able to do all sorts of tricks like that? It was what he was brought up to, no doubt." "What do you mean by that, Trix Severn?" demanded Agnes, immediately accepting her enemy's challenge. "Neale is not a circus boy." "Oh! he isn't?" "No. He's never even _seen_ a circus," the positive Agnes declared. "He told you that, did he?" laughed Trix, airily. "He said he had never been to see a circus in his life," Agnes repeated. "And Neale wouldn't lie." "That's all you know about him, then," said Trix. "And I thought you Corner House girls were such friends with Neale O'Neil," and she walked off laughing again, refusing to explain her insinuations. But the nickname of "circus boy" stuck to Neale O'Neil after that and he earnestly wished he had not volunteered to fix the flag rigging. _Why_ it troubled him so, however, he did not explain to the Corner House girls. CHAPTER XVIII SNOWBOUND Tess said, gloomily, as they gathered about the study table one evening not long after New Year's: "I have to write a composition about George Washington. When was he born, Ruthie?" Ruth was busy and did not appear to hear. "Say! when _was_ he born?" repeated the ten-year-old. "Eighteen seventy-eight, I think, dear," said Agnes, with more kindness than confidence. "Oh-o-o!" gasped Dot, who knew something about the "Father of His Country." "He was dead-ed long before _that_." "Before when?" demanded Ruth, partly waking up to the situation. "Eighteen seventy-eight," repeated Tess, wearily. "Of course I meant seventeen seventy-eight," interposed Agnes. "And at that you're a long way off," observed Neale, who chanced to be at the Corner House that evening. "Well! you know so much, Mr. Smartie!" cried Agnes. "Tell her yourself." "I wouldn't have given her the date of George's birth, as being right in the middle of the Revolutionary War," exclaimed Neale, stalling for time to figure out the right date. "No; and you are not telling her _any_ year," said the wise Agnes. "Children! don't scrap," murmured peace-loving Ruth, sinking into the background--and her own algebra--again. "Well!" complained Tess. "I haven't found out when he was born _yet_." "Never mind, honey," said Agnes. "Tell what he _did_. That's more important. Look up the date later." "I know," said Dot, breaking in with more primary information. "He planted a cherry tree." "Chopped it down, you mean," said Agnes. "And he never told a lie," insisted Dot. "I believe that is an exploded doctrine," chuckled Neale O'Neil. "Well, how did they _know_ he didn't tell a lie?" demanded Tess, the practical. "They never caught him in one," said Neale, with brutal frankness. "There's a whole lot of folks honest like _that_." "Goodness, Neale!" cried Ruth, waking up again at _that_ heresy. "How pessimistic you are." "Was--was George Washington one of those things?" queried Tess, liking the sound of the long word. "What things?" asked Ruth. "Pes-sa-pessamisty?" "Pessimistic? No, dear," laughed Ruth. "He was an optimist--or he never would have espoused the American cause." "He was first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his coun-try-men," sing-songed Dot. "Oh, yes! I can put that in," agreed Tess, abandoning both the hard words Ruth had used, and getting back to safe details. "And he married a lady named Mary, didn't he?" "No; Martha," said Agnes. "Well, I knew it was one or the other, for we studied about Mary and Martha in our Sunday school lesson last Sunday," Tess said, placidly. "Martha was troubled about many things." "I should think she would have been," remarked Dot, reflectively, "for George Washington had to fight Indians, and Britishers, and Hessians (who wore blue coats and big hats) and cabals----" "Hold on!" shouted Neale. "What under the sun is a 'cabal'? A beast, or a bug?" "Why, my teacher told us about George Washington," cried Dot, with importance, "only a little while ago. And she said they raised a cabal against him----" "That means a conspiracy," put in Ruth, quietly. "How can you folks study when you all talk so much?" "Well, Martha," began Tess, when Ruth interposed: "Don't get your Marthas mixed, dear." "That's right, Tess," said Agnes. "George Washington's wife was not the sister of Lazarus--that's sure!" "Oh, Aggie! how slangy you are!" cried Ruth. Neale had slipped out after last speaking. He came in all of a bustle, stamping the snow from his feet on the hall rug. "It's begun, girls!" he cried. "Ye-es," admitted Tess, gravely. "I know it's begun; but I don't see how I am _ever_ going to finish it." "Oh, dear me, Tess! Let that old composition go for to-night," begged Agnes. "Do you mean it has begun to snow, Neale?" "Like a regular old blizzard," declared Neale. "Is it snowing as hard as it did the night we came from Carrie Poole's party?" asked Ruth, interested. "Just come out on the porch and see," advised the boy, and they all trooped out after him--even Tess putting down her pencil and following at the rear of the procession. It must have been snowing ever since supper time, for the lower step was already covered, and the air was thick with great, fleecy flakes, which piled drifts rapidly about every object in the Corner House back yard. A prolonged "Oh!" came from every one. The girls could not see the street fence. The end of the woodshed was the limit of their vision down the long yard. Two or three fruit trees loomed like drooping ghosts in the storm. "Wonderful! wonderful!" cried Ruth. "No school to-morrow," Agnes declared. "Well, I shall be glad, for one thing," said the worried Tess. "I won't have to bother about that old composition until another day." Agnes was closely investigating the condition of the snow. "See!" she said, "it packs beautifully. Let's make a snowman." "Goody-good!" squealed Dot. "That'll be _fun_!" "I--don't--know," said Ruth, slowly. "It's late now----" "But there'll be no school, Ruthie," Tess teased. "Come on!" said Neale. "We can make a dandy." "Well! Let us put on our warm things--and tell Mrs. MacCall," Ruth said, willing to be persuaded to get out into the white drifts. When the girls came out, wrapped to the eyes, Neale already had several huge snowballs rolled. They got right to work with him, and soon their shrill laughter and jolly badinage assured all the neighborhood that the Corner House girls were out for a good time. Yet the heavily falling snow seemed to cut them off like a wall from every other habitation. They could not even see the Creamers' cottage--and that was the nearest house. It was great fun for the girls and their boy friend. They built a famous snowman, with a bucket for a cap, lumps of coal for eyes and nose, and stuck into its mouth an old long-stemmed clay pipe belonging to Uncle Rufus. He was a jaunty looking snowman for a little while; but although he was so tall that the top of his hat was level with the peak of the woodshed roof, before the Corner House girls went to bed he stood more than knee deep in the drifted snow. Neale had to make the round of his furnaces. Fortunately they were all in the neighborhood, but he had a stiff fight to get through the storm to the cobbler's little cottage before midnight. At that "witching hour," if any of the Corner House girls had been awake and had looked out of the window, they would have seen that the snowman was then buried to his waist! When daylight should have appeared, snow was still falling. A wind had arisen, and on one side of the old Corner House the drift entirely masked the windows. At eight o'clock they ate breakfast by lamplight. Uncle Rufus did not get downstairs early, as he usually did, and when Tess ran up to call him, she found the old man groaning in his bed, and unable to rise. "I done got de mis'ry in my back, chile," he said, feebly. "Don' yo' worry 'bout me none; I'll be cropin' down erbout noon." But Mrs. MacCall would not hear to his moving. There was a small cylinder stove in his room (it was in the cold wing of the house) and she carried up kindling and a pail of coal and made a fire for him. Then Tess and Dot carried up his hot breakfast on one of the best trays, with a nice white napkin laid over it. "Glo-_ree_! Chillen, yo' mak' a 'ninvalid out o' Unc' Rufus, an' he nebber wanter git up out'n hes baid at all. I don't spec' w'ite folkses to wait on me han' an' foot disher way--naw'm!" "You're going to be treated just like one of the family, Uncle Rufus," cheerfully cried Ruth, who had likewise climbed the stairs to see him. But somebody must do the chores. The back porch was mainly cleared; but a great drift had heaped up before it--higher than Ruth's head. The way to the side gate was shut off unless they tunneled through this drift. At the end of the porch, however, was the entrance to the woodshed, and at the other end of the shed was a second door that opened upon the arbor path. The trellised grapevine extended ten yards from this door. Ruth and Agnes ventured to this end door of the shed, and opened the swinging window in it. There was plenty of soft, fluffy snow under the grape-arbor, but not more than knee deep. Against the arbor, on the storm side, the drift had packed up to the very top of the structure--and it was packed hard; but the lattice on the side had broken the snowfall and the path under the arbor could easily be cleared. "Then we can get to the henhouse, Ruthie," said Agnes. "And Billy Bumps, too, sister! Don't forget Billy Bumps," begged Tess from the porch. "We'll try it, anyway," said Ruth. "Here are all the shovels, and we ought to be able to do it." "Boys would," proclaimed Agnes. "Neale would do it," echoed Dot, who had come out upon the porch likewise. "I declare! I wish Neale were here right now," Ruth said. "'If wishes were horses, beggars could ride,'" quoted Agnes. "Come on, Ruthie! I guess it's up to us." First they went back into the kitchen to put on the warmest things they had--boots to keep their feet dry, and sweaters under their school coats, with stockingnet caps drawn down over their ears. "I not only wish we _had_ a boy in the family," grumbled Agnes, "but I wish _I_ were that boy. What cumbersome clothes girls have to wear!" "What do you want to wear--overalls and a jumper?" demanded Ruth, tartly. "Fine!" cried her reckless sister. "If the suffragettes would demand the right to wear male garments instead of to vote, I'd be a suffragette in a minute!" "Disgraceful!" murmured Ruth. "What?" cried Agnes, grinning. "To be a suffragette? Nothing of the kind! Lots of nice ladies belong to the party, and _we_ may yet." They had already been to the front of the old Corner House. A huge drift filled the veranda; they could not see Main Street save from the upper windows. And the flakes were still floating steadily downward. "We're really snowbound," said Agnes, in some awe. "Do you suppose we have enough to eat in the house, to stand a long siege?" "If we haven't," said Mrs. MacCall, from the pantry, "I'll fry you some snowballs and make a pot of icicle soup." CHAPTER XIX THE ENCHANTED CASTLE It was plain that the streets would not be cleared _that_ day. If the girls were able to get to school by the following Monday they would be fortunate. None of the four had missed a day since the schools had opened in September, and from Ruth down, they did not wish to be marked as absent on their reports. This blizzard that had seized Milton in its grasp, however, forced the Board of Education to announce in the _Post_ that pupils of all grades would be excused until the streets were moderately passable. "Poor people will suffer a good deal, I am afraid," Ruth said, on this very first forenoon of their being snowbound. "Our folks on Meadow Street," agreed Agnes. "I hope Mrs. Kranz will be kind to them." "But we oughtn't to expect Mrs. Kranz, or Joe Maroni, to give away their food and coal. Then _they'd_ soon be poor, too," said the earnest Ruth. "I tell you what, Aggie!" "Well--shoot!" Ruth overlooked her sister's slang for once. "We should leave money with Mrs. Kranz to help our poor folk, when we can't get over there to see them so frequently." "Goodness, Ruth!" grumbled Agnes. "We won't have any spending money left for ourselves if we get into this charity game any deeper." "Aren't you ashamed?" cried Ruth. Agnes only laughed. They both knew that Agnes did not mean all that she said. Ruth was already attacking the loose, fluffy snow under the arbor, and Agnes seized a spade and followed her older sister. It did not take such a great effort to get to the end of the arbor; but beyond that a great mass of hard-packed snow confronted them. Ruth could barely see over it. "Oh, dear me!" groaned Agnes. "We'll never be able to dig a path through _that_." This looked to be true to the older girl, too; so she began thinking. But it was Dot, trying to peer around the bigger girls' elbows, who solved the problem. "Oh, my! how nice it would be to have a ladder and climb up to the top of that snowbank," she cried. "Maybe we could go over to Mabel Creamer's, right over the fence and all, Tess!" "Hurray!" shouted Agnes. "We can cut steps in the bank, Ruth. Dot has given us a good idea--hasn't she?" "I believe she has," agreed the oldest Kenway. Although the snow had floated down so softly at first (and was now coming in feathery particles) during the height of the storm, the wind had blown and it had been so cold that the drifts were packed hard. Without much difficulty the girls made four steps up out of the mouth of the grape-arbor, to the surface of the drift. Then they tramped a path on top to the door of the henhouse. By this same entrance they could get to the goat's quarters. The snow had drifted completely over the henhouse, but that only helped to keep the hens and Billy Bumps warm. Later the girls tunneled through the great drift at the back porch, leaving a thick arch which remained for the rest of the week. So they got a path broken to the gate on Willow Street. The snowman had disappeared to his shoulders. It continued to snow most of that day and the grape-arbor path became a perfect tunnel. There was no school until Monday. Even then the streets were almost impassable for vehicles. The Highway Department of the town was removing the drifts in the roads and some of this excavated snow was dumped at the end of the Parade Ground, opposite the schools. The boys hailed these piles of snow as being fine for fortifications, and snowball battles that first day waxed furious. Then the leading spirits among the boys--including Neale O'Neil--put their heads together and the erection of the enchanted castle was begun. But more of _that_ anon. Tess had had plenty of time to write that composition on the "Father of His Country." Indeed, Miss Andrews should have had a collection of wonderfully good biographical papers handed in by her class on that Monday morning. But Tess's was not all that might be desired as a sketch of George Washington's life, and the teacher told her so. Still, she did better with her subject than Sadie Goronofsky did with hers. Sadie had been given Longfellow to write about, and Miss Andrews showed the composition to Agnes' teacher as an example of what could be done in the line of disseminating _mis_information about the Dead and the Great. Miss Shipman allowed Agnes to read it. "Longfellow was a grand man; he wrote both poems and poetry. He graduated at Bowdoin and afterward taught in the same school where he graduated. He didn't like teaching and decided to learn some other trade, so his school furnished him money to go to Europe and learn to be a poet. After that he wrote many beautiful rhymes for children. He wrote 'Billy, the Blacksmith,' and Hiwater, what I seen in a pitcher show." "Well, Sadie maybe doesn't know much about poets," said Tess, reflectively, when she heard her older sisters laughing about the funny composition. "But she knows numbers, and can multiply and divide. But then, Maria Maroni can make change at her father's stand, and she told Miss Andrews of all the holidays, she liked most the Fourth of July, because that was when America was discovered. Of course _that_ isn't so," concluded Tess. "When was it discovered?" asked Ruth. "Oh, I know! I know!" cried Dot, perilously balancing a spoonful of mush and milk on the way to her mouth, in midair. "It was in 1492 at Thanksgiving time, and the Pilgrim Fathers found it first. So they called it Plymouth Rock--and you've got some of their hens in your hen-yard, Ruthie." "My goodness!" gasped Agnes, after she had laughed herself almost out of her chair over this. "These primary minds are like sieves, aren't they? All the information goes through, while the mis-information sticks." "Huh!" said Tess, vexed for the moment. "You needn't say anything, Aggie. You told us George Washington was born in 1778 and teacher gave me a black mark on _that_." As that week progressed and the cold weather continued, a really wonderful structure was raised on the Parade Ground opposite the main door of the Milton High School. The boys called it the snow castle and a reporter for the _Post_ wrote a piece about it even before it was finished. Boys of all grades, from the primary up, had their "fingers in the pie"; for the very youngest could roll big snowballs on the smooth lawns of the Parade at noon when the sun was warm, and draw them to the site of the castle on their sleds after school was over for the day. The bigger boys built up the walls, set in the round windows of ice, which were frozen each night in washtubs and brought carefully to the castle. The doorway was a huge arch, with a sheet of ice set in at the top like a fanlight over an old-fashioned front door. A flat roof was made of planks, with snow shoveled upon them and tramped down. Several pillars of fence rails were set up inside to keep the roof from sagging; then the castle was swept out, the floor smoothed, and the girls were allowed to enter. It was a fine, big snowhouse, all of forty feet long and half as wide. It was as large as a small moving picture place. Somebody suggested having moving pictures in it--or a magic lantern show, but Joe Eldred, one of the bigger high school boys, whose father was superintendent of the Milton Electric Lighting Company, had a better idea than that. On Thursday, when the castle was all finished, and the _Post_ had spoken of it, Joe went to his father and begged some wire and rigging, and the boys chipped in to buy several sixty-watt lamps. Joe Eldred was a young electrician himself, and Neale O'Neil aided him, for Neale seemed to know a lot about electric lighting. When his mates called him "the circus boy," Neale scowled and said nothing, but he was too good-natured and polite to refuse to help in any general plan for fun like this now under way. Joe got a permit from Mr. Eldred and then they connected up the lamps they had strung inside the castle and at the entrance, with the city lighting cables. At dusk that Thursday evening, the snowhouse suddenly burst into illumination. The sheets of clear ice made good windows. Christmas greens were festooned over the entrance, and around the walls within. After supper the boys and girls gathered in and about the snow castle; somebody brought a talking machine from home and played some dance records. The older girls, and some of the boys, danced. But the castle was not ornate enough to suit the builders. The next day they ran up a false-front with a tower at either side. These towers were partly walled with ice, too, and the boys illuminated them that night. Saturday the boys were busier than ever, and they spread broadcast the announcement of a regular "ice-carnival" for that evening. After the crowd had gone away on Friday night, a few of the boys remained and flooded the floor of the castle. This floor was now smoothly frozen, and the best skaters were invited to come Saturday night and "show off." By evening, too, the battlements of the castle had been raised on all four sides. At each corner was a lighted tower, and in the middle of the roof a taller pinnacle had been raised with a red, white, and blue star, in colored electric bulbs, surmounting it. Milton had never seen such an exhibition before, and a crowd turned out--many more people than could possibly get into the place at once. There was music, and the skating was attractive. Visitors were allowed in the castle, but they were obliged to keep moving, having to walk down one side of the castle, and up the other, so as to give those behind a chance to see everything. The Corner House girls had thought the enchanted castle (for so it looked to be from their windows at home) a very delightful object. Ruth and Agnes went up after supper on Saturday evening, with their skates. Both of them were good skaters and Neale chose Aggie to skate with him in the carnival. Joe Eldred was glad to get Ruth. Carrie and Lucy Poole were paired off with two of the big boys, and _they_ were nowhere near as good skaters as Trix Severn. Yet Trix was neglected. She had to go alone upon the ice, or skate with another girl. There was a reason for this neglect that Trix could not appreciate. Boys do not like to escort a girl who is always "knocking" some other girl. The boys declared Trix Severn "carried her hammer" wherever she went and they steered clear of her when they wanted to have a good time. Every time Agnes and Neale O'Neil passed Trix Severn upon the ice, she was made almost ill with envy! CHAPTER XX TRIX SEVERN IN PERIL That cold spell in January was a long one. The young folk of Milton had plenty of sledding, and some skating. But the snow-ice on Milton Pond was "hubbly" and not nice to skate on, while there were only a few patches of smooth ice anywhere in town. Therefore the boys never failed to flood the interior of the snow castle each night before they went home. They did this easily by means of a short piece of fire-hose attached to the nearby hydrant. Taking pattern of this idea, Neale O 'Neil made a small pond for the two youngest Corner House girls in the big garden at the rear of the house. Here Tess could practise skating to her heart's content, and even Dot essayed the art. But the latter liked better to be drawn about on her sled, with the Alice-doll in her arms, or perhaps one of the cats. Bungle, Dot's own particular pet among Sandyface's children, was now a great lazy cat; but he was gentle. Dorothy could do anything with him--and with Popocatepetl, as well. One day the doctor's wife came to call at the old Corner House. The doctor and his wife were a childless couple and that was why, perhaps, they both had developed such a deep interest in the four girls who made the old Stower homestead so bright and lively. Dr. Forsyth never met Dot on the street with the Alice-doll without stopping to ask particularly after the latter's health. He said he felt himself to be consultant in general and family physician for all Dot's brood of doll-babies, for the Kenway sisters were far too healthy to need his attention in any degree. "If all my customers were like you girls," he declared, in his jovial way, "I'd have to take my pills and powders to another shop." Ruth knew that Mr. Howbridge had insisted at first that Dr. Forsyth "look over" the Corner House girls, once in so often. But just for himself, she was always glad to see the doctor's ruddy, smiling face approaching. The girls were all fond of Mrs. Forsyth, too, for she did not come professionally. On the occasion referred to, Mrs. Forsyth was ushered by Mrs. MacCall, quite unexpectedly, into the back parlor, or sitting-room, which the family used a good deal nowadays. The lady had been out for an airing in the doctor's two-seated sleigh and she brought in with her a cunning little Pomeranian dog of which she was very fond. It was a pretty, harmless little beast and the Corner House girls thought Tootsie awfully cunning. Other members of the household did not look upon the Pomeranian, however, in the same light. Dot was apparently the single occupant of the sitting-room when Mrs. Forsyth bustled in. "I'll tell the girls," Mrs. MacCall said, briskly, and she shut the visitor into the room, for on this cold day the big front hall was draughty. Mrs. Forsyth put the Pomeranian down at once and advanced toward the register. "Well, my dear!" she cried, seeing Dot. "How do you do, child? Come give Auntie Forsyth a kiss. I declare! I get hungry for little girl's kisses, so few of them come my way." "Goodness! what have you there?" For what she had supposed to be two gaily dressed dolls sitting side by side upon the sofa behind Dot, had suddenly moved. Mrs. Forsyth was a little near-sighted, anyway, and now she was without her glasses, while her eyes were watering because of the cold. "Why," said Dot, in a most matter-of-fact way, "it's only Bungle and Popocatepetl." "Popo----_who_?" gasped Mrs. Forsyth, at that amazing name. Dot repeated it. She had learned to pronounce it perfectly and was rather proud of the accomplishment. There was another movement on the sofa. The two cats were dressed in doll clothes, and their activities were somewhat restricted, but they had sensed the presence of the dog the instant it had come into the room. "Oh! oh!" cried Dot, suddenly. "Bungle! you be good. Petal! don't you dare move!" The cheerful little dog, quite unsuspicious of harm, had trotted after its mistress. Despite the clinging doll clothes, the tails of Bungle and Popocatepetl swelled, their backs went up, and they began to spit! "Tootsie!" screamed the doctor's wife in alarm. Dot shouted at the cats, too, but neither they, nor the dog, were in a mood to obey. The Pomeranian was too scared, and Bungle and Popocatepetl were too angry. Tootsie saw her enemies just as the cats leaped. Hampered by the garments Dot had put upon them, both Bungle and Popocatepetl went head-over-heels when they first landed on the floor, and with a frightened "ki, yi!" Tootsie distanced them to the far end of the room. There was no cover there for the terrified pup, and when the two cats--clawing at the dresses and threatening vengeance--came after the dog, Tootsie tried to crawl under the three-sided walnut "whatnot" that stood in the corner between the windows. The whatnot was shaky, having only three short, spindle legs. Tootsie darted under and then darted out again. Bungle got in one free-handed slap at the little dog as she went under, while Popocatepetl caught her on the rebound as Tootsie came out. The long, silky hair of the dog saved her from any injury. But she was so scared that she yelped as though the claws of both cats had torn her. "Oh! my poor Tootsie!" wailed the doctor's wife. "They will kill her." Dot stood, open mouthed. She could not quench the fury of the angered cats. "That--that's my Alice-doll's next-to-best dress, Bungle!" she managed to say. "You're tearing it! you're tearing it!" Just then the door opened. Uncle Rufus came tottering in with the feather duster. The old man's rheumatism still troubled him and he was not steady on his feet. Tootsie saw a way of escape. She darted between Uncle Rufus' legs, still yelping as loudly as she could. "Wha' fo' dat? wha' fo' dat?" ejaculated Uncle Rufus, and he fell back against the door which closed with a slam. If Tootsie had possessed a long tail it certainly would have been caught. "Git erway f'om yere, you pesky cats!" shouted Uncle Rufus as Bungle and Popocatepetl charged the door on the trail of the terrified dog. "Oh, dear me! Don't let them out," begged Dot, "till I can get my doll's clothes off." "My poor Tootsie!" cried Mrs. Forsyth again. "Hush yo'! hush yo'!" said Uncle Rufus, kindly. "Dar's a do' shet 'twixt dat leetle fice an' dem crazy cats. Dar's sho' nuff wot de papahs calls er armerstice 'twixt de berlig'rant pahties--ya-as'm! De berry wust has happen' already, so yo' folkses might's well git ca'm--git ca'm." The old colored man's philosophy delighted the doctor's wife so much that she had to laugh. Yet she was not wholly assured that Tootsie was not hurt until the older girls had trailed the Pomeranian under the bed in one of the chambers. She had only been hurt in her feelings. The cats could not seem to calm down either, and Uncle Rufus had to hold one after the other while Dot removed what remained of the doll's clothes, in which she had decked out her favorites. "I guess I don't want cats for doll-babies any more," Dot said, with gravity, examining a scratch on her plump wrist, after supper that evening. "They don't seem able to learn the business--not _good_." Agnes laughed, and sing-songed: "Cats delight To scratch and bite, For 'tis their nature to; But pretty dolls With curly polls, Have something else to do." "I think our Aggie is going to be a poetess," said Tess, to Ruth, secretly. "She rhymes so easy!" "I'd rather have her learn to pick up her things and put them properly away," said Ruth, who was trying to find her own out-door clothing on the back hall rack. "My goodness! everything I put my hand on belongs to Agnes." "That's because I'm rich," returned Agnes cheerfully. "For once in my life I have a multitude of clothes," and she started off, cheerfully whistling and swinging her skates. Ruth had almost to run to catch up with her before she struck across into the Parade. The weather had moderated that day, and at noon the gutters were flooded and the paths ran full streams. The boys, however, had pronounced the ice in the snow castle to be in fine shape. "Perhaps this will be the last night we can skate there," Ruth said as they tramped along the Parade walk, side by side. "Oh, I hope not!" cried Agnes. "But Neale says the weight of the towers and the roof of the castle will maybe make the walls slump right down there, if it begins to thaw." "Oh! I don't believe it," said Agnes, who did not _want_ to believe it. "It looks just as strong!" They could see the gaily illuminated snow castle through the branches of the leafless trees. The fiery star above it and the lights below shining through the ice-windows, made it very brilliant indeed. "Well," Ruth said, with a sigh, "if the boys say it isn't safe, we mustn't go in to-night, Agnes." There were only a few young folk already assembled about the castle when the Corner House girls arrived. A man in a blue uniform with silver buttons, had just come out of the castle with Joe Eldred and Neale O'Neil. "I don't know whether it's safe, or not," the fireman was saying. "Give me a frame building, and I can tell all right and proper. But I never ran to a fire in a snowhouse, and I don't know much about them--that's a fact," and he laughed. Neale looked serious when he walked over to the two Corner House girls. "What's the matter, Sir Lachrymose?" demanded Agnes, gaily. "I believe the further wall of this snowhouse has slumped," he said. "Maybe there is no danger, but I don't know." "Oh, nobody will go in, of course," Ruth cried. "Sure they will, Ruth. Don't be a goose," said Agnes, sharply. "_I_ certainly will not," her sister said. "It was real warm this noon and maybe the house is just tottering. Isn't that so, Neale?" "I don't know," said the boy. "Wish I did." "Let's go in and find out," said Agnes, the reckless. "Wait," drawled Neale. "I'd rather find out, out here than in there--especially if the thing is coming down." "There goes Trix Severn--and Wilbur Ketchell," said Agnes, rather crossly. "They're going to risk it." "Let them go, Aggie," said Neale. "I'm not going into that place until I'm sure." "Nor am I," Ruth announced, with emphasis. "Well, I don't see----" Agnes began, when Neale exclaimed: "Wait. Joe's stopped them." Eldred had interfered when Trix and her escort started into the snow castle. The Corner House girls and Neale drew near. "I don't care!" Trix was saying in her loud voice. "I'm going to skate. Oh! don't bother to tell me it isn't safe, Joe Eldred. You just want to keep me off the ice." She was already sitting on a rough bench that had been drawn there by the boys, and Wilbur was putting on her skates. "You always do know it all, Trix," Joe said, sharply, "but I advise you to go slow----" The obstinate girl stood up as Wilbur finished with the last strap. She laughed in Joe's face. "You make me tired, Joe Eldred," she observed, and without waiting for further parley she shot away into the otherwise empty castle. "Oh! why didn't you stop her?" cried Ruth, anxiously. "I'd like to see anybody stop _that_ girl," growled Joe. "She's as reckless as she can be," said Neale. "Aw, say!" exclaimed Wib, as they called young Ketchell, "is the roof really unsafe?" "We don't know," Neale said, in a worried tone. Then suddenly there was a sharp crack from inside the snow castle. "Crickey! it's coming down!" exclaimed Wilbur. "What _was_ that, Neale?" demanded Joe Eldred. "That pillar's gone!" exclaimed Neale O'Neil, pointing to one of the wooden supports by which the roof of planks and snow was partly upheld. On the tail of his declaration there was another crash and a second support, farther down the hall, was splintered. "The roof's coming down, Trix! Come back! come back!" shrieked Agnes. Trix was at the far end. She had turned swiftly and they could see her face. The wooden supports giving way between her and the exit frightened the reckless girl immeasurably. "Come back, Trix!" Ruth added her cry to her sister's. The electric lights began to quiver. The whole mass of the roof must be sagging down. Ketchell kicked off his skates and picked them up, preparatory to getting out of the way. And perhaps it was just as well that he had showed no heroism. Had he skated in for the girl, he could not have aided her in any way. Trix started for the front of the snow castle. They saw her stoop forward and put on speed, and then--in a flash--the middle of the roof settled and crashed to the floor--and the sound of the wreck almost deafened the onlookers! CHAPTER XXI A BACKYARD CIRCUS They said afterward that the wreck of the snow castle was heard clear to the outskirts of the town. The _Morning Post_ said that it was disgraceful that the school authorities had allowed it to be built. Parents and guardians were inclined to rail against what they had previously praised the boys for doing. The fact remained, and the calmer people of the community admitted it, that as soon as there was any danger the boys had warned everybody out. That one headstrong girl--and she, only--was caught in the wreckage, did not change the fact that the boys had been very careful. At the moment the roof of the snow castle crashed in, the only thought of those in sight of the catastrophe was of Trix Severn. "Oh! save her! save her!" Ruth Kenway cried. "She's killed! I _know_ she is!" wept Agnes, wringing her hands. Joe Eldred and Wib Ketchell were as pale as they could be. None of the little group at the entrance moved for a full minute. Then Neale O'Neil brought them all to life with: "_She wasn't under that fall!_ Quick! 'round to the rear! We can save her." "I tell you she's dead!" avowed Wilbur, hoarsely. "Come on!" shouted Neale, and seized a shovel that stood leaning against the snow wall. "Come on, Joe! The roof's only fallen in the middle. Trix is back of that, I tell you!" "Neale is right! Neale is right!" screamed Agnes. "Let's dig her out." She and Ruth started after Neale O'Neil and Joe. Wilbur ran away in terror and did much to spread the senseless alarm throughout the neighborhood that half the school children in town were buried beneath the wreckage of the snow castle! But it was bad enough--at first. The Corner House girls and their boy friends were not altogether sure that Trix was only barred from escape by the falling rubbish. Neale and Joe attacked the rear wall of the structure with vigor, but the edge of their shovels was almost turned by the icy mass. Axes and crowbars would scarcely have made an impression on the hard-packed snow. It was Ruth who pointed the right way. She picked up a hard lump of snow and sent it crashing through the rear ice-window! "Trix!" she shouted. "Oh! get me out! get me out!" the voice of the missing girl replied. Another huge section of the roof, with the side battlements, caved inward; but it was a forward section. The boys knocked out the rest of the broken ice around the window-hole and Neale leaped upon the sill which was more than three feet across. The walls of the castle were toppling, and falling, and the lights had gone out. But there was a moon and the boy could see what he was about. The spectators at a distance were helpless during the few minutes which had elapsed since the first alarm. Nobody came to the assistance of the Corner House girls and the two boys. But Trix was able to help herself. Neale saw her hands extended, and he leaned over and seized her wrists, while Joe held him by the feet. Then with a heave, and wriggle, "that circus boy," as Trix had nicknamed him, performed the feat of getting her out of the falling castle, and the Corner House girls received her with open arms. The peril was over, but rumor fed the excitement for an hour and brought out as big a crowd as though there had been a fire in the business section of the town. Trix clung to Ruth and Agnes Kenway in an abandonment of terror and thanksgiving, at first. The peril she had suffered quite broke down her haughtiness, and the rancor she had felt toward the Corner House girls was dissipated. "There, there! Don't you cry any more, Trix," urged good-natured Agnes. "I'm _so_ glad you got out of that horrid place safely. And we didn't help you, you know. It was Neale O'Neil." "That circus boy" had slunk away as though he had done something criminal; but Joe was blowing a horn of praise for Neale in the crowd, as the Corner House girls led Trix away. Ruth and Agnes went home with Trix Severn, but they would not go into the house that evening as Trix desired. The very next morning Trix was around before schooltime, to walk to school with Agnes. And within a week (as Neale laughingly declared to Ruth) Agnes and Trix were "as thick as thieves!" "Can you beat Aggie?" scoffed Neale. "That Trix girl has been treating her as mean as she knows how for months, and now you couldn't pry Aggie away from her with a crowbar." "I am glad," said Ruth, "that Agnes so soon gets over being mad." "Huh! Trix is soft just now. But wait till she gets mad again," he prophesied. However, this intimacy of Agnes with her former enemy continued so long that winter passed, and spring tiptoed through the woods and fields, flinging her bounties with lavish hand, while still Agnes and Trix remained the best of friends. As spring advanced, the usual restless spirit of the season pervaded the old Corner House. Especially did the little girls find it infectious. Tess and Dot neglected the nursery and the dolls for the sake of being out-of-doors. Old Billy Bumps, who had lived almost the life of a hermit for part of the winter, was now allowed the freedom of the premises for a part of each day. They kept the gates shut; but the goat had too good a home, and led too much a life of ease here at the Corner House, to wish to wander far. The girls ran out to the rescue of any stranger who came to the Willow Street gate. It was not everybody that Billy Bumps "took to," but many he "took after." When he took it into his hard old head to bump one, he certainly bumped hard--as witness Mr. Con Murphy's pig that he had butted through the fence on the second day of his arrival at the old Corner House. That particular pig had been killed, but there was another young porker now in the cobbler's sty. Neale O'Neil continued to lodge with Mr. Con Murphy. He was of considerable help to the cobbler, and the little Irishman was undoubtedly fond of the strange boy. For Neale _did_ remain a stranger, even to his cobbler friend, as Mr. Murphy told Ruth and Agnes, when they called on him on one occasion. "An oyster is a garrulous bir-r-rd beside that same Neale O'Neil. I know as much about his past now as I did whin he kem to me--which same is jist nawthin' at all, at all!" "I don't believe he _has_ a past!" cried Agnes, eager to defend her hero. "Sure, d'ye think the bye is a miracle?" demanded Con Murphy. "That he has no beginning and no ending? Never fear! He has enough to tell us if he would, and some day the dam of his speech will go busted, and we'll hear it all." "Is he afraid to tell us who he really is?" asked Ruth, doubtfully. "I think so, Miss," said the cobbler. "He is fearin' something--that I know. But phat that same is, I dunno!" Neale O'Neil had made good at school. He had gained the respect of Mr. Marks and of course Miss Georgiana liked him. With the boys and girls of grade six, grammar, he was very popular, and he seemed destined to graduate into high school in June with flying colors. June was still a long way off when, one day, Tess and Dot begged Neale to harness Billy Bumps to the wagon for them. Uncle Rufus had fashioned a strong harness and the wagon to which the old goat was attached had two seats. He was a sturdy animal and had been well broken; so, if he wished to do so, he could trot all around the big yard with Tess and Dot in the cart. Sometimes Billy Bumps did not care to play pony; then it was quite impossible to do anything with him. But he was never rough with, or offered to butt, Tess and Dot. They could manage his goatship when nobody else could. Sometimes Billy Bumps' old master, Sammy Pinkney, came over to see his former pet, but the bulldog, Jock, remained outside the gate. Billy Bumps did not like Jock, and he was never slow to show his antagonism toward the dog. On this occasion that Neale harnessed the goat to the wagon, there was no trouble at first. Billy Bumps was feeling well and not too lazy. Tess and Dot got aboard, and the mistress of the goat seized the reins and clucked to him. Billy Bumps drove just like a pony--and was quite as well trained. The little girls guided him all around the garden, and then around the house, following the bricked path down to the front gate. They never went outside with Billy unless either Neale, or Uncle Rufus, was with them, for there was still a well developed doubt in the minds of the older folk as to what Billy Bumps might do if he took it into his head to have a "tantrum." "As though our dear old Billy Bumps would do anything naughty!" Dot said. "But, as you say, Tess, we can't go out on Main Street with him unless we ask." "And Uncle Rufus is busy," said Tess, turning the goat around. They drove placidly around the house again to the rear, following the path along the Willow Street side. "There's Sammy Pinkney," said Dot. "Well, I hope he doesn't come in," said Tess, busy with the reins. "He is too rough with Billy Bumps." But Sammy came in whistling, with his cap very far back on his closely cropped head, and the usual mischievous grin on his face. Jock was at his heels and Billy Bumps immediately stopped and shook his head. "Now, you send that dog right back, Sammy," commanded Tess. "You know Billy Bumps doesn't like him." "Aw, I didn't know Jock was following me," explained Sammy, and he drove the bulldog out of the yard. But he failed to latch the gate, and Jock was too faithful to go far away. Billy Bumps was still stamping his feet and shaking his head. Sam came up and began to rub his ears--an attention for which the goat did not care. "Don't tease him, Sammy," begged Dot. "Aw, I'm not," declared Sammy. "He doesn't like that--you know he doesn't," admonished Tess. "He ought to have gotten used to it by this time," Sammy declared. "Jinks! what's that?" Unnoticed by the children, Sandyface, the old mother cat, had gravely walked down the path to the street gate. She was quite oblivious of the presence, just outside, of Jock, who crouched with the very tip of his red tongue poked out and looking just as amiable as it is ever possible for a bulldog to look. Suddenly Jock spied Sandyface. The dog was instantly all attention--quivering muzzle, twitching ears, sides heaving, even his abbreviated tail vibrating with delighted anticipation. Jock considered cats his rightful prey, and Sammy was not the master to teach him better. The dog sprang for the gate, and it swung open. Sandyface saw her enemy while he was in midair. She flew across the backyard to the big pear-tree. Jock was right behind her, his tongue lolling out and the joy of the chase strongly exhibited in his speaking countenance. In his usual foolish fashion, the bulldog tried to climb the tree after the cat. Jock could never seem to learn that he was not fitted by nature for such exploits, and wherever the game led, he tried to follow. His interest being so completely centered in Sandyface and his attempt to get her, peril in the rear never crossed Jock's doggish mind. Old Billy Bumps uttered a challenging "blat" almost upon the tail of Sammy's shout; then he started headlong for his ancient enemy. He gave his lady passengers no time to disembark, but charged across the yard, head down, and aimed directly at the leaping bulldog. The latter, quite unconscious of impending peril, continued to try to catch Sandyface, who looked down upon his foolish gyrations from a branch near the top of the tree. Perhaps she divined what was about to happen to the naughty Jock, for she did not even meow! CHAPTER XXII MR. SORBER Tess had presence of mind enough to holloa "Whoa!" and she kept right on saying it. Usually it was effective, but on this occasion Billy Bumps was deaf to his little mistress. Dot clung to Tess's shoulders and screamed. There was really nothing else for her to do. Sammy had grabbed at the goat's horns and was promptly overthrown. They left him roaring on his back upon the brick walk, while the goat tore on, dragging the bumping wagon behind him. Billy Bumps had not earned his name without reason. Having taken aim at the bulldog jumping up and down against the trunk of the pear tree, nothing but a solid wall could have stopped him. There was a crash as one forward wheel of the cart went over a stone. Out toppled Tess and Dot upon the soft earth. Billy Bumps went on and collided with Jock, much to that animal's surprise and pain. The bulldog uttered a single yelp as the goat got him between his hard horns and the treetrunk. "You stop that, Billy!" roared Sam, struggling to his feet. "Let my dog alone." But Jock was not likely to give the goat a second chance. He limped away, growling and showing his teeth, while Billy Bumps tried to free himself of the harness so as to give pursuit. "Don't you hurt Billy!" Tess screamed at Sam, getting to her feet and helping Dot to rise. "I'd like to knock him!" cried Sam. "You ought to keep your dog out of our yard!" declared Tess. Dot was crying a little and the older girl was really angry. "I'll set him onto that Billy Bumps next time I get a chance," growled Sam. "You dare!" cried Tess. But Jock was already outside of the yard. When Sam whistled for him, he only wagged his stump of a tail; he refused to return to a place where, it was plain to his doggish intelligence, he was not wanted. Besides, Jock had not yet gotten a full breath since the goat butted him. Sammy picked up a clothes-pole and started to punish Billy Bumps as he thought fit. Just then the goat got free from the cart and started for Master Pinkney. The latter dropped the pole and got to the gate first, but only just in time, for Billy crashed head-first into it, breaking a picket, he was so emphatic! "You wait! I'll kill your old goat," threatened Sammy, shaking his fist over the fence. "You see if I don't, Tess Kenway," forgetting, it seemed, that it had been he who had presented the goat to the Corner House girl. Billy trotted back proudly to the girls to be petted, as though he had done a very meritorious act. Perhaps he had, for Sandyface at once came down from the tree, to sit on the porch in the sunshine and "wash her face and hands"; she doubtless considered Billy Bumps very chivalrous. The great hullabaloo brought most of the family to the scene, as well as Neale from over the back fence. But the fun was all over and Sammy and his bulldog were gone when the questioners arrived. Dot explained volubly: "Billy Bumps wouldn't see poor Sandy abused--no, he wouldn't! That's why he went for that horrid dog." "Why," said Ruth, laughing, "Billy must be a regular knight." "'In days of old, when knights were bold!'" sang Neale. "I've an improvement on _that_," Agnes said, eagerly. "Listen: "'Sir Guy, a knight, In armor bright, Took tea with Mistress Powsers. With manner free, She spilled the tea, And rusted Guy's best trousers!'" "Then he certainly must have looked _a guy_!" Neale declared. "I always wondered how those 'knights of old' got along in their tin uniforms. After a campaign in wet weather they must have been a pretty rusty looking bunch." It was about this time that Neale O'Neil got his name in the local paper, and the Corner House girls were very proud of him. Although Neale was so close-mouthed about his life before his arrival in Milton, the girls knew he was fond of, and had been used to, horses. If he obtained a job on Saturday helping a teamster, or driving a private carriage, he enjoyed _that_ day's work, if no other. On a certain Saturday the girls saw Neale drive by early in the morning with a handsome pair of young horses, drawing loam to a part of the Parade ground which was to be re-seeded. The contractor had only recently bought these young horses from the West, but he trusted Neale with them, for he knew the boy was careful and seemed able to handle almost any kind of a team. The Kenway sisters went shopping that afternoon as usual. The end of Main Street near Blachstein and Mapes department store, and the Unique Candy Store, and other shops that the sisters patronized, were filled with shoppers. Milton was a busy town on Saturdays. Tess and Dot were crossing the street at Ralph Avenue when a shouting up Main Street made them turn to look that way. People in the street scattered and certain vehicles were hastily driven out of the way of a pair of horses that came charging down the middle of Main Street like mad. Ruth saw the danger of her younger sisters, and called to them from the doorway of the drugstore. "Tess! Dot! Quick! Come here!" But Agnes ran from across the street and hustled the smaller girls upon the sidewalk. Then they could all give their attention to the runaway. Not until then did they realize that it was the team Neale O'Neil had been driving. An auto horn had startled them at the Parade Ground, while Neale was out of the wagon, and downtown they started. It seemed to the onlookers as though the team traveled faster every block! Nevertheless Neale had chased and overtaken the wagon not far below the old Corner House. He clambered over the tailboard and, as the wagon rocked from side to side and its noise spurred the maddened horses to greater speed, the boy plunged forward and climbed into the seat. The reins had been torn from the whipstock; they were dragging in the street. It looked for the moment as though Neale had risked his life for nothing. He could not halt the runaways! Another boy might have failed, even after getting that far; but not "that circus boy"! People along the street set up a shout when they beheld Neale O'Neil leap right down on the pole of the wagon and stretch out perilously to seize the reins at the hames. He had them and was back in the seat before the horses had run another block. As he passed Ralph Avenue where the Corner House girls stood, he had lost his hat; his hair, which had grown long again, was blowing back in the wind, and his white face was a mask of determination. "Oh! he'll be killed!" whispered Ruth. "He's going to stop them!" crowed Agnes, with assurance. And so Neale did. He stopped them as soon as he could get into the seat, brace his feet, and obtain a purchase on the lines. He knew how to break the horses' hold on the bits, and sawing at their mouths sharply, he soon brought them to a stop. He tried to drive back to his work then without being accosted by the crowd that quickly gathered. But the reporter from the _Post_ was right on the spot and the next morning a long article appeared on the front page of the paper about the runaway and about the youngster who had played the hero. Because Neale refused to talk to the reporter himself, other people had talked for him, and quite a little romance about Neale was woven into the story. Even the fact that he went by the nickname of "the circus boy" at school got into the story, and it was likewise told how he had made a high mark in gymnastics. Neale seemed terribly cut-up when the girls showed him the article in the paper. "Why," said Ruth, "you ought to be proud." "Of that tattling business?" snapped Neale. "No. Not so much that the paper speaks well of you, but because of your ability to do such a thing," said the oldest Corner House girl. "It isn't every boy that could do it." "I should hope not!" growled Neale, emphatically. "Let me tell you," he added, angrily, "the reason I can do such things is the reason why I am such an ignorant fellow--and so far behind other chaps of my age." And that is the nearest Neale had ever come to saying anything directly about his old life. That it had been hard, and unpleasant, and that he had been denied the benefits of schooling were about all the facts the girls had gathered, even now. After that Neale seemed more afraid than ever of meeting somebody on the public streets. Agnes and Ruth knew that he never went out evenings, save to climb over the fence and come to the old Corner House. He was spending more time at his books, having earned a nice little sum during the winter taking care of furnaces and shoveling paths. That work was past now, and he said he had enough money to keep him comfortably until the end of the school year. It was another Saturday. Neale had driven out into the country for a neighbor, but had promised to come to the old Corner House about four o'clock. Almost always he took supper Saturday evening with the girls. Mrs. MacCall usually had fishcakes and baked beans, and Neale was extravagantly fond of that homely New England combination. As it chanced, none of the four Kenways but Ruth went shopping that afternoon. It was warm enough for Tess and Dot to have their dolls out in the summer-house. They had set up house-keeping there for the season and were very busy. Agnes had found a book that she enjoyed immensely, and she was wrapped up in an old coat and hidden in a crotch of the Baldwin appletree behind the woodshed. She was so deeply absorbed that she did not wake to the click of the gate-latch and did not realize there was a stranger in the yard until she heard a heavy boot on the brick walk. "Hello, my gal!" said a rough voice. "Ain't none of the folks to home?" Agnes dropped the book and sprang down from the appletree in a hurry. There at the corner of the shed stood a man in varnished top boots, with spurs in the heels--great, cruel looking spurs--velveteen breeches, a short, dirty white flannel coat, and a hard hat--something between a stovepipe and a derby. Agnes realized that it was some kind of a riding costume that he wore, and he lashed his bootleg with his riding whip as he talked. He was such a red-faced man, and he was so stout and rough looking, that Agnes scarcely knew how to speak to him. She noted, too, that he had a big seal ring on one finger and that a heavy gold watchchain showed against his waistcoat where the short jacket was cut away. "Who--who are you?" Agnes managed to stammer at last. "And what do you want?" "Why, I'm Sorber, I am," said the man. "Sorber, of Twomley & Sorber's Herculean Circus and Menagerie. And my errand here is to git hold of a chap that's run away from me and my partner. I hear he's in Milton, and I come over from our winter quarters, out o' which we're going to git instanter, Miss; and they tells me down to that newspaper office that I kin find him here. "Now, Miss, where is that 'circus boy' as they call him? Neale Sorber--that's his name. And I'm goin' to take him away with me." CHAPTER XXIII TAMING A LION TAMER Agnes was both frightened and angry as she listened to the man in the topboots. He was such a coarse, rude fellow (or so she decided on the instant) that she found herself fairly hating him! Beside, she was well aware that he referred to Neale O'Neil. He had come for Neale. He threatened to beat Neale with every snap of his heavy riding whip along the leg of his shiny boots. He was a beast! That is what Agnes told herself. She was quick to jump at conclusions; but she was not quick to be disloyal to her friends. Nor was she frightened long; especially not when she was angry. She would not tremble before this man, and she gained complete control of herself ere she spoke again. She was not going to deliver Neale O'Neil into his hands by any mistake of speech--no, indeed! The name of Twomley & Sorter's Herculean Circus and Menagerie struck a cord of memory in Agnes' mind. It was one of the two shows that had exhibited at Milton the season before. This man said that Neale had run away from this show. He claimed his name was really Neale Sorber! And all the time Neale had denied any knowledge of circuses. Or, _had_ he done just that? Agnes' swift thought asked the question and answered it. Neale had denied ever having attended a circus as a spectator. That might easily be true! Agnes' voice was quite unshaken as she said to the red-faced man: "I don't think the person you are looking for is here, sir." "Oh, yes he is! can't fool me," said the circus man, assuredly. "Young scamp! He run away from his lawful guardeens and protectors. I'll show him!" and he snapped the whiplash savagely again. "He sha'n't show him in _that_ way if I can help it," thought Agnes. But all she said aloud was: "There is no boy living here." "Heh? how's that, Miss?" said Sorber, suspiciously. Agnes repeated her statement. "But you know where he does hang out?" said Sorber, slily, "I'll be bound!" "I don't know that I do," Agnes retorted, desperately. "And if I did know, I wouldn't tell you!" The man struck his riding boot sharply again. "What's that? what's that?" he growled. Agnes' pluck was rising. "I'm not afraid of you--so there!" she said, bobbing her head at him. "Why, bless you, Miss!" ejaculated Sorber. "I should hope not. I wouldn't hurt you for a farm Down East with a pig on it--no, Ma'am! We keep whips for the backs of runaways--not for pretty little ladies like you." "You wouldn't _dare_ beat Neale O'Neil!" gasped Agnes. "Ah-ha?" exclaimed the man. "'Neale O'Neil?' Then you do know him?" Agnes was stricken dumb with apprehension. Her anger had betrayed Neale, she feared. "So that's what he calls himself, is it?" repeated Sorber. "O'Neil was his father's name. I didn't think he would remember." "We can't be talking about the same boy," blurted out Agnes, trying to cover her "bad break." "You say his name is Sorber." "Oh, he could take any name. I thought maybe he'd call himself 'Jakeway.' He was called 'Master Jakeway' on the bills and he'd oughter be proud of the name. We had too many Sorbers in the show. Sorber, ringmaster and lion tamer--that's _me_, Miss. Sully Sorber, first clown--that's my half brother, Miss. William Sorber is treasurer and ticket seller--under bonds, Miss. He's my own brother. And--until a few years ago--there was Neale's mother. She was my own sister." Agnes had begun to be very curious. And while he was talking, the girl was looking Sorber over for a second time. He was not all bad! Of that Agnes began to be sure. Yet he wanted to beat Neale O'Neil for running away from a circus. To tell the truth, Agnes could scarcely understand how a boy could so dislike circus life as to really _want_ to run away from even Twomley & Sorber's Herculean Circus and Menagerie. There was a glitter and tinsel to the circus that ever appealed to Agnes herself! Personally Mr. Sorber lost none of his coarseness on longer acquaintance, but now Agnes noticed that there were humorous wrinkles about his eyes, and an upward twist to the corners of his mouth. She believed after all he might be good-natured. Could she help Neale in any way by being friendly with this man? She could try. There was a rustic bench under the Baldwin tree. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Sorber?" suggested Agnes, politely. "Don't care if I do, Miss," declared the showman, and took an end of the bench, leaving the other end invitingly open, but Agnes leaned against the tree trunk and watched him. "A nice old place you've got here. They tell me it's called 'the Old Corner House.' That's the way I was directed here. And so that rascal of mine's been here all winter? Nice, soft spot he fell into." "It was I that came near falling," said Agnes, gravely, "and it wasn't a soft spot at all under that tree. I'd have been hurt if it hadn't been for Neale." "Hel-_lo_!" exclaimed Neale's uncle, sharply. "What's this all about? That rascal been playin' the hero again? My, my! It ought to be a big drawin' card when we play this town in August. He always _was_ a good number, as Master Jakeway in high and lofty tumbling; when he rode bareback; or doing the Joey----" "The Joey?" repeated the girl, interested, but puzzled. "That's being a clown, Miss. He has doubled as clown and bareback when we was short of performers and having a hard season." "Our Neale?" gasped Agnes. "Humph! Dunno about his being _yours_," said Sorber, with twinkling eyes. "He's mine, I reckon, by law." Agnes bit her lip. It made her angry to have Sorber talk so confidently about his rights over poor Neale. "Let me tell you how he came here," she said, after a moment, "and what he's done since he came to Milton." "Fire away, Miss," urged the showman, clasping his pudgy hands, on a finger of one of them showing the enormous seal ring. Agnes "began at the beginning," for once. She did not really know why she did so, but she gave the particulars of all that had happened to Neale--as she knew them--since he had rushed in at that gate the man had so lately entered and saved her from falling into the big peachtree by the bedroom window. Mr. Sorber's comments as she went along, were characteristic. Sometimes he chuckled and nodded, anon he scowled, and more than once he rapped his bootleg soundly with the whip. "The little rascal!" he said at last. "And he could have stayed with us, hived up as us'al in the winter with only the critters to nuss and tend, and been sure of his three squares. "What does he rather do, but work and slave, and almost freeze and starve--jest to git what, I ax ye?" "An education, I guess," said Agnes, mildly. "Huh!" grunted Sorber. Then he was silent; but after a while he said: "His father all over again. Jim O'Neil was a kid-gloved chap. If he could have let drink alone, he never would have come down to us show people. "Huh! Well, my sister was as good as he was. And she stayed in the business all her life. And what was good enough for Jim O'Neil's wife was good enough for his kid--and is good enough to-day. Now I've got him, and I'm a-going to lug him back--by the scruff of the neck, if need be!" Agnes felt her lip trembling. What should she do? If Neale came right away, this awful man would take him away--as he said--"by the scruff of his neck." And what would happen to poor Neale? What would ever become of him? And Miss Georgiana was so proud of him. Mr. Marks had praised him. He was going to graduate into high school in June---- "And he shall!" thought the Corner House girl with an inspired determination. "Somehow I'll find a way to tame this lion tamer--see if I don't!" "Well, Miss, you'd better perduce the villain," chuckled Mr. Sorber. "If he goes peaceable, we'll let bygones be bygones. He's my own sister's child. And Twomley says for me not to come back without him. I tell ye, he's a drawin' card, and no mistake." "But, Mr. Sorber!" cried Agnes. "He wants to study so." "Shucks! I won't stop him. He's allus readin' his book. I ain't never stopped him. Indeed, I've give him money many a time to buy a book when I needed the chink myself for terbacker." "But----" "And Twomley said I was doin' wrong. Less the boy learned, less he'd be like his father. And I expect Twomley's right." "What was the matter with Neale's father?" questioned Agnes, almost afraid that she was overstepping the bounds of decency in asking. But curiosity--and interest in Neale--urged her on. "He couldn't content himself in the show business. He was the high-tonedest ringmaster we ever had. I was only actin' the lions and a den of hyenas in them days. But I cut out the hyenas. You can't tame them brutes, and a man's got to have eyes in the back of his head and in his elbers, to watch 'em. "Well! Jim O'Neil was a good-looker, and the Molls buzzed round him like bees round a honey pot. My sister was one of them and I'll say him fair--Jim O'Neil never raised his hand to her. "But after the boy come he got restless. Said it was no life for a kid. Went off finally--to Klondike, or somewhere--to make his fortune. Never heard of him since. Of course he's dead or he'd found us, for lemme tell you, Miss, the repertation of Twomley & Sorber's Herculean Circus and Menagerie ain't a light hid under a bushel--by no manner o' means!" Not if Mr. Sorber were allowed to advertise it, that was sure. But the man went on: "So there you have it. Neale's mine. I'm his uncle. His mother told me when she was dying to look after him. And I'm a-going to. Now trot him out, Miss," and Mr. Sorber mopped his bald brow under the jaunty stiff hat. He was quite breathless. "But I haven't him here, sir," said Agnes. "He doesn't live here." "He ain't here?" "No. He is living near. But he is not at home now." "Now, see here----" "I never tell stories," said Agnes, gravely. Mr. Sorber had the grace to blush. "I dunno as I doubt ye, Miss----" "We expect Neale here about four o'clock. Before that my sister Ruth will be at home. I want you to stay and see her, Mr. Sorber----" "Sure I'll meet her," said Mr. Sorber, warmly. "I don't care if I meet every friend Neale's made in this man's town. But that don't make no differ. To the Twomley & Sorber tent show he belongs, and that's where he is a-goin' when I leave this here town to-night." CHAPTER XXIV MR. MURPHY TAKES A HAND Agnes Kenway was pretty near at her wit's end. She did not know how to hold Mr. Sorber, and she did not dare to let him go away from the house, for he might meet Neale O'Neil on the road and take him right away from Milton. If Agnes could help it, she was determined that their friend Neale should not be obliged to leave town just as he was getting on so well. She wanted to consult Ruth. Ruth, she believed, would know just how to handle this ticklish situation. Just then Tess and Dot appeared, taking a walk through the yard with their very best dolls. Naturally they were surprised to see Agnes talking in the backyard with a strange man, and both stopped, curiously eyeing Mr. Sorber. Dot's finger involuntarily sought the corner of her mouth. _That_ was a trick that she seemed never to grow out of. "Hello!" said Mr. Sorber, with rough joviality, "who are these little dames? Goin' to say how-de-do to old Bill Sorber?" Tess, the literal, came forward with her hand outstretched. "How do you do, Mr. Sorber," she said. Dot was a little bashful. But Agnes, having a brilliant idea, said: "This is Neale's uncle, Dot. Mr. Sorber has come here to see him." At that Dot came forward and put her morsel of hand into the showman's enormous fist. "You are very welcome, Neale's uncle," she said, bashfully. "We think Neale is a very nice boy, and if we had a boy in our family we'd want one just like Neale--wouldn't we, Tess?" "Ye-es," grudgingly admitted the older girl. "If we _had_ to have a boy. But, you know, Dot, we haven't _got_ to have one." Mr. Sorber chuckled. "Don't you think boys are any good, little lady?" he asked Tess. "Not so very much," said the frank Tess. "Of course, Neale is different, sir. He--he can harness Billy Bumps, and--and he can turn cartwheels--and--and he can climb trees--and--and do lots of things perfectly well. There aren't many boys like him." "I guess there ain't," agreed Mr. Sorber. "And does he ever tell you how he was took into the Lions' Den, like a little Dan'l, when he was two, with spangled pants on him and a sugar lollypop to keep him quiet?" "Mercy!" gasped Agnes. "In a lions' den?" repeated Tess, while Dot's pretty eyes grew so round they looked like gooseberries. "Yes, Ma'am! I done it. And it made a hit. But the perlice stopped it. Them perlice," said Mr. Sorber, confidentially, "are allus butting in where they ain't wanted." "Like Billy Bumps," murmured Dot. But Tess had struck a new line of thought and she wanted to follow it up. "Please, sir," she asked, "is that your business?" "What's my business?" "Going into lions' dens?" "That's it. I'm a lion tamer, I am. And that's what I wanted to bring my nevvy up to, only his mother kicked over the traces and wouldn't have it." "My!" murmured Tess. "It must be a very int'resting business. Do--do the lions ever bite?" "They chews their food reg'lar," said Mr. Sorber gravely, but his eyes twinkled. "But none of 'em's ever tried to chew me. I reckon I look purty tough to 'em." "And Neale's been in a den of lions and never told us about it?" gasped Agnes, in spite of herself carried away with the romantic side of the show business again. "Didn't he ever?" "He never told us he was with a circus at all," confessed Agnes. "He was afraid of being sent back, I suppose." "And ain't he ever blowed about it to the boys?" "Oh, no! He hasn't even told the school principal--or the man he lives with--or Ruth--or _anybody_," declared Agnes. Mr. Sorber looked really amazed. He mopped his bald crown again and the color in his face deepened. "Why, whizzle take me!" ejaculated the showman, in surprise, "he's ashamed of us!" Tess's kindly little heart came to the rescue immediately. "Oh, he couldn't be ashamed of his uncle, sir," she said. "And Neale is, really, a very nice boy. He would not be ashamed of any of his relations. No, sir." "Well, mebbe not," grumbled Mr. Sorber; "but it looks mightily like it." Despite the roughness and uncouth manner of the man, the children "got under his skin" as the saying is. Soon Tess and Dot bore the old showman off to the summer-house to introduce him to their entire family. At that moment Ruth arrived--to Agnes' vast relief. "Oh, Ruthie!" the second Corner House girl gasped. "It's come!" "What's come?" asked Ruth, in amazement. "What Mr. Con Murphy said would happen some day. It's all out about Neale----Poor Neale! The dam's busted!" It was several minutes before Ruth could get any clear account from her sister of what had happened. But when she _did_ finally get into the story, Agnes told it lucidly--and she held Ruth's undivided attention, the reader may be sure. "Poor Neale indeed!" murmured Ruth. "What can we do?" demanded Agnes. "I don't know. But surely, there must be some way out. I--I'll telephone to Mr. Howbridge." "Oh, Ruthie! I never thought of that," squealed Agnes. "But suppose Neale comes before you can get Mr. Howbridge here?" Ruth put on her thinking cap. "I tell you," she said. "Introduce me to Mr. Sorber. Get him to promise to stay to supper with Neale. That will give us time." This plot was carried out. Ruth saw Mr. Sorber, too, under a much more favorable light. Dolls were much too tame for Dot and Tess, when they realized that they had a real live lion tamer in their clutches. So they had Mr. Sorber down on a seat in the corner of the summer-house, and he was explaining to them just how the lions looked, and acted--even how they roared. "It's lots more int'resting than going to the circus to see them," Dot said, reflectively. "For _then_ you're so scared of them that you can't remember how they look. But Mr. Sorber is a perfectly _safe_ lion. He's even got false teeth. He told us so." Mr. Sorber could scarcely refuse Ruth's invitation. He was much impressed by the appearance of the oldest Corner House girl. "I reckon that rascally nevvy of mine has been playin' in great luck since he run away from Twomley & Sorber's Herculean Circus and Menagerie. Shouldn't blame him if he wanted to stay on. I'd wanter myself. Pleased to meet you, Miss." Ruth hurried to the nearest telephone and called up the lawyer's office. She was not much surprised to find that he was not there, it being Saturday afternoon. So then she called up the house where he lived. After some trouble she learned that her guardian had left town for over Sunday. She was told where he had gone; but Ruth did not feel it would be right to disturb him at a distance about Neale's affairs. "Whom shall I turn to for help?" thought Ruth. "Who will advise us? Above all, who will stop this man Sorber from taking Neale away?" She had a reckless idea of trying to meet Neale on the road and warn him. He could hide--until Mr. Howbridge got back, at least. Perhaps she could catch Neale at the cobbler's house. And then, at thought of the queer little old Irishman, all Ruth's worry seemed to evaporate. Mr. Con Murphy was the man to attend to this matter. And to the cobbler's little cottage she immediately made her way. The story she told the little Irishman made him drop the shoe he was at work upon and glare at her over his spectacles, and with his scant reddish hair ruffled up. This, with his whiskers, made him look like a wrathful cockatoo. "Phat's that?" he cried, at last. "Take Neale O'Neil to a dirthy circus-show and make him do thricks, like a thrained pig, or a goose, or a--a--a naygur man from the Sahara Desert? NOT MUCH,SAYS CON!" He leaped up and tore off his leather apron. "The ormadhoun! I'd like a brush wid him, mesilf. Con Murphy takes a hand in this game. We nade no lawyer-body--not yit. Lave it to me, Miss Ruthie, acushla! Sure I'll invite mesilf to supper wid youse, too. I'll come wid Neale, and he shall be prepared beforehand. Be sure he comes here first. Never weep a tear, me dear. I'll fix thim circus people." "Oh, Mr. Murphy! can you help us? Are you sure?" cried Ruth. "Never fear! never fear!" returned the cobbler. "Lave it to me. Whin Con Murphy takes a hand in any game, he knows what he's about. And there's more than two sides to this mather, Miss Ruth. Belike thim fellers want Neale for the money he makes for them. Hear me, now! Before I'd lit thim take him back to that show, I'd spind ivry penny I've got buried in the ould sock in--Well, niver mind where," concluded the excited cobbler. But where was Ruth to find Neale O'Neil? That was the question that faced the oldest Corner House girl as she turned away from the door of the little cobbler's shop. She feared right now that the boy might have returned to town and stopped at the Corner House to give the children a ride before returning to the stable the horses he drove. For Neale O'Neil was very fond of Tess and Dot and never missed a chance of giving them pleasure. Although Ruth Kenway professed no high regard for boys of any description--with Tess, she felt thankful there were none "in the family"--she had to admit that the boy who had run away from the circus was proving himself a good friend and companion. Many of the good times the Corner House girls had enjoyed during the fall and winter just past, would have been impossible without Neale's assistance. He had been Agnes' and her own faithful cavalier at all times and seasons. His secret--that which had borne so heavily upon his heart--had sometimes made Ruth doubtful of him; but now that the truth was out, he had only the girl's sympathy and full regard. "He sha'n't go back!" she told herself, as she hurried around the corner into Willow Street. "This horrid circus man shall not take him back. Oh! if Mr. Murphy can only do all that he says he can--" Her heart had fallen greatly, once she was out from under the magnetism of the old cobbler's glistening eye. Mr. Sorber was such a big, determined, red-faced man! How could the little cobbler overcome such an opponent! He was another David against a monster Goliath. And so Ruth's former idea returned to her. Neale must be stopped! He must be warned before he returned from the drive he had taken into the country, and before running right into the arms of his uncle. This determination she arrived at before she reached the side gate of the Old Corner House premises. She called Agnes, and left the two younger children to play hostesses and amuse the guest. "He mustn't suspect--he mustn't know," she whispered to Agnes, hurriedly. "You go one way, Aggie, and I'll go the other. Neale must return by either the Old Ridge Road or Ralph Avenue. Which one will you take?" Agnes was just as excited as her older sister. "I'll go up Ral-Ralph Avenue, Ru-Ruth!" she gasped. "Oh! It will be dreadful if that awful Sorber takes away our Neale----" "He sha'n't!" declared the older girl, starting off at once for the Old Ridge Road. They had said nothing to Mrs. MacCall about the coming of Mr. Sorber--not even to tell the good housekeeper of the Old Corner House that she would have company at supper. But Mrs. MacCall found that out herself. Finding Tess and Dot remarkably quiet in the garden, and for a much longer time than usual, Mrs. MacCall ventured forth to see what had happened to the little girls. She came to the summer-house in time to hear the following remarkable narrative: "Why, ye see how it was, little ladies, ye see how it was. I saw the folks in that town didn't like us--not a little bit. Some country folks _don't_ like circus people." "I wonder why?" asked Tess, breathlessly. "Don't know, don't know," said Mr. Sorber. "Just born with a nateral _hate_ for us, I guess. Anyway, I seen there was likely to be a big clem--that's what we say for 'fight' in the show business--and I didn't get far from the lions--no, ma'am!" "Were you afraid some of the bad men might hurt your lions, sir?" asked Dot, with anxiety. "You can't never tell what a man that's mad is going to do," admitted the old showman, seriously. "I wasn't going to take any chances with 'em. About a wild animal you can tell. But mad folks are different! "So I kept near the lion den; and when the row broke out and the roughs from the town began to fight our razorbacks--them's our pole- and canvas-men," explained Mr. Sorber, parenthetically, "I popped me right into the cage--yes, ma'am! "Old Doublepaws and the Rajah was some nervous, and was traveling back and forth before the bars. They was disturbed by the racket. But they knowed me, and I felt a whole lot safer than I would have outside. "'The show's a fake!' was what those roughs was crying. 'We want our money back!' But that was a wicked story," added Mr. Sorber, earnestly. "We was giving them a _big_ show for their money. We had a sacred cow, a white elephant, and a Wild Man of Borneo that you couldn't have told from the real thing--he was dumb, poor fellow, and so the sounds he made when they prodded him sounded just as wild as wild could be! "But you can't satisfy _some_ folks," declared Mr. Sorber, warmly. "And there those roughs was shouting for their money. As I was telling you, I doubled, selling tickets and putting the lions through their paces. I'd taken the cashbox with me when I run for cover at the beginning of the trouble, and I'd brought it into the lions' cage with me. "Twomley tried to pacify the gang, but it was no use. They were going to tear the big top down. That's the main tent, little ladies. "So I knocks Old Doublepaws and Rajah aside--they was tame as kittens, but roared awful savage when I hit 'em--and I sings out: "'Here's your money, ladies and gentlemen. Them that wants theirs back please enter the cage. One at a time, and no crowding, gents----' Haw! haw! haw!" exploded the showman. "And how many do you suppose of them farmers come after their money? Not one, little ladies! not one!" "So the lions saved your money for you?" quoth Tess, agreeably. "That's most int'resting--isn't it, Dot?" "I--I wouldn't ever expect them to be so kind from the way they roar," announced the littlest Corner House girl, honestly. She had a vivid remembrance of the big cats that she had seen in the circus the previous summer. "They're like folks--to a degree," said Mr. Sorber, soberly. "Some men is all gruff and bluff, but tender at heart. So's--Why, how-d'ye-do, ma'am!" he said, getting up and bowing to Mrs. MacCall, whom he just saw. "I hope I see you well?" The housekeeper was rather amazed--as well she might have been; but Tess, who had a good, memory, introduced the old showman quite as a matter of course. "This is Neale's uncle, Mrs. MacCall," she said. "Neale doesn't know he is here yet; but Ruthie has asked him to stay to supper----" "With your permission, ma'am," said Mr. Sorber, with another flourish of his hat. "Oh, to be sure," agreed the housekeeper. "And Neale runned away from a circus when he came here," said the round-eyed Dot. "No!" gasped the housekeeper. "Yes, Mrs. MacCall," Tess hurried on to say. "And he used to be a clown, and an acrobat, and----" "And a lion in a Daniel's den!" interposed Dot, afraid that Tess would tell it all. "Did you _ever_?" And Mrs. MacCall was sure she never had! Meanwhile Ruth and Agnes had run their separate ways. It was Agnes who was fortunate in meeting the carriage driven by Neale O'Neil. The boy was alone, and the moment he saw the panting girl he drew in his horses. He knew something of moment had happened. "What's brought you 'way out here, Aggie?" he demanded, turning the wheel so that she might climb in beside him. His passengers had been left in the country and he was to drive back for them late in the evening. "It--it's _you_, Neale!" burst out Agnes, almost crying. "What's the matter with me?" demanded the boy, in wonder. "What you've been expecting has happened. Oh dear, Neale! whatever shall we do? Your Uncle Sorber's come for you." The boy pulled in his team with a frightened jerk, and for a moment Agnes thought he was going to jump from the carriage. She laid a hand upon his arm. "But we're not going to let him take you away, Neale! Oh, we won't! Ruth says we must hide you--somewhere. She's gone out the Old Ridge Road to meet you." "She'll get lost out that way," said the boy, suddenly. "She's never been over that way, has she?" "Never mind--Ruth," Agnes said. "It's you we're thinking of----" "We'll drive around and get Ruth," Neale said, decisively, and he began to turn the horses. "Oh, Neale!" groaned Agnes. "What an _awful_ man your uncle must be. He says he used to put you in a cage full of lions----" Neale O'Neil suddenly began to laugh. Agnes looked at him in surprise. For a moment--as she told Ruth afterward--she was afraid that the shock of what she had told him about Mr. Sorber's appearance, had "sort of turned his brain." "Why, Neale!" she exclaimed. "Those poor, old, toothless, mangy beasts," chuckled Neale. "They had to be poked up half an hour before the crowd came in, or they wouldn't act their part at all. And half the time when the crowd thought the lions were opening their mouths savagely, they were merely yawning." "Don't!" gasped Agnes. "You'll spoil every menagerie I ever see if you keep talking that way." The laugh seemed to bring Neale back to a better mind. He sighed and then shrugged his shoulders. "We'll find Ruth," he said, with determination, "and then drive home. I'll see what Mr. Murphy says, and then see Mr. Sorber." "But he's come to take you away, Neale!" cried Agnes. "What good will it do for me to run? He knows I'm here," said the boy, hopelessly. "It would spoil my chance at school if I hid out somewhere. No; I've got to face him. I might as well do so now." CHAPTER XXV A BRIGHT FUTURE That Saturday night supper at the old Corner House was rather different from any that had preceded it. Frequently the Corner House girls had company at this particular meal--almost always Neale, and Mr. Con Murphy had been in before. Once Miss Shipman, Agnes' and Neale's teacher, had come as the guest of honor; and more than once Mr. Howbridge had passed his dish for a second helping of Mrs. MacCall's famous beans. It was an elastic table, anyway, that table of the Corner House girls. It was of a real cozy size when the family was alone. Mrs. MacCall sat nearest the swing-door into the butler's pantry, although Uncle Rufus would seldom hear to the housekeeper going into the kitchen after she had once seated herself at the table. She always put on a clean apron and cap. At the other end of the table was Aunt Sarah's place. No matter how grim and speechless Aunt Sarah might be, she could not glare Mrs. MacCall out of countenance, so that arrangement was very satisfactory. The four girls had their seats, two on either side. The guests, when they had them, were placed between the girls on either side, and the table was gradually drawn out, and leaves added, to suit the circumstances. Neale always sat between Tess and Dot. He did so to-night. But beside him was the Irish cobbler. Opposite was the stout and glowing Mr. Sorber, prepared to do destruction to Mrs. MacCall's viands first of all, and then to destroy Neale's hopes of an education afterward. At least, he had thus far admitted no change of heart. He had met Neale with rough cordiality, but he had stated his intention as irrevocable that he would take the boy back to the circus. Tess and Dot were almost horrified when they came to understand that their friend the lion tamer proposed to take Neale away. They could not understand such an evidently kind-hearted tamer of wild beasts doing such a cruel thing! "I guess he's only fooling," Tess confided to Dot, and the latter agreed with several nods, her mouth being too full for utterance, if her heart was not. "These beans," declared Mr. Sorber, passing his plate a third time, "are fit for a king to eat, and the fishcakes ought to make any fish proud to be used up in that manner. I never eat better, Ma'am!" "I presume you traveling people have to take many meals haphazardly," suggested Mrs. MacCall. "Not much. My provender," said Mr. Sorber, "is one thing that I'm mighty particular about. I feeds my lions first; then Bill Sorber's next best friend is his own stomach--yes, Ma'am! "The cook tent and the cooks go ahead of the show. For instance, right after supper the tent is struck and packed, and if we're traveling by rail, it goes right aboard the first flat. If we go by road, that team gets off right away and when we catch up to it in the morning, it's usually set up on the next camping ground and the coffee is a-biling. "It ain't no easy life we live; but it ain't no dog's life, neither. And how a smart, bright boy like this here nevvy of mine should want to run away from it----" "Did ye iver think, sir," interposed the cobbler, softly, "that mebbe there was implanted in the la-ad desires for things ye know nothin' of?" "Huh!" grunted Sorber, balancing a mouthful of beans on his knife to the amazement of Dot, who had seldom seen any person eat with his knife. "Lit me speak plainly, for 'tis a plain man I am," said the Irishman. "This boy whom ye call nephew----?" "And he is," Sorber said. "Aye. But he has another side to him that has no Sorber to it. 'Tis the O'Neil side. It's what has set him at his books till he is the foinest scholar in the Milton Schools, bar none. Mr. Marks told me himself 'twas so." This surprised Neale and the girls for they had not known how deep was the Irishman's interest in his protégé. "He's only half a Sorber, sir. Ye grant that?" "But he's been with the show since he was born," growled the showman. "Why shouldn't he want to be a showman, too? All the Sorbers have been, since away back. I was thinkin' of changing his name by law so as to have him in the family in earnest." "I'll never own to any name but my own again," declared Neale, from across the table. "That's your answer, Mr. Sorber," declared Murphy, earnestly. "The boy wants to go his own way--and that's the way of his fathers, belike. But I'm a fair man. I can see 'tis a loss to you if Neale stays here and goes to school." "I guess it is, Mister," said the showman, rather belligerently. "And I guess you don't know how much of a loss." "Well," said the cobbler, coolly. "Put a figure to it. How much?" "How much _what_?" demanded Mr. Sorber, bending his brows upon the Irishman, while the children waited breathlessly. "Money. Neale's a big drawin' kyard ye say yerself. Then, how much money will ye take for your right to him?" Mr. Sorber laid down his knife and fork and stared at Mr. Murphy. "Do you mean that, sir?" he asked, with strange quietness. "Do I mean am I willin' to pay the bye out of yer clutches?" demanded the cobbler, with growing heat. "'Deed and I am! and if my pile isn't big enough, mebbe I kin find good friends of Neale O'Neil in this town that'll be glad to chip in wid me and give the bye his chance. "I've been layin' a bit av money by, from year to year--God knows why! for I haven't chick nor child in the wor-r-rld. Save the bit to kape me from the potter's field and to pay for sayin' a mass for me sowl, what do the likes of _me_ want wid hoardin' gold and silver? "I'll buy a boy. I have no son of me own. I'll see if Neale shall not do me proud in the years to come--God bliss the bye!" He seized the boy's hand and wrung it hard. "Oh, Mr. Murphy!" murmured Neale O'Neil and returned the pressure of the cobbler's work-hardened palm. But Agnes got up and ran around the table and hugged him! "You--you are the dearest old man who ever lived, Mr. Murphy!" she sobbed, and implanted a tearful kiss right upon the top of the cobbler's little snub nose! "Huh!" grunted Mr. Sorber. Then he said "Huh!" again. Finally he burst out with: "Say, young lady, ain't you going to pass around some of those kisses? Don't _I_ get one?" "What?" cried Agnes, turning in a fury. "_Me_ kiss _you_?" "Sure. Why not?" asked the showman. "You don't suppose that man sitting there is the only generous man in the world, do you? Why, bless your heart! I want Neale back bad enough. And he _does_ make us a tidy bit of money each season--and some of _that's_ to his credit in the bank--I've seen to it myself. "He's my own sister's boy. I--I used to play with him when he was a little bit of a feller--don't you remember them times, Neale?" "Yes, sir," said the boy, with hanging head. "But I'm too big for play now. I want to learn--I want to know." Mr. Sorber looked at him a long time. He had stopped eating, and had dropped the napkin which he had tucked under his chin. Finally he blew a big sigh. "Well, Mr. Murphy," he said. "Put up your money. You've not enough to _buy_ the boy, no matter how much you have laid away. But if he feels that way---- "Well, what the Old Scratch I'll say to Twomley I don't know. But I'll leave the boy in your care. I'm stickin' by my rights, though. If he's a big success in this world, part of it'll be due to the way I trained him when he was little. There's no doubt of that." * * * * * So, that is the way it came about that Neale O'Neil remained at school in Milton and lost the "black dog of trouble" that had for months haunted his footsteps. The Corner House girls were delighted at the outcome of the affair. "If we grow to be as old as Mrs. Methuselah," declared Agnes, "we'll never be so happy as we are over this thing." But, of course, that is an overstatement of the case. It was only a few weeks ahead that Agnes would declare herself surfeited with happiness again--and my readers may learn the reason why if they read the next volume of this series, entitled "The Corner House Girls Under Canvas." But this settlement of Neale's present affairs was really a very great occasion. Mr. Sorber and Mr. Con Murphy shook hands on the agreement. Mrs. MacCall wiped her eyes, declaring that "such goings-on wrung the tears out o' her jest like water out of a dishclout!" What Aunt Sarah said was to the point, and typical: "For the marcy's sake! I never did see thet boys was either useful enough, or ornamental enough, to make such a fuss over 'em!" Uncle Rufus, hovering on the outskirts of the family party, grinned hugely upon Neale O'Neil. "Yo' is sho' 'nuff too good a w'ite boy tuh be made tuh dance an' frolic in no circus show--naw-zer! I's moughty glad yo's got yo' freedom." Neale, too, was glad. The four Corner House girls got around him, joined hands, and danced a dance of rejoicing in the big front hall. "And now you need not be afraid of what's going to happen to you all the time," said Ruth, warmly. "Oh, Neale! you'll tell us all about what happened to you in the circus, won't you, now?" begged Agnes. "Will you please show me how to do cartwheels, Neale?" asked Tess, gravely. "I've always admired seeing boys do them." But Dot capped the climax--as usual. "Neale," she said, with serious mien a day or two after, "if that circus comes to town this summer, will you show us how you played Little Daniel in the Lions' Den? I should think _that_ would be real int'resting--and awfully religious!" THE END * * * * * This Isn't All! Would you like to know what became of the good friends you have made in this book? Would you like to read other stories continuing their adventures and experiences, or other books quite as entertaining by the same author? On the _reverse side_ of the wrapper which comes with this book, you will find a wonderful list of stories which you can buy at the same store where you got this book. _Don't throw away the Wrapper_ _Use it as a handy catalog of the books you want some day to have. But in case you do mislay it, write to the Publishers for a complete catalog_. THE BLYTHE GIRLS BOOKS By LAURA LEE HOPE Author of The Outdoor Girls Series Illustrated by Thelma Gooch The Blythe Girls, three in number, were left alone in New York City. Helen, who went in for art and music, kept the little flat uptown, while Margy, just out of business school, obtained a position as secretary and Rose, plain-spoken and business like, took what she called a "job" in a department store. The experiences of these girls make fascinating reading--life in the great metropolis is thrilling and full of strange adventures and surprises. THE BLYTHE GIRLS: HELEN, MARGY AND ROSE THE BLYTHE GIRLS: MARGY'S QUEER INHERITANCE THE BLYTHE GIRLS: ROSE'S GREAT PROBLEM THE BLYTHE GIRLS: HELEN'S STRANGE BOARDER THE BLYTHE GIRLS: THREE ON A VACATION THE BLYTHE GIRLS: MARGY'S SECRET MISSION THE BLYTHE GIRLS: ROSE'S ODD DISCOVERY THE BLYTHE GIRLS: THE DISAPPEARANCE OF HELEN THE BLYTHE GIRLS: SNOWBOUND IN CAMP THE BLYTHE GIRLS: MARGY'S MYSTERIOUS VISITOR THE BLYTHE GIRLS: ROSE'S HIDDEN TALENT THE BLYTHE GIRLS: HELEN'S WONDERFUL MISTAKE FOR HER MAJESTY--THE GIRL OF TODAY THE POLLY BREWSTER BOOKS By Lillian Elizabeth Roy Polly and Eleanor have many interesting adventures on their travels which take them to all corners of the globe. POLLY OF PEBBLY PIT POLLY AND ELEANOR POLLY IN NEW YORK POLLY AND HER FRIENDS ABROAD POLLY'S BUSINESS VENTURE POLLY'S SOUTHERN CRUISE POLLY IN SOUTH AMERICA POLLY IN THE SOUTHWEST POLLY IN ALASKA POLLY IN THE ORIENT POLLY IN EGYPT POLLY'S NEW FRIEND POLLY AND CAROLA POLLY AND CAROLA AT RAVENSWOOD POLLY LEARNS TO FLY THE LILIAN GARIS BOOKS Illustrated. Every volume complete in itself. Among her "fan" letters Lilian Garis receives some flattering testimonials of her girl readers' interest in her stories. From a class of thirty comes a vote of twenty-five naming her as their favorite author. Perhaps it is the element of live mystery that Mrs. Garis always builds her stories upon, or perhaps it is because the girls easily can translate her own sincere interest in themselves from the stories. At any rate her books prosper through the changing conditions of these times, giving pleasure, satisfaction, and, incidentally, that tactful word of inspiration, so important in literature for young girls. Mrs. Garis prefers to call her books "juvenile novels" and in them romance is never lacking. SALLY FOR SHORT SALLY FOUND OUT A GIRL CALLED TED TED AND TONY, TWO GIRLS OF TODAY CLEO'S MISTY RAINBOW CLEO'S CONQUEST BARBARA HALE BARBARA HALE'S MYSTERY FRIEND (Formerly Barbara Hale and Cozette) NANCY BRANDON NANCY BRANDON'S MYSTERY CONNIE LORING (Formerly Connie Loring's Dilemma) CONNIE LORING'S GYPSY FRIEND (Formerly Connie Loring's Ambition) JOAN: JUST GIRL JOAN'S GARDEN OF ADVENTURE GLORIA: A GIRL AND HER DAD GLORIA AT BOARDING SCHOOL CAROLYN WELLS BOOKS THE PATTY BOOKS Patty is a lovable girl whose frank good nature and beauty lend charm to her varied adventures. These stories are packed with excitement and interest for girls. PATTY FAIRFIELD PATTY AT HOME PATTY IN THE CITY PATTY'S SUMMER DAYS PATTY IN PARIS PATTY'S FRIENDS PATTY'S PLEASURE TRIP PATTY'S SUCCESS PATTY'S MOTOR CAR PATTY'S BUTTERFLY DAYS THE MARJORIE BOOKS Marjorie is a happy little girl of twelve, up to mischief, but full of goodness and sincerity. In her and her friends every girl reader will see much of her own love of fun, play and adventure. MARJORIE'S VACATION MARJORIE'S BUSY DAYS MARJORIE'S NEW FRIEND MARJORIE IN COMMAND MARJORIE'S MAYTIME MARJORIE AT SEACOTE THE TWO LITTLE WOMEN SERIES Introducing Dorinda Fayre--a pretty blonde, sweet, serious, timid and a little slow, and Dorothy Rose--a sparkling brunette, quick, elf-like, high tempered, full of mischief and always getting into scrapes. TWO LITTLE WOMEN TWO LITTLE WOMEN AND TREASURE HOUSE TWO LITTLE WOMEN ON A HOLIDAY THE DICK AND DOLLY BOOKS Dick and Dolly are brother and sister, and their games, their pranks, their joys and sorrows, are told in a manner which makes the stories "really true" to young readers. DICK AND DOLLY DICK AND DOLLY'S ADVENTURES THE NANCY DREW MYSTERY STORIES By CAROLYN KEENE Here is a thrilling series of mystery stories for girls. Nancy Drew, ingenious, alert, is the daughter of a famous criminal lawyer and she herself is deeply interested in his mystery cases. Her interest involves her often in some very dangerous and exciting situations. THE SECRET OF THE OLD CLOCK Nancy, unaided, seeks to locate a missing will and finds herself in the midst of adventure. THE HIDDEN STAIRCASE Mysterious happenings in an old stone mansion lead to an investigation by Nancy. THE BUNGALOW MYSTERY Nancy has some perilous experiences around a deserted bungalow. THE MYSTERY AT LILAC INN Quick thinking and quick action were needed for Nancy to extricate herself from a dangerous situation. THE SECRET AT SHADOW RANCH On a vacation in Arizona Nancy uncovers an old mystery and solves it. THE SECRET OF RED GATE FARM Nancy exposes the doings of a secret society on an isolated farm. THE CLUE IN THE DIARY A fascinating and exciting story of a search for a clue to a surprising mystery. NANCY'S MYSTERIOUS LETTER Nancy receives a letter informing her that she is heir to a fortune. This story tells of her search for another Nancy Drew. 
11959	----	A BRIEF MEMOIR WITH PORTIONS OF THE DIARY, LETTERS, AND OTHER REMAINS, OF ELIZA SOUTHALL, LATE OF BIRMINGHAM, ENGLAND. 1869. "For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain."--PHIL. 1. 21. INTRODUCTION The first edition of this volume appeared in England in 1855, where it was printed for private circulation only. Many expressions of the interest that has been felt in its perusal, and of the value that has been attached to the record it contains, have reached the editor and the family of the departed. Several applications to allow its publication in America have also been received; and, after serious consideration, the editor feels that he ought not to withhold his consent. In order that it may be more interesting and worthy of the largely-extended circulation that it is now likely to obtain, additions have been made, and particulars inserted, which a greater lapse of time from the occurrence of the events narrated, seems now to permit. A slight thread of biographical notice has also been introduced. But it is not to this part, which merely serves to render the volume more complete, by enabling the reader to understand the circumstances by which the writer of the Diary was surrounded, but to the Diary itself, that the editor desires to commend attention, believing that those who enjoy to trace the operations and effects of Divine grace on the heart will find much that is interesting and valuable therein, and that the young may reap instruction and encouragement from the spiritual history of one who early and earnestly sought the Lord. WILLIAM SOUTHALL, JR. EDGBASTON, BIRMINGHAM, 2d mo. 12th, 1861. BRIEF MEMOIR OF ELIZA SOUTHALL. Eliza Southall, wife of William Southall, Jr., of Birmingham, England, and daughter of John and Eliza Allen, was born at Liskeard, on the 9th of 6th month, 1823. As she felt a strong attachment to the scenes of her childhood, and an interest in the people among whom she spent the greater part of her short life,--an attachment which is evinced many times in the course of her memoranda,--it may interest the American reader to know that Liskeard is an ancient but small town in Cornwall. The country around is broken up into hill and dale, sloping down to the sea a few miles distant, the rocky shores of which are dotted with fishing-villages; in an opposite direction it swells into granite hills, in which are numerous mines of copper and lead. There is a good deal of intelligence, and also of religious feeling, to be met with among both the miners and fishermen, Cornwall having been the scene of a great revival in religion in the time of John Wesley, the effects of which have not been suffered to pass away. A meeting of Friends has been held at Liskeard from an early period in the history of the Society; but, as in many other country places in England, the numbers seem gradually to diminish, various attractions drawing the members to the larger towns. Launceston Castle, so well known in connection with the sufferings of George Fox, is a few miles distant. The family-circle, until broken a few years before her own marriage by that of an elder sister, consisted, in addition to her parents, of five daughters, two of whom were older and two younger than Eliza. Her father was long known and deservedly esteemed by Friends in England, and her mother is an approved minister. John Allen was a man of sound judgment and of liberal and enlightened views, ever desirous of upholding the truth, but at the same time ready to listen to the arguments of those who might differ from him in opinion. Moderate and cautious in counsel and conduct, firm, yet a peacemaker, he was truly a father in the Church. For many years he took an active part in the deliberations of the Yearly Meeting, and was often employed in services connected with the Society. He was known to many Friends on the American continent, from having visited that country in 1845 by appointment of the London Yearly Meeting. He was the author of a work entitled "State Churches and the Kingdom of Christ," and of several pamphlets on religious subjects. He died in 1859. John Allen retired from business at an early age; and a prominent reason for his doing so was that he might devote himself more fully to the education of his daughters, which was conducted almost entirely at home. Having a decided taste for the ancient classics, he considered that so good a foundation of a sound education ought not to be neglected. The same might be said of the older history and literature of his own country, including its poetry, in which he was well read; but he fully encouraged his pupils to become acquainted also with the better productions of the day, to the tone of which their younger minds were more easily adapted. Nor was education confined to direct instruction in the school-room. In a little memoir of John Allen, published in the "Annual Monitor," we read, "In the domestic circle, the tender, watchful care and sympathy of the parent were blended with the constant stimulus to self-improvement of the teacher; and the readiness to sacrifice personal ease and convenience, in order that he might enter into the pursuits and amusements of his children, was united with an unremitting endeavor to maintain a high standard of moral and religious feeling. Thus by example as well as by precept did he evince his deep concern for their best welfare. As years passed on, his cordial sympathy with their interests, and his anxiety as far as possible to share his own with them, gave an additional power to his influence, not easily estimated." Such were the simple and natural means of education employed. The aim was true enlargement of mind; and the desire was carefully instilled that the knowledge acquired should be valued for its own sake, not as a possession to be used for display. At the same time, care was taken not to destroy the balance between the intellect and the affections, so that, whilst the growth of the mental powers was encouraged, domestic and social duties should not suffer, and habits of self-reliance should be formed. From earliest childhood the great principles of Christianity were instilled into the opening minds of the children; and when the reflective powers had come into operation, their reasonings were watched and guided into safe paths. In this object, as in all the pursuits of her children, was the loving influence of a watchful mother gently felt. Thus by the united love and example of the parents were the affections of the children directed to a risen Saviour; and it is the aim of this volume to show, principally from records penned by her own hand, how one beloved daughter grew in grace and in the knowledge of the Lord, until it pleased Him to take her to Himself. Eliza Southall possessed a mind of no common order; and hers was a character in which simplicity and strength, originality and refinement, were beautifully blended: diffident and retiring, she was best appreciated where she was known most intimately. In very early life she manifested an unusual degree of mental power. When quite a little child, her earnest pursuit of knowledge was remarkable: she delighted in her lessons, and chose for her own reading a class of books far beyond the common taste of children. Her ardent, impulsive nature was, to a beautiful degree, tempered and softened by a depth of tenderness and intensity of feeling, together with a warmth of affection, which bound her very closely in sympathy, even as a child, with those around her. These sweet traits of natural character were so early blended with the unmistakable evidences of the fruit of divine grace in her heart, that it would be difficult to point to any time in her earliest childhood when there was not an earnest strife against evil, some sweet proof of the power of overcoming grace, and some manifestation of love to her Saviour. Her own words sweetly describe her feelings in recalling this period:--"When I look back to the years of my early childhood, I cannot remember the time when the Lord did not strive with me; neither can I remember any precise time of my first covenant. It was the gentle drawing of the cords of his love; it was the sweet impress of his hand; it was the breathing in silence of a wind that bloweth where it listeth." The following instances of the serious thoughtfulness of her early childhood are fresh in her mother's recollection. On one of her sisters first going to meeting, Eliza, who was younger, much wished to accompany her; saying, "I know, mamma, that R---- and I can have meetings at home; but I do want to go." Being told that her going must depend upon her sister's behavior, Eliza ran to her, and putting her arms round her neck, said, most earnestly, "Do, dear R----, be a good girl and behave well." The dear child's desire to attend meeting was soon gratified; and that morning she selected, to commit to memory, Jane Taylor's appropriate hymn on attending public worship, especially noticing the stanza-- "The triflers, too, His eye can see, Who only _seem_ to take a part; They move the lip, and bend the knee, But do not seek Him with the heart,"-- saying, earnestly, "Oh, I hope I shall not be like those!" At another time, whilst amusing herself with her toys, she asked, "Mamma, what is it that makes me feel _so sorry_ when I have done wrong? _Directly_, mamma: what is it?" On her mother's explaining that it was the Holy Spirit put into her heart by her heavenly Father, she replied, "But how very whispering it is, mamma! Nobody else can hear it." "Yes, my dear," said her mother; "and thou mayst sometimes hear it compared to a 'still small voice, and then thou wilt know what is meant." She answered, "Yes, mamma," and then continued to amuse herself as before. The first remembrance of Eliza retained by one of her younger sisters is that of sitting opposite to her in the nursery-window while she endeavored, in a simple manner, to explain to her the source and object of her being. To the same sister she afterwards addressed some affectionate lines of infantile poetry urging the same subject, commencing,-- "Look, precious child, to Jesus Christ." The missionary spirit which filled her young heart was also evinced by her desire to possess a donkey, that she might distribute Bibles in the country places round about; and this was afterwards spoken of as the ambition of her childhood. Together with the cheerful sweetness of her disposition, there was an unusual pensiveness, a tender care for others, which was most endearing, and often touching to witness. One day, perceiving her mother much affected on receiving intelligence of the decease of a valued friend and minister at a distance from home, Eliza evinced her sympathy by laying on the table before her some beautiful lines on the death of Howard. On her mother asking if she thought the cases similar, she said, "Not quite, mamma: J---- T---- was not without friends." So earnest was her anxiety for the good of herself and her sisters, that, when any thing wrong had been done, her feelings of distress seemed equally excited, whether for their sakes or her own. After any little trouble of this sort, her mother often observed her retire alone, and, when she returned to the family-group, a beaming expression on her countenance would show where she had laid her sorrows. Sometimes in her play-hours she would endeavor to prepare her two younger sisters for the lessons which they would receive from their father, and, when the time came for her to join in giving them regular instruction, she entered into it with zest and interest. Many hours were spent during the summer in the little plots of ground allotted to herself and sisters out of a small plantation skirting a meadow near the house, and many others in reading under the old elm-trees which cast their shade over the garden-walk. The spare moments during her domestic occupations which she was anxious not to neglect were often beguiled by learning pieces of poetry, a book being generally open at her side while thus employed. Earnestness of purpose and unwearied energy were characteristics of her mind. Whatever she undertook was done thoroughly and with an untiring industry, which often claimed the watchful care of her parents from the fear lest she should overtax her strength. It was evidently difficult to her to avoid an unsuitable strain on her physical powers, whatever might be the nature of her pursuit,--whether her own private reading or other intellectual occupation. At one period her time and energies were closely occupied for some months in the formation of very elaborate charts, by which she endeavored to impress historical and scientific subjects on her mind. The collection and examination of objects illustrating the different branches of natural history was also a very favorite pursuit, in which she delighted to join her sisters. But the reader will best understand how completely any pursuit in which she became deeply interested took hold upon her, from her own account of her experiences respecting poetry. While deeply feeling her responsibility for the right use of all the talents intrusted to her care, and earnestly engaged in their cultivation, she was equally conscious of the claims of social duty, and as solicitous to fulfil them, seeking in every way to contribute to the happiness of those around her, whether among the poor or among the friends and relatives of her own circle. Her journal, while it exhibits an intense earnestness in analyzing the state of her own mind, and perhaps rather too much proneness to dwell morbidly upon it, also evinces the tender joy and peace with which she was often blessed by the manifested presence of her Lord. It unfolds an advancement in Christian experience to which her conduct bore living testimony, and proves that in humble reliance on the hope set before her in the gospel, with growing distrust of herself, her faith increased in God her Saviour, and through his grace she was enabled to maintain the struggle with her soul's enemies, following on to know the Lord. Thus it was, as she sought preparation for a more enlarged sphere of usefulness on earth, her spirit ripened for the perfect service of heaven; and six weeks after she left her father's house a bride, the summons was received to join that countless multitude who "have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb; therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple." DIARY. 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! How shall my guilty spirit meet The great, all-searching eye? Conscious of my deficiencies, As in the dust I lie. How shall I join the ransom'd throng Around the throne that stand, And cast their crowns before thy feet, Lord of the saintly band? _12th Mo. 6th_, 1836. There are seasons in which I am favored to feel a quiet resignation, to spend and be spent in the service of Him who, even in my youthful days, has been pleased to visit me with the overshadowing of His mercy and love, and to require me to give up all my dearest secret idols, and every thing which exalts self against the government of the Prince of Peace. _4th Mo. 3d_, 1837. Almost in despair of ever being what I ought to be. I feel so poor in every good thing, and so amazingly rich in every bad thing. Still this little spark of love that remains, seems to hope in Him "who will not quench the smoking flax." _6th Mo. 4th_. I have cause to be very watchful. Satan is at hand: temptations abound, and it is no easy matter to keep in the right way. To have my affections crucified to the world is my desire. The way to the celestial city, is not only through the valley of humiliation, but also through the valley of the shadow of death. _6th Mo. 11th_. Many things have lately occurred which have flattered my vanity. I have received compliments and commendations: old Adam likes these things, and persuades me that I am somebody, and may well feel complacency. How needful is watchfulness! may the true light discover to me the snares that are set on every side. _7th Mo. 2d_. May I be enabled to give myself up as clay into the Potter's hand, without mixing up any thing of my own contriving; and in the silence of all flesh, wait to have the true seed watered and nourished by heavenly dew. _8th Mo. 2d_. I feel humbled at the sight of my many backslidings and deficiencies. Oh, may He, "who is touched with a feeling of our infirmities," in just judgment, remember mercy. If He does not, there can be no hope for me; but oh! I trust He will. "Let not Thy hand spare, nor Thine eye pity, till Thou hast made me what thou wouldst have me to be." _8th Mo. 20th_. Utterly unworthy! Oh, my Father! if there be any right beginning, if there be the least spark of good within me, carry it on: oh, increase it, that I may become as a plant of thy right hand planting, that I may become a sheep of thy fold. Assist me to present myself before thee in true silence, that I may wait upon thee in truth, and worship thee in the silence of all flesh, and know "all my treasure, all my springs, in Thee." _10th Mo. 13th_. We have just been favored with a visit from J.P., which has been to me a great comfort. At our Monthly Meeting he addressed the young; and it seemed as though he spoke the very thoughts of my heart; and the sweet supplication offered on their behalf that they might be preserved from the snares of the delusive world, may it be answered. _4th Mo. 15th_, 1838. I want to give up every thing, every thought, every affection, in short, my whole self, to my offered Saviour. Then would His kingdom come, and His will be done. Instead of the thorn would come up the fir-tree, and instead of the brier the myrtle-tree. How precious, how holy, how peaceful, that kingdom! Oh! if I may yet hope; if mercy is left, I beseech Thee, hear and behold me, and bring me "out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon the rock." _5th Mo. 26th_, 1839. A beautiful First-day. Every thing sweet and lovely; fulfilling the purpose of its creation as far as man is not concerned. Birds and insects formed for happiness, are now completely happy. But ah! they were formed to give glory to God, by testifying to man His goodness. Ten thousand voices call upon me to employ the nobler talents intrusted for the same purpose. Nearly sixteen years have I been warned, and sweetly called upon to awake out of sleep: "What meanest thou, O sleeper? arise, and call upon thy God!" How shall I account, in the last day, for these things? It is often startling to think how time is advancing, and how ill the day's work keeps pace with the day. For even now, poor drowsy creature that I am, it is but occasional sensibility, with the intervals buried in vain dreams; and even at such times, my poor warped affections, and busy imaginations, crowded with a multitude of images, refuse to yield to the command, "Be still, and know that I am God." I have, indeed, found that in whatever circumstances I may he placed, I can never be really happy without the religion of the heart; without making the Lord my habitation; and oh, may it be mine, through Christ's humbling and sanctifying operations, to know every corner of my heart made fit for the dwelling-place of Him who is with the meek and contrite ones. Then shall the remaining days of my pilgrimage be occupied in the energetic employment of those talents which must otherwise rise up for my condemnation in the last day. _6th Mo. 2d_. It is not for me to say any more "thus far will I go, but no farther," either in the narrow or the broad way. In the former, we cannot refuse to proceed without receding; in the latter, if we will take any steps, it is impossible to restrain ourselves. Besetting sins, though apparently opposite ones, sad stumbling-blocks in the way of the cross, are unrestrained activity of thought and indolence: the former proceeds from earthly-mindedness; and the latter as a sure consequence from the want of heavenly-mindedness. Oh that by keeping very close to Jesus, my wandering heart may receive the impression of His hand, that the new creation may indeed be witnessed, wherein Jerusalem is a rejoicing and her people a joy; then may I find that quiet habitation which nothing ever gave me out of the fold of Christ. _6th Mo. 9th_. Alas! how shall I account for the sixteen years which have, this day, completed their course upon my head? What shall I render unto the Lord for all his benefits? Shall I not, from this time, cry unto Him, "My Father, thou art the guide of my youth"? But, for the year that is passed, what can I say? I will lay my hand on my mouth and acknowledge that it has been squandered. Yes, so far as it has not been employed about my Father's business. But, alas! it has been crammed with selfishness; though now and then He, whom I trust I yet desire to serve, has made me sensibly feel how precious is every small dedication to Himself. _6th Mo. 16th_. The consideration of the peculiar doctrines of Friends having been lately rather forced on my attention, let me record my increased conviction of the privilege of an education within the borders of the Society; of the great value and importance of its spiritual profession, and the awful responsibility of its members to walk so as to adorn its doctrines, and shine as lights in the world. Warmly as she was attached to these principles, she ever rejoiced in the conviction that all the followers of Christ are one in Him, and that, by whatever name designated, those who have attained to the closest communion with Him are the nearest to one another; and when differences in sentiment were the topic of conversation, she would sometimes rejoin in an earnest tone, the "commandment is exceeding broad." _2d Mo. 2d_, 1840. Time passes on, and what progress do I make, either in usefulness in the earth, or preparation for heaven? Self-indulgence is the bane of godliness, and is, alas! mine.' This world's goods are snares, and are, alas! snares to me. Coward that my heart is, when pride is piqued, I have not resolution to conquer my own spirit. Pride, indolence, and worldly-mindedness are bringing me into closer and closer bondage: the first keeps me from true worship by preventing me from seeking the help and teaching of the one Spirit; the second, by making me yield without effort or resistance to the uncontrolled imaginations which the third presents. And now do these lines witness that, having been called to an everlasting salvation, God, the chief good, having manifested His name unto the least of His little ones, my soul and body are for Him, _belong_ to Him, to be moulded and fashioned according to His will; and that if I frustrate His purpose, His glorious holiness and free grace are unsullied and everlastingly worthy. _7th Mo. 12th_. If I acknowledge my own state, it is one cumbered with "many things." Alas! amid them how little space is there for the love of God! I have remembered the days when untold and inexpressible experiences were mine; when a child's tears and prayers were seen and heard before the throne! The stragglings of grace and nature have been great since then. I can look back to years of struggles and deliverances, years of revoltings and of mercies. It is like "threshing mountains" to meddle with the strongholds of sin; but mountains, I sometimes hope, will be made to "skip like rams." _10th Mo. 5th_. How long have I been like the "merchantman seeking goodly pearls"! Ever since reason dawned I have longed for a goodly pearl; though dazzled and deceived by many an empty trifle, I cannot plead as an excuse that I could not find the pearl. I have seen it at times, and felt how untold was the price, and thought I was ready to sell all and buy it, sometimes believed that all was sold; but why, ah, why was my pledge so often redeemed? I have been indeed like a simple one, who, having found a "pearl of great price," cast it from him for an empty, unsatisfying show. _1st Mo. 17th_, 1841. Very precious as have been the privileges vouchsafed the last two days, I can this morning speak of nothing as my present condition, but the extreme of weakness and poverty. On 6th day evening R.B. addressed us in such a way as proved to me that the Divine word is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart. The chief purport was the necessity of a willingness to learn daily of the great Teacher meekness and lowliness and faithfulness in the occupation of the talents intrusted; "for where much is given, much will be required." Yesterday his parting "salutation of brotherly love" was such as cannot be effaced from my memory; and oh, I pray that it may not from my heart. And now my prayer, my desire, must be for a renewed dedication. The separation, as R.B. said, from the right hand and the right eye must be made: the sacrifice which is acceptable will always cost something. _3d Mo. 8th_. Oh, may I become altogether a babe and a fool before myself, and, if it must be, before others! God has been very graciously dealing with me. _3d Mo. 19th_. Words must be much more guarded, as well as thoughts. This morning I am comforted with a precious feeling: "I will take care of thee." _3d Mo. 27th_. How does my heart long, this evening, that the one Saviour may be made unto me "wisdom and righteousness, sanctification and redemption!" Teach me to keep silence, O God! to mind my own business and be faithful to it; to deny my own will and wisdom; give me the spirit of true Christian love, that my whole life may be in the atmosphere of love! _3d Mo. 28th_. * * * To cease from my own works, surely in a very small degree, I can experimentally say, "this is the only true rest." This blessed experience seems to me the height of enjoyment to the truly redeemed. Oh, a little foretaste of this sabbath has been granted, when I have seemed to behold with my own eye, and to feel for myself in moments too precious to be forgotten, the waves of tumult hushed into a, more than earthly calm by Him who alone can say, "Peace, be still." My tossing spirit has never found such a calm in any thing this world can give. During her first attendance of the Yearly Meeting in London, in 1841, she wrote the following affectionate lines in a letter to her sisters at home:-- LONDON THOUGHTS. The crowds that past me ceaseless rush Stay not to glance at me, As falling waters headlong gush Into their native sea. But hearts there are that brightly burn, And light each kindling eye, And home to them my thoughts return, Swift as the sunbeams fly. * * * * * To home, to home my spirit hastes; For why? my treasure's there; 'Tis there her native joys she tastes, And breathes her native air. Oh, sweetest of all precious things, When this wide world we roam, When meets us on its balmy wings A messenger from home! From home, where hearts are warm and true, And love's lamp brightly burns, And sparkles Hermon's pearly dew On childhood's crystal urns. Oh, sweet to mark the speaking lines Traced by a sister's hand, And feel the love that firmly twines Around our household band! To one of her sisters:-- LONDON, 6th Month, 1841. * * * * I lay still half hour, and read over thy tenderly interesting and affecting sheet, and poured out my full heart; but what can I say? How I do long to be with you, and see, if it might be, once more, our beloved uncle! But perhaps before this the conflict may be over, the victory won, the everlasting city gained, none of whose inhabitants can say, "I am sick." And if so, dare we murmur or wish to recall the loved one from that home? Oh for that childlike and humble submission which is befitting the children of a Father of mercies, and the followers of Him who can and will do all things well! After the Yearly Meeting, she thus writes in her Journal:-- _6th Mo. 12th_. Many and great have been the favors dispensed within the last five weeks. The attendance of the Yearly Meeting has been the occasion of many and solemn warnings and advices, and, I trust, the reception of some real instruction. But, truly, I have found that in every situation, the great enemy can lay his snares; and if one more than another has taken with me, it has been to lead me to look outward for teaching, and to depend too much upon it, neglecting that one inward adoration for the want of which no outward ministry can atone. But I hope the enemy has not gained more than limited advantages of this kind, and perhaps even the discovery of these has had the effect of making me more distrustful of self. And, now, oh that the everlasting covenant might be ordered in _all_ things and sure, and He only, who is King of Kings and Lord of Lords, be exalted over all, in my heart; and the blessed experience thus described, be more fully realized: "He that hath entered into his rest hath ceased from his own works as God did from his." _6th Mo. 21st_. Very early this morning the long struggle with death terminated, and the spirit of our beloved Uncle E. was released from its worn tenement. The stony nature in my heart seems truly wounded. May it not be as the wounded air, soon to lose the trace. My heavenly Father's tender regard I have, indeed, felt this evening; but I tremble for the evil that remains in me. May I be blessed with the continued care of the good Shepherd, that I may be preserved as by the crook of His love. And now, seeing that much is forgiven me, may I love much. I feel that my Saviour's regard is of far more value than any earthly thing; and oh that my eye may be kept singly waiting for Him! The decease of her uncle was soon followed by that of his youngest son, Joseph E. In reference to his death, she remarks:-- _7th Mo. 22d_. He, in whose sight the death of His saints is precious, has again visited with the solemn call our family circle, and summoned away the sweetest, purest, and most heavenly of the group. Our dear cousin Joseph last night entered that "rest which remains for the people of God;" rest for which he had been panting the whole of the day, and to which he was enabled to look forward as his "happy home." _7th Mo. 28th_. Yesterday was one long to be remembered. The last sad offices were paid to him whom we so much loved; and oh that the mantle of the watchful, lowly disciple might descend abundantly upon us! Yet it is only by keeping near to the divine power, that I can receive any thing good; and, though yet far away, oh, may I look towards His holy habitation who is graciously offering me a home where there is "bread enough and to spare." _4th Mo. 3d_, 1842. He who has been for years striving with me, has lately, I think I may say, manifested to me the light of His countenance, and enabled me at seasons to commit the toiling, roving mind into His hand. This morning, however, I feel as if I could find no safe centre. Oh that I were gathered out of the false rest, and from all false dependence, to God Himself, the only true helper, and leader, and guide! How precious to recognize, in the light that dawned yesterday and the day before, the same glory, and power, and beauty, which were once my chief joy! But oh, I desire not to be satisfied with attaining again to former experience; but to give all diligence in pressing forward to the mark for the prize, even forgetting things that are behind. _10th Mo_. Mercies and favors of which I am totally unworthy have been graciously bestowed this morning, and, may I hope, a small capacity granted to enter into the sanctuary and pray. This week I have been unwatchful,--too much cumbered; yet, oh, I hope and trust, at times, my chains are breaking, and though I must believe the bitterness will come in time, the gospel of salvation is beginning to be tasted in its sweetness, completeness, and joy. _1st Mo._ 1843. I desire that the privilege of this day attending the Quarterly Meeting at Plymouth, may be long held in grateful remembrance; that the language, "I have heard of Thee by the hearing of the ear, but now mine eye seeth Thee; wherefore I abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes," may be my increasing experience. Conscious that the state of my heart, long wavering between two opinions, has of late been fearfully in danger of fixing to the wrong one of these, I would ask of Him who seeth in secret, and who is, I trust, at this very moment renewing a measure of the contrition, which, amid all my desires for it, did but gleam upon me this morning, to do in me a thorough work, to remain henceforth and ever. _2d Mo. 12th_. About four weeks since, we had a precious visit from B.S., and it has been a sacrifice to me to make no record of his striking communications; but I have been fearful, lest in any measure the weight and freshness of these things should vanish in words; and I have never felt at liberty to do so. In this year, she wrote but little in her Journal, and it appears to have been a time of spiritual proving; yet one in which she experienced that it was good for her "to trust in the name of the Lord, and to stay herself upon her God." _6th Mo. 16th_, 1844. One week ago was the twenty-first anniversary of my birthday. In some sense, I can say,-- "The past is bright, like those dear hills, So far behind my bark; The future, like the gathering night, Is ominous and dark. "One gaze again--one long, last gaze; Childhood, adieu to thee; The breeze hath hurried me away, On a dark, stormy sea." Deeply and more deeply, day by day, does my understanding find the deceitfulness of my heart. Well do I remember the feelings of determination, with which I resolved, two years since, that this period should not find me halting between two opinions,--that ere _this_ day I would be a Christian indeed. And looking back upon my alternating feelings, ever since reason was mine, upon the innumerable resolutions to do good, which have been as staves of reed, I must want common perception not to assent to the truth, that "the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?" But, oh, it is not this only, which my intellectual conscience is burdened with: when I look at the visitations of divine grace which have been my unmerited, unasked-for, privilege, through which I can but feel that in days past, a standing was placed in my power to attain, which, probably, now I shall never approach, the question does present with an awful importance, "How much owest thou unto thy Lord?" Seeing we know not, nor can know, the value of an offer of salvation, till salvation is finally lost or won; seeing that such an offer is purchased only by the shedding of a Saviour's blood, how incomprehensibly heavy, yet how true, the charge, "Ye have crucified to yourselves the son of God afresh." I know well that of many now pardoned, for sins far deeper in the eyes of men than any I have committed, it might be said that _little_ is forgiven them in comparison of the load of debt that hangs over my head; and I have sometimes thought, that the comparison of _debtors_ was selected by the Saviour, purposely to show that guilt in the sight of God is chiefly incurred by the neglect of His own spiritual gifts, not in proportion merely to the abstract morality of man's conduct. It is certainly what we have received that will be required at our hands: and oh, in the sight of the Judge of all the earth, how much do I owe unto my Lord! This day, though I was not in darkness about it, seems almost to have overtaken me unawares. I was not ready for it, though I knew so well when it would come; and, oh, for that day which I know not how near it may be, when the account is to be finally made up--how, how shall I prepare? With all the blessings, and invitations, and helps, which the good God has given me, I am _deeply, deeply_ involved. How, then, can I dream of clearing off these debts, when there can be no doubt that I shall daily incur more? Alas, I am too much disposed to keep a _meum_ and _tuum_ with heaven itself in more senses than one. * * * As to setting out anew on a _carte blanche_, I cannot. There lies the deeply-stained record against me: "_I_ called," and, oh, how deep the meaning, "Ye did not answer." Yes, my heart did: but to answer, "I go, sir," does but add to the condemnation that "I went not." _6th Mo. 23d._ This morning, I believe, the spirit was, in measure, willing, though the "flesh was weak." I have thought of the lines-- "When first thou didst thy all commit To Him upon the mercy-seat, He gave thee warrant from that hour To trust his wisdom, love, and power." My desire is to know that _my_ all is committed, and then, I do believe, He _will_ be known to be faithful that hath promised. The care of our salvation is not ours; our weak understandings cannot even fathom the means whereby it is effected; but this we do know, that it indispensably requires to be "wrought out with fear and trembling." The Saviour will be _ours_, only on condition of our being _his_. Religion must not be an acquirement, but a transformation; and surely that spirit, which could not make itself, and which, when made by God, has but degraded itself, is unable to "create itself anew in Christ Jesus unto good works." No, fear and trembling are the only part, and that but negative, which the spirit of man can have in working out its own salvation; but when led by the good spirit into this true fear, when given to wait, and held waiting at the feet of Jesus, it is made able, gradually, to _receive_ the essential gospel of salvation; and so long only is it in the way of salvation as it is sensible of its constant dependence on the one Saviour of men. May Friends, above all, while distinctly maintaining the doctrine of the influence of the Spirit on the heart, be deeply and _personally_ sensible that there is but _one_ Saviour, even Jesus Christ, who came into the world to save sinners, of whom, as we are led to true repentance, I believe each one will be ready to think "I am chief." The distinguishing practices of Friends, as to dress, language, etc. are in no manner valuable, but when they spring from the _root_ of essential Christianity. This is certainly the great thing. "Cleanse first the inside of the cup and platter." I have been grieved to fear that some would resolve the vast meaning of "a religious life and conversation consistent with our Christian profession" into little more than "plainness of speech, behavior, and apparel:" then I do think it becomes a mere idol. The tithe of "mint, anise, and cummin" is preferred to the weightier matters of the law. But I am going from the point of my own condition in the warmth of my feelings, which have been deeply troubled at these things of late. _11th Mo. 18th_. I believe it is one and the same fallen nature which, at one time, is holding me captive to the world; at another, filling me with impatience and anxiety about my spiritual progress; at another, with self-confidence, and at another, with despondency. Oh, the enemy knows my many weak sides; but I do hope and trust the Lord will take care of me. "Past, present, future, calmly leave to Him who will do all things well." If the root be but kept living and growing, then I need not be anxious about the branches; but, above all, the root must be the husbandman's exclusive care. _11th Mo. 30th_. I believe I sincerely desire that no spurious self-satisfaction may be mistaken for the peace of God, that no activity in works of self-righteousness may be mistaken for doing the day's work in the day. Oh, who can tell the snares that surround me? Yet I have been comforted this morning, in thinking of the declaration, "His mercies are over-all his works;" which I believe may be very especially applied to the work of His Spirit in the soul of man. Over this He does watch, and to this He does dispense, day by day, His merciful protection from surrounding dangers; "I the Lord do keep it, I will water it every moment; lest any hurt it, I will keep it night and day." Oh, the blessedness of a well-founded, watchful, humble trust in this keeping! _12th Mo. 27th_. The mean self-indulgence of sleeping late has come over me again, though I found, a week or two since, after a firm resolve, the difficulty vanish. This morning I had no time for retirement before breakfast; and, should circumstances ever become less under my control, this habit may prevent my having any morning oblation. The weakness and sinfulness of my heart have been making me almost tremble at the thought of another year: how shall I meet its thousand dangers and not fall? In religious communications in our house, I am apt to look for any intimation that I could appropriate of a shortened pilgrimage; but very little of the sort has occurred: indeed, I expect my selfish wish will not be gratified, of escaping early from this toilsome world; but how rash and ungrateful are such thoughts! how much better all these things are in my Father's hands! Oh, if I may be there too in the form of passive clay, and receive all His tutoring and refining, this will be enough: and should my future way be full of sorrows, heaven will bring me sweeter rest at last; when the whole work is done, when the robes are quite washed, when the fight is quite fought, and the death died; when the eternal life, which shall blossom above, is brought into actual health here, and real fellowship is made with my last hour. _1st Mo. 10th_, 1845. I am inclined to set down the events of my little world for the past week; that in days to come, should it prove that I have been following "cunningly devised fables," I may beware of such entanglements again; and that if they be found a guidance from above, their contemptibleness and seeming folly may be shown to be in wisdom. I have, from my childhood, delighted in poetry: if lonely, it was my companion; if sad, my comfort; if glad, it gave a voice to my joy. Of late, I have enjoyed writing pieces of a religious nature, though I must confess the excitement, the possession which the act of composition made of my mind, did not always favor the experience of what I sought to express. Two pieces of this kind I asked my father to send to the _Friend_: he liked them, but proposed my adding something to one. I had had a sweet little season by myself just before: then, sliding from feeling to composition, I thought of it all the rest of the evening, and when I went to bed, stayed some time writing four lines for the conclusion; after I was in bed, my heart was full of it, and I composed four lines more to precede them, with which I fell asleep. In the morning I resolved not to think of them till I had had my silent devotions; they came upon me while I was dressing, and, having forgotten one line, I stayed long making a substitute: then I retired to read, and, if possible, to pray, but it was not possible in that condition: I did but sit squaring and polishing my lines; and having finished them to my heart's content, I gave them to my father about the middle of the day, conscious, I could not but be, that they had "passed as a cloud between the mental eye of faith and things unseen." Every time they passed through my mind, they seemed to sound my condemnation. My evening retirement was dark and sad; I felt as if any thing but this I could give up for my Saviour's love; "all things are lawful, but all things are not expedient;" and yet the taste and the power were given me, with all things else, by God. I had used them too in a right cause, but then the talent of grace is far better. Which should be sacrificed? Why sacrifice either? I could not deny that it seemed impossible to keep both. But it might be made useful, if well employed. "To obey is better than sacrifice." Now they _are_ written, they might just as well be printed; but the printing will probably be the most hazardous part. I shall be sure to write more, and nourish vanity: or else the sight of them will cause remorse rather than pleasure. If I should lose my soul through poetry? For the life of self seems bound up in it; and "whosoever loveth his life shall lose it." But perhaps it would be a needless piece of austerity; it would be a great struggle; it would be like binding myself for the future, not to enjoy my treasured pleasure. The sacrifice which is acceptable will always cost something. So I prevailed upon myself to write a note, and lay it before my father, asking him not to send them, trembling lest he should dislike my changeableness, or I should change again and repent it. My father said nothing, but gave me back the lines when we were all together, which was a mountain got over. I thought to have had more peace after; but till this First-day I have been very desolate, though, I believe, daily desiring to seek my God above all; and thinking, sometimes, that that for which I had made a sacrifice became thereby dearer. After this striking and instructive account, which shows how zealously she endeavored to guard against any too absorbing influence, however good and allowable in itself the thing might be, it seems not amiss to remark that Eliza's taste for poetry was keen and discriminating; and that her love of external nature, and more especially her deeper and holier feelings, found appropriate expression in verse. If some of these effusions show a want of careful finish, it must be remembered that they were not written for publication, but for the sake of embodying the feeling of the occasion, in that form which naturally presented itself. The pieces alluded to in the foregoing extracts are the following:-- "WHAT I DO THOU KNOWEST NOT NOW." Hast thou long thy Lord's abiding Vainly sought 'mid shadows dim? Lo! His purpose wisely hiding, Thee He seeks to worship him. Shades of night, thy strain'd eye scorning, Have they; long enwrapp'd the skies? He, whose word commands the morning, Soon shall bid the day-spring rise! Are ten thousand fears desiring To engulf their helpless prey? One faint hope, his grace inspiring, Is a mightier thing than they. Has the foe his dark dominion, As upon thy Saviour, tried?-- As to Him with hastening pinion, Lo! the angels at thy side. Is thy spirit all unfeeling, Save to sin that grieves thee there? Thee He'll make, his face revealing, Joyful in His house of prayer! Hast thou seen thy building falter Can thy God thy griefs despise? 'Mid the ruins dark, an altar Fashion'd by His hands, shall rise. Thee, to some lone mountain sending, Only with the wood supplied; He, thy God, thy worship tending, Will Himself a lamb provide. Has He made it vain thy toiling Fine-spun raiment to prepare? 'Twas to give--thy labors spoiling-- Better robes than monarchs wear. From thy barn and storehouse treasure Did He take thy hoarded pelf? Yes: to feed thee was His pleasure, Like the winged fowls--_Himself_. * * * * * "WHAT PROFIT HATH A MAN OF ALL HIS LABOR THAT HE TAKETH UNDER THE SUN?" 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. The page my unapt heart has learn'd so newly In the dark lessons which afflictions teach-- Oh, it were vain to try to utter truly In the cold language of unapter speech. That hearts when thus their very depths are burning Alone should know their bitterness, is well; But, oh, my heart more joys than aches in learning Another lesson, would that words could tell. New depths of love in measure unsuspected, Ties closer than I knew, were round my heart; And half I thank the wrench that has detected How thoroughly and deeply dear thou art. And 'twas to tell thee this that I have taken The tuneless lyre I thought to use no more, Yet once at thy returning may it waken, Then sleep forever, silent as before. And not more narrow than the dome of ether Beams heaven's unbounded, earth-embracing scroll; Then be it thine and ours to read together Of Him who loves not less than rules the whole. And not more slow than was the bark that bore thee To an untried and dimly-distant land-- Our hearts' affections thither flew before thee, And now are ready waiting on the strand. --_8th Month_, 1845. _10th Mo. 1st_. Much struck with the suitability of the expression, "under the yoke," truly _subjugated_. not merely offering this or that, but _being offered_ "a living sacrifice." Oh for a thorough work like this! This is "when the yoke Is easy and the burden light." I know almost nothing of it by experience, but think it is "now nearer than when I first believed." For a day or two I have been given to desire it earnestly. _10th Mo. 12th_. Evening. Many thoughts about faith in Christ. But oh for the reality, the living essence of it! We can be Christians, not because we believe that the blood of Christ cleanses from sin, but because we _know_ the blood of Christ to cleanse us from sin. About this date, in the diary of daily affairs, is the following:-- "A conviction has come upon me that, in all respects, now is the time to reform, if ever, the course I am now pursuing. Religion, the main thing, may it ever more be the main object; and then, as to moral, social, and other duty, oh, be my whole course reformed. ... From this time forth may I nightly ask myself these five questions. 1. Has my employment and economy of time been right? 2. Has my aim been duty--not pleasure? 3. Have I been quiet and submissive? 4. Have I looked on the things of others as my own? 5. Have propensities or sentiments ruled? I wish to give an answer, daily, to each; and now say for yesterday. 1. Some wasted time before dinner. 2. Pretty clear, 3. No temptation. 4. Pretty well. 5. Pretty [well] except at meals." In this concise and simple manner are these questions answered, almost daily, throughout the year, until, "finding that daily records of employment are of little use, and that the intellectual and spiritual could not well be longer separated," she discontinued the practice, and recorded in the same book "any thing in either line that seemed fit to reserve from oblivion." Alluding to a religious magazine, she writes:-- "It is always pulling down error--seldom building up truth. Surely Antichrist comes to oppose Christ, not Christ to oppose Antichrist. Is there, then, no positive Christian duty? Are we never to rest in principles and practices of actual faith and love? or are we to be always on the offensive and negative side, stigmatizing all who act contrary to our belief of the truth as doers of the work of Antichrist? Antichrist, I fear, cares little for orthodox doctrines, but fights against the Christian spirit." _9th Mo. 13th_. Conflicting thoughts again. I long that there may be no building on any sandy foundation. But oh, the fitness that appeared to me this evening in the blessed Saviour to supply all my need. The one sacrifice He has been, and the one mediator and way to God He ever is,--His own spirit the one leader, teacher, and sanctifier; whereby He consummates in the heart the blessed work of bringing all into subjection to the obedience of Christ. Oh for a personal experience, a real participation in all this, a knowledge that _He is my own and that I am His_. _16th_. Somewhat puzzled at myself. This has not been a spiritually prosperous day--passed just to my taste, much in reading, but not much, I fear, with the Lord. Yet I have had very loving thoughts of Christ this evening, and was ready to call Him _my own dear Saviour_, though I trust on no other terms than His terms, namely, that I should be wholly His. Some misgivings are come up that I am tempted to think Him mine when I am not in a state to be His; some fears lest Satan has put on the winning smiles of an angel of light; and yet where can I go but to Thee, Saviour of sinners? Thou hast the words of life and salvation; suffer me not to be deluded, but at all hazards let me be Thine. Thou who breakest not the bruised reed, oh, bring forth in me judgment unto truth, and let me wait for the _law of life and peace from Thee_. _9th Mo. 18th_. Rode to Lodge to get ferns. Enjoyed thoughts of the beauty of nature, imperfect as it is, because one kind of beauty necessarily excludes another. What, then, must be the essence of that glory in which all perfection is beauty united? Thus these things must be described to mortal comprehension under contradictory images; such as "pure gold, like unto transparent glass," &c. _9th Mo. 19th_. I think harm is done by considering a society such as "Friends," "a section of the Christian Church," as societies are so often called. It can be true only by considering the "Christian Church" to mean _professing Christians_; but surely its true meaning is the _children of God anywhere_. Of this body, there are no _sections_ to be made by man, or it would follow that to unite oneself to either section, is to be united to the body, which cannot be. _10th Mo. 1st_. I fear I have so long been _childish_ and _thoughtless_, that I shall hardly ever be _childlike_ and _thoughtful_. Oh for a little more _care_ without _carefulness!_ _10th Mo. 2d_. Much struck with Krummacher's doctrine of "Once in grace, always in grace." "After the covenant is made," he says, "I can do nothing _condemnable_. I may do what is sinful or weak, but my sins are all laid on my Surety." _True,_ if my will-spirit humbles itself to bear the reforming judgment of the Lord--but I think his doctrine utterly dangerous; his error is this, that "the covenant cannot be broken." Now, suppose a Christian, therefore, in the covenant; he sins, then the Lord would put away his sin by cleansing him from its pollution and power, by the blood of Christ, who hath already borne the punishment thereof. But he may refuse this cleansing, in other words, this judgment, revealed within; not against _himself_, as it must have been except for Christ's intercession, but against the evil nature in him, and in love to his soul. He may refuse this, because it cannot but be painful, it cannot but include repentance for his transgression, whereby he has admitted ground to the enemy. And if he refuse it, persisting in withdrawing his heart from that surrender, which must have been made on his adoption into the covenant, who shall say that the covenant is not at an end? Who shall say that the way of the Lord is not equal, in that, because he was once a righteous man, made righteous by the righteousness of Christ, "now, the righteousness that he hath had shall not be mentioned unto him, but in his trespass he shall die"? Far be it from me to say how long the Lord shall bear with man; how long he may trespass ere he dies forever; but I think it most presumptuous to suppose that God _cannot in honor_ (for it does come to this) disannul the covenant from which man has already retracted all his share; though this, truly, is but a passive one, a surrender of the will-spirit to the faith of Jesus. What good it does me to clear up my ideas on prayer! but there is a limit beyond which intellect cannot go. No one can fully explain the admission of evil into the heart. We say "it is because I listen to temptation;" but why do I listen, to temptation? Because I did not watch unto prayer. The Calvinist would say, perhaps, "Because I am without the covenant;" but he allows that a person may sin who is in it. Suppose I am one of these? The origin of evil must ever be hidden, but not of evil only; the _moral nature of man must ever be a mystery to his intellectual nature, for it is above it._ There is a _natural testimony_ to the supremacy of the _moral_ in man above the intellectual. _10th Mo. 8th_. The charm of book and pen has been beguiling me of my reward; but now my soul craves to be offered a living sacrifice. _10th Mo. 19th_. The world was fearfully my snare yesterday,--I mean worldly objects, innocent, in themselves. These things only show the depth of unrenewed nature within. Though it slumbered, it could not be dead. My "wilderness wanderings," oh, I fear they must be exceedingly protracted ere the hosts that have come out of Egypt with me fall; ere I can find _in myself_ that blessed possession of the promised inheritance, which, I believe, _in this life_ is the portion of the _thorough_ Christian: "they that believe _do_ enter into rest." Why, then, do not I? Oh, it is for want of believing; for want of faith; I fear to trust the Lord to give me my inheritance and conquer my foes, and will not "go up and possess the land." Then, again, in self-confidence, I _will_ go up, whether the Lord be with me or not; and so I fall. But surely, surely it _need_ be so no longer. I _might_ devote myself to Christ, and He would lead me safely through all. The shining of the fire and the shading of the cloud are yet in the ordering of the Captain of Salvation. _20th_. Exceeding poor; and yet I rejoice in what I trust is somewhat of the poverty of spirit which is blessed. "Nothing in my hand I bring; Simply to Thy cross I cling; To the cleansing fount I fly: Wash me, Saviour, or I die." _21st_. I feel myself in much danger of falling,--manifold temptations all round to love the world, and how little _stay_ within! _22d._ Yet the Lord was kind, most kind, to me in the evening, constraining me to say within my heart, "Surely I am united to Christ my Saviour." Oh, the joy of feeling that we are in any measure _His!_ May I by no means withdraw myself from His hands, that He may do for me all that His mercy designs, and which I am well assured is but _begun._ This morning a crumb of bread was given me, in the shape of a sense that Christ is yet mine, but that He will be _waited on_ in simplicity of heart to do His _own work._ Oh, the comfort of having a fountain to flee to _set open_ for sin! hourly have I need of it. _11th Mo. 2d_. I have felt deeply the necessity of the thorough subjugation of the _will_ to the Divine will: if it were effected, all must work for good to me. Little cross-occurrences, instead of exciting ill tempers, would serve as occasions for strengthening my faith in God. When He giveth quietness, what should make trouble? 'Tis wonderful to think what long-suffering kindness the Lord has shown me! I can compare myself only to the prodigal son saying, "Give me my portion of goods"--goods spiritual; as if I thought once furnished, never again to have recourse to a father's compassion. Oh, often have I wasted this substance in a very short time; but the Lord has reckoned better than I in my self-confidence. He saw how I should have to come back utterly destitute, and again and again has had mercy. Oh that I might no more ask for a portion to carry away, but seek to dwell among the servants and the children of His house, to be fed hourly by Him, learning in what sense He does say to those who are willing to have nothing of their own, "All that I have is thine." _12th Mo. 6th_. Nice journey to Falmouth. Here we have been since Second-day learning our own manifold deficiencies; but this, under a genial atmosphere, is, to me, never disheartening,--always an exciting, encouraging lesson. ----'s kind words on intellectual presence of mind, and his animating example of it, have determined me to make a vigorous effort over my own sloth and inanity. I believe the first thing is to be always conscious of what I am thinking of, and never to let my mind run at loose ends in senseless reveries. _12th Mo. 25th_. Seventh-day. I trust, now we are all together for the winter, there will be an effort on my part to help to keep up a higher tone of feeling, aim, and conversation: not mere gossip, but really to speak to each other for some good purpose, is what I do wish. What an engine, for good or evil, we neglect and almost despise! and if it is not employed properly, when at home, how can it be naturally and intelligently exercised when abroad? _Fourth-day, 31st_. Called on a poor sick man,--he quietly waiting, I hope, for a participation in perfect peace, and penetrated with the sense that man can do nothing of himself. Surely this must be a step towards knowing what God can do. I hope he will be able to see and say something more yet; but I would not ask him for any sort of confession. It is a fearful thing to interfere with one who seems evidently in hands Divine. Thus ended 1845. Oh that it had been better used, more valued, more improved in naturals, intellectuals, and spirituals! Oh that I had cultivated kindness and dutiful affection in the meekness of wisdom; and as an impetus seems to have been lately received to industry in study, etc., oh, may God give me grace to spend another year, so far as I live through it, in industrious Christianity too! _1st Mo. 7th_, 1846. I should gratefully acknowledge the loving-kindness and tender mercy which, after all my wanderings, has again been shown: "I will prepare their heart, I will cause their ear to hear," was sweet to me this morning. Though sometimes lamenting that I hear so little of the voice of pardon and peace, I have felt this morning that I have ever heard as much as was safe for me in the degree of preparation yet known. _1st Mo. 19th_. Some earnest desires last evening, this morning, and in the night, to be set right in spirit. Struck with the text, "His countenance doth behold the upright,"--not that the upright always behold His countenance: that is not the thing their safety consists in. "Thou most upright dost weigh the path of the just," that is, of the truly sincere and devoted. Ah! how blessed that such an unerring balance should apportion the way of a finite and blind being! _3d Mo. 2d_. Little E.P. died last week, aged three years,--a child whom God had taught. I ventured a little poem for his mamma, I think without harm. The poetry-contest, some time since, was doubtless useful as a check, but I seem to have lost the prohibition, and enjoy, I hope, innocently. _Sixth-day_. School, more encouraged than sometimes: got on well with geography-class; visited various poor people,--feeling very useless, but some satisfaction. Oh, it were a sweet thing to do good from the right motive, as a _natural_ effect of love. I fear I do my poor share more to satisfy conscientiousness; and that is a dull thing. _3d Mo. 17th_. Faith small, world strong; but this evening something like grasping after "the childly life beyond." A childly life I want. Oh for simplicity, faith, quietness, self-renunciation! Yesterday rode alone to Wheal, Sister's mine. Gave W.B. tracts for the girls. Thence to Captain N., to get his daughters to collect for Bibles. His nice wife seemed interested; said it was very needful. Many families had not a Bible there; the place a century behind the West. Rode home dripping, but glad that I had not been turned back. Learned part of the 42d Psalm in German. _3d Mo. 27th_. What testimony of gratitude can I record to that tender mercy which has drawn near to me this evening? Oh that the "Anon with joy" reception may not be united with the "no root in myself"! I have thought of the Israelitish wanderings, caused by faithless folly in refusing to "go up and possess the land." Oh, that lack of living appropriating faith may not thus protract the period ere my own passage through the spiritual Jordan, the river of self-renunciation, and death of the "old man," into the Beulah of a thorough introduction to the sheepfold! It is easy to say that it would be too presumptuous to venture on the final, full, childlike appropriation of Christ; but, oh, presumption, I do deeply feel, is more concerned in the delay. It is presumptuous to put off, till brighter evidences and clearer offers of mercy, the acceptance of grace to-day. _4th Mo. 14th._ The Lord has been kind to me beyond expression. Not rapturous feeling, but calm and peaceful confidence,--though sometimes almost giving way to "the world, the flesh, and the devil," sometimes letting go faith; but, oh, He has been near through all; then when His face has shone upon me, how have I wondered that ever I loved the earth, more than Himself! _5th Mo. 3d. Bristol._ On the way to the Yearly Meeting. _First-day._ Most interesting meeting. I think the connection of evangelical doctrine with Christian worship is often not enough considered. The mere natural unsanctified dread or awe of the Lord's presence is very different from that worship of God which is through Christ our Lord, who has made a way of access for us to the Father, who Himself loveth us. If this be overlooked, there is little essential distinction between Christian worship, and Oriental gnosticism--the delusion of raising the soul above the natural, by abstraction and contemplation of the Divine. This is the distinguishing glory of the gospel, that whereas the children of Israel said to Moses, "Speak thou to us, but let not God speak to us, lest we die," Christ, his antitype, hath broken down for his people "the middle wall of partition," hath abolished the enmity, and speaketh to us Himself as God, and yet as once in our flesh. _5th Mo. 10th_. Letter from father, from _Niagara_. Awful spectacle, and most edifying emblem of His unchanging word of power whose voice is as the sound of many waters. This evening had a nice meeting; my soul longed for light and life in the assembly. Of our dear father's safe arrival in Liverpool we heard on our way to the train in the morning, and now we settled in to expect him we had so long lost! And, after meeting him in London and alluding to conversation with friends who called to see him, she says,-- "But with father the fact of presence, real meeting, actual talk, seemed more engrossing than the thing talked. Oh that I had a really grateful heart to the Lord for these His mercies!" _7th_. [Alluding to a meeting at Devonshire House.] It is, indeed, "looking not at the things which are seen," when we really accept with equal, nay, with greater, joy, His will to speak by the little as by the great, or by His Spirit only, when communion of truth is preferred to communication of the true. _5th Mo. 29th_. And now that my London experience is over, as to meetings, preachings, prayers, what, oh, what is the result on this immortal spirit of mine, which has on this occasion been brought, as it were, in _contact_ with some of the honorable and anointed messengers, with that which is good? And yet it is possible that contact may not produce _penetration_, and that _penetration_ may not produce _assimilation_. I can unhesitatingly say, the first and second have been produced; but then these are but transactions of the time, not abiding transformations; and if these are all? But, surely, it cannot be; surely, when my heart melted within me, especially on Second-day morning, and I heard the word "and anon with joy received it," some depth of central stone was fused into softness; some actual change, effected, that I might not have altogether "no root" in myself. Sometimes predominated a fear that intellectual interest interfered with spiritual simple reception of good, that _this_ would vanish when _that_ was over; sometimes the responsibility of being thus ministered to was truly a weighty thought; for never more than on that morning did I so understand, "Go preach, baptizing." Sometimes I thought that God had indeed brought me to this Yearly Meeting to make me then and there his own; and when I heard of passing by transgressions as a cloud, I was ready to think my own were indeed dissolving as one. I felt strongly the superiority of religion to every other thing, not merely for its external aim, God, but for its internal power on self, how these masterpieces of the human creation were not only made the most of by religion, but that _it_ alone can make any thing of the _whole man_. How strongly do we feel, when with a clever, talented, irreligious man, that he has a latent class of moral powers which have not been called into action, that on this point he may be inferior to the veriest child; but God, who has made man for himself, has made in every man a royal chamber, for himself spiritually to dwell in; and if this be not reappropriated to him, (which is religion,) his capacity for the Divine is not exercised, and he is not only not made the most of, but his best nature is not even made use of. What a privilege to have intercourse with those in whom the very reverse is the case! What a stimulus to the little mind, to become not equal to the great, but proportionally Christianized--_i.e._ equally devoted! and this is Christian perfection; not to have arrived at the highest attainment of intercourse with God ever granted to man, but to have the will thoroughly willing God's will. This is, indeed, better far than a mere knowledge of what that will is. But in some whom I have seen, there is a beautiful union of a high degree of this knowing and willing; and these are they to whom it is given to edify the Church. * * * How shall I enough praise and thank the Lord, who has so condescended to my weak and sinful condition, that though my head perhaps knew all before, and my heart was disobedient, He has so brought me under the mighty ministry of His Word of life, that for a while _all_ seemed melted and subjected, and my heart longed to accept Him and his reconciliation to me on the blessed terms, _not_ the harsh terms, but the privileged terms, of my being reconciled to Him. Oh, what an error to think any thing harsh or hard in the requirements of the gospel! It is a mercy beyond man's conception, that we are commanded, "Be ye holy, for I am holy." _6th Mo. 12th_. Yesterday my twenty-third birthday. In the evening a song of praise seemed to fill my heart for the vast mercy shown me of late. God, who is rich in mercy for His great love wherewith He loved me when I was dead in sins, has truly begun to quicken my heart. _6th Mo. 12th_. Had a note from ---- of kind spiritual interest; but I think she mistakes my want, which is more of practical than of theoretical faith. Have ventured to tell her, in a note, what I feel and have felt. I think many who have left Friends, and become more decidedly serious since, remembering that when Friends, the gospel was not precious to them, fancy it is undervalued by the Society. My note is as follows:-- My dear --- will, I hope, believe that I was not disposed to receive her affectionate lines in any other than that spirit of love in which they were written, and in which, I am persuaded, it is the will of our blessed Saviour for His disciples "that they all may be one." Yes, my dear ----, I believe there is not a sentence in thine in which I do not heartily join; and while we are both seeking to believe, as thou says, "with the heart" in Christ our Saviour, "in whom we have redemption, through His blood, even the forgiveness of sins," let us say not only, "Here is a point on which we can unite," but here is the one bond of fellowship, which unites the whole ransomed Church, throughout the world, and especially those who love each other, as I trust we do. If we were more willing to let Christ be our all in all, surely we should more realize this blessed truth. Disputations on theoretical differences seem to me like disputes on the principles of a fire-escape among those whose sole rescue depends on at once committing themselves to it, since the most perfect understanding of its principles is utterly in vain if they continue mere _lookers-on;_ while others, with perhaps far less _head-_knowledge, are safely landed. This, it seems to me, is the distinction between head-knowledge and heart-knowledge, between dead creed and living faith; and every day, I think, more convinces me that it is "with the _heart_ that man believeth unto righteousness." As thou hast so kindly spoken of myself, and thy kind interest for me, may I add that what I have known, small though it be, of this faith, has been all of grace; nor do I hope or wish but that it may be, from first to last, of grace alone. If I love Christ, it is because He first loved me: because God, who is rich in mercy, has shown me the great love wherewith He loved me, when I was dead in sins; nor should I have had one glimpse "of the knowledge of the glory of God, in the face of Jesus Christ," had not God, who "commanded the light to shine out of darkness," shined into my heart. And dark and sad has ever been the view of myself bestowed by that grace which brings salvation, long shining as it were to make my darkness visible; but this do I esteem one of His rich mercies, who will have no rival in His children's hearts, and teaches us our own utter depravity and sinfulness; that we may, without any reserve, fly to Him, "who has borne our sins in His own body on the tree, that we might be saved from wrath through Him." And if it is of grace, that while we were yet sinners, "we were reconciled to God by the death of His Son," it is by grace also, that "being reconciled, we shall be saved by His life." It is "not by works of righteousness which we have done, but according to His mercy He saveth us, by the washing of regeneration and renewing of the Holy Ghost." And here I find abundant need to take heed that I "receive not the grace of God in vain;" for truly Christ cannot be ours, if we will not be his. But though I have to lament many a revolt, and many a backsliding, and many a denial in heart of Christ my Saviour, yet the Lord, who turned and looked on Peter, has not forsaken me; the fountain set open for sin has been, I believe, set open for me; and still does He continue to "heal my backslidings, and to love me _freely_." For the future I have sometimes many a fear, because of this deceitful heart of mine; and at others I can trust it in His hands, whose grace will be sufficient for me to the end,--that end, when I may realize, what I now assuredly believe, that the "_gift_ of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord." And now, my dear ----, are we not one, essentially one, both one in Christ? I know that, uniting in the acknowledgment, and, above all, I trust, in the experience, of the great truths of the gospel, we differ in their applications and influences on subordinate points, and I believe this must be expected to be often the case while "we see through a glass darkly;" but we shall, I trust, "see eye to eye, when the Lord shall bring again Zion;" and He will keep that which we have committed unto Him against that day. The Lord's "commandment is _exceeding broad_," and it is no wonder that our narrow minds cannot adequately appreciate the whole, or that, while we believe the same things, we sometimes view them in different order and proportion, often being nearer each other than we are aware. I fear much good is not done by discussing differences; at least, _I_ find it calls up feelings which are not good, and I lose more practically than I get or give theoretically. May the Lord bless us both in our pilgrimage, and guide us in a plain path to a city of final habitation, where we shall not want sun, or moon, or any other thing than the glory of God and the Lamb, to be our everlasting light. I could not be satisfied without replying to thy kind remarks and inquiries about myself and my hopes; but now, having said so much, I hope thou wilt not think it strange that I cannot _argue_ on things about which we differ. I have not adopted opinions without reflection, and it has fully satisfied myself; but I have nothing to spend in controversy, which I always find does me a great deal of harm. I hope we now know enough of each other to rejoice in each other's joy. _6th Mo. 16th_. Last evening alone in the plantation. Sought the Lord. It was beautiful. Was not nature meant by Him to work in concert with His spirit on our hearts? Or is the calming and soothing power a thing confined to sense and sensibility? I suppose the latter, but that religion appropriates these as well as all other faculties and parts of man's nature, and, where he would have praised nature, bids him praise God, his own God in Christ. _6th Mo. 18th_. I have thought this summer a time of critical importance for my soul, for eternity. I have felt, and sometimes spoken, strongly, but always, I believe, honestly, unless I have imposed upon myself. Thought I had accepted Christ. I thought He was my salvation and my all. "Yet once more" will the Lord shake not my earthly heart, but also my heaven, my hopes, my expectations, in Him. Will He convict me still of holding the truth in unrighteousness? How else can I explain to myself the pride which revolts from censure, the touchy disposition, the self-justifying spirit, the jealousy of my reputation, the anxiety to keep up my character? How else can I explain the inaptitude for the divine, the unwillingness to have the veil quite lifted from my heart, to display it even to my own eyes? Ah! is it not that there is still a double mind and instability in all my ways, still a want of that simplicity of faith, that humility, and poverty, and meekness of spirit, that can accept the gospel, still the self-righteousness (worse than "I am of Paul") which assumes to itself "_I_ of Christ"? Ah! if I may yet lift my eyes through Him who hath borne even the iniquity of our holy things, keep me, O Lord, from a wider wandering, till Thou bring me fully into the fold, the "little flock," to whom it is Thy good pleasure to give thy kingdom. _7th Mo. 5th_. * * * It is useless to conceal from myself that I have felt grieved at some, whom we might suppose grounded in the faith long since, appearing to keep the expression of sole reliance on the mercy of God in Jesus Christ, as a sort of death-bed confession. I know full well that religion must be an actual transformation of soul; but then the ground of our hope that this will be _perfectly_ effected ere we depart, is the mercy of God in Christ, quite as much as our hope of forgiveness of actual sin, and final salvation. Oh, some do separate things too much, as if it were possible to err by too full a reliance on Christ; as if there was a danger that He or we should, by _that_ means, forget the work of grace. Grace is grace throughout, not of works, but of Him that calleth. Still, I believe there must and will be variations in our modes of viewing the great gospel, the "exceeding broad" commandment. May we, as S. Tuke so beautifully said, "know one another in the one bond of brotherhood, 'One Lord, one faith, one baptism;'" without entering into nice distinctions and metaphysical subtleties. And may I, to whom temptations of this kind are naturally so accessible, be preserved in my own spirit from the snares of death, cleansed "from secret faults," kept from "presumptuous sins," and hidden in the Lord's pavilion from the strife of tongues. _7th Mo. 9th_. I have been thinking much of the young women at the Union, and yesterday went to see them. A sad spectacle; but they seemed willing and glad to be visited, and I hope to go once a week to read to them, and to teach a few of them to read. Oh that my life were more useful than it is! _7th Mo. 18th_. Oh, why was I induced to allow thoughts and reasonings to supplant worship! How they plead their own utility, and how like good is the thought about good! but then the dry, barren, unsatisfied unrest of soul that followed! Strange, that thought employed to so little purpose at other times should pretend to be so edifying in meetings. Reveries on probability, as being a mere relation between a cause and a spectator, or bystander; not between cause and effect. Thought it important touching free will and foreknowledge. God is certain of futurity--we are uncertain. Futurity is certain in relation to God, uncertain in relation to us--probable or improbable in relation to us, neither in relation to God; but neither the certainty nor the probability exists in future non-existent fact, therefore I take it they do not influence the fact. This, perhaps, is profitless; but I am glad to find that thought on this point always tends to confirm what I believe is the true scriptural doctrine in opposition to Calvinism. This was a natural reaction on the minds of reformers from the Romish doctrine of justification by works. They no sooner found that man cannot make his own salvation, than they fancied he could not reject it. They learned that it was freely given to some, and fancied that it could not have been freely offered to all. _7th Mo. 20th_. Mere carnal conscientiousness is a poor substitute for love of God. The constant inquiry, "What must I do to keep an easy conscience?" is no proof of high Christian attainment; rather says the Christian, "What can I render for all His benefits?" _7th Mo. 30th_. A visit to J. Harvey's corpse. [A poor man whom she had frequently visited.] I have been much concerned about him in days past, and now can a little rejoice in his exceeding joy. An emaciated, sallow countenance, but speaking perfect rest. He spoke scarcely at all for some days. I saw him three days before his death, and could but commend him to one of the "many mansions;" but he could scarcely answer. A few passages about this period, record Eliza's desire for a friendship with some sympathizing mind out of her own family,--some one whose views, whilst tending to the same point as her own, would yet have the freshness of an altogether different experience. Not that she undervalued home affections, for that would have been quite contrary to her nature, but, after alluding to them warmly, she says, "At the same time, we want a friendship for the rest of our faculties and minds; and it cannot be, I believe, that _one_ family should supply to any one of its members all that it is capable of appreciating and experiencing in the way of friendship." Another entry states, "I have a new friendship with M.B., which promises substantial comfort. Just the thing I have wished for all my life. We have exchanged two letters on each side." This acquaintance ripened into a connection which was afterwards steadily maintained,--although the intercourse of the two friends was principally by letter. That circumstance, however, has caused the preservation of thoughts and sentiments which otherwise would have been unrecorded; and, as the letters offer much of an interesting character, copious extracts from them are hereafter given: _8th Mo. 2d_. Letter to M.B. * * * Surely, whoever is not a true friend to himself and to his own best interests cannot be such to another. Here, indeed, if I may hope to have part or lot in the matter, the thing aimed at is high; but this does not insure its attainment, and there is great cause for care that the humiliating discovery of the discrepancy between the two, does not lead us to lower the one rather than seek to elevate the other. I have a strong belief of the importance of self-scrutiny and honesty with one's own heart, of real willingness to know and feel the worst of one's self, and sincerity of application to the true means of remedy. Perhaps the very sense of deficiency in this particular, makes me believe the more its value; but I dislike what I think to be the false humility of some persons, who, while seeming to claim the _blessings_ of religion, would think it presumption to profess, or even expect, conformity to its standard. The presumption always seems to me on the other side; and yet who is free from it altogether? Very long it takes some persons--of whom I am one--to get through the seventh chapter of Romans. Many a time they get to the twenty-fourth verse, and stick in the twenty-fifth, looking wishfully over the barrier which divides them from the eighth chapter; and yet, if thoroughly willing to know the worst of themselves, they would perhaps find that it is because a _part_ of a man's nature may go so far, while it requires the _whole_ spirit to make this last transition. I think I long for true humiliation in the evidence of my own deficiency here. * * * * * I did, indeed, enjoy the Yearly Meeting's Epistle: it is a wholesome one in these days. How refreshing is it in thought, to abstract ourselves from the words and doings of men, and think of that _one_ eternal unchanging truth, which can never be inconsistent with itself and which, though hid from the wise and prudent, is revealed to babes! Here I think the belief of the identity of our own character hereafter, comes in well, and should lead us to consider whether we love truth absolutely, and not only relatively to the circumstances which will not exist then; and whether we can be happy in a land where righteousness and peace forever kiss each other. And may I, without vanity and just in illustration, quote from a rhyme of my own?-- While thus we long, in bonds of clay, For freedom's advent bright, Upbraid the tardy wheels of day, And call the slumbering light, Do we no willing fetters wear Which our own hands have made, No self-imposed distresses bear, And court no needless shade? While our departed friends to meet We often vainly sigh, To hold in heaven communion sweet, Communion large and high, Do we, while here on earth we dwell, Those pure affections show For which we long to bid farewell To all we love below? For no unhallow'd footstep falls Upon that floor of gold; Those pearly gates, those crystal walls, No earthly hearts enfold. And if our voice on earth be strange To notes of praise and prayer, That voice it is not death's to change, Would make but discord there. _8th Mo. 10th_. Strange vacillations of feeling; at one time on the point of trusting the Lord for eternity, at another, cannot trust him even for time. At one time would cast my whole soul on him; at another, will bear the weight of every straw myself, till I become quite overloaded with them. Oh, what a spectacle of folly, and weakness, and sin! A soul immortal spending all her powers, wasting her strength in strenuous idleness! _8th Mo. 16th_. Very busy making things tidy, and resolved, almost religiously, to keep them so. I think I would not, for any consideration, die with all my things in disorder. Disorder must be the result of a disordered mind, and not only so, it reacts on the mind and makes it worse in turn. _8th Mo. 18th_. People do not say enough of the need of _consistency_, when they speak of trusting in Providence instead of arms. It was consistent in William Penn, but it would not have been consistent in his contemporaries, who took the Indians' land for nought. Providence is not to be made a protector of injustice, of which arms are the fitting shield. Oh that consistency, earnestness of character, were more valued! _8th Mo. 23d_. Some true wish, may I say prayer, that Christ may now, _now_, blot out as a cloud my sins, even on his own terms, which, I am more convinced, do not consist of things required of us to give in exchange for his mercy, but are a part of that mercy, a part of that redemption. Yes, when sin becomes thoroughly a burden, as sin, then we see that grace would be indeed imperfect, if it was not to be a deliverance from the _power_, as well as the punishment, of sin; and if we ask for grace, and yet cherish sin, truly we know not what spirit we are of, we wish not for complete salvation while we are asking for it. Mercy is a broader thing than our most earnest prayers suppose; yea, it is "above all that we can ask or think." _8th Mo_. Letter to M.B. * * * How little it avails to know the theory of wisdom and folly, right and wrong, etc., just so as to occupy only the perceptive and reasoning faculties! What we want, what the world wants, I think, is the _Christian_ version of the present so fashionable idea of _earnestness_, or, as I have thought it may imply, _consistency_ of character. We get ideas and opinions in a _dead_ way, and then they do not _pervade_ our characters; we have but half learned them; they have influenced not our feeling, but only our knowing faculties, and then perhaps it had been better not to have known the way of truth. A full response is in my heart to the difficulty of keeping things in their right places, neither can I at all agree to the idea "that where the love of the world perverts one, the fear of it perverts ten;" at least, understanding the world to mean "whatever passes as I cloud between the mental eye of faith and things unseen." Many a time has the book-shelf and the writing-desk been made a substitute for the oratory. As to friendship taking this place, surely the whole idea of a _Church_ is based on that of Christian fellowship in its strict sense. Be it ours to know what _that_ means, and then, if our love to Christ is the main bond of union, while that continues, we shall love him the more rather than the less on that account. But I know that friendship includes various other elements, and may we be sensible that if these are made the main things in our esteem, not only our faith, but our friendship too, becomes debased. Respecting the seventh and eighth chapter of Romans, a believe I agree with thee; but lately I have had stronger feelings than I used to have about the distinction between _defective_ religion and _infant_ religion. The full feeling of our corruption must certainly precede the full reception of the Christian's joy; and I believe we ought not to be too anxious to reduce to regular theory what is so much above our finite understandings as the work of the Holy Spirit in the heart. Still, I think there is, when it goes on as it ought to do, unobstructed, a completeness in all its stages. There may and ought to be a perfect infant, then a perfect youth, then a perfect man, and I don't know how to apply to the advanced stage only; that blessed declaration which I sometimes think expresses the sum of Christian liberty, "There is, therefore, now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus." Still, it will be quite time enough to reason about this when we have attained such an entirely childlike state; nor, I suppose, shall we be long in discovering the privilege of which we shall then be in possession--"Of such is the kingdom of heaven." Then, doubtless, we shall be furthest from reasoning at all. We have been much interested with the last volume of D'Aubigné. The imperfection of all the instruments is strikingly shown. Luther's obstinate transubstantiation or consubstantiation doctrines, Melancthon's timid concessions to the Papists, and Zwingle's carnal warfare, ending in the tragedy of Cappel, and, as it seems, in the long delay of the establishment of the Reformation in Switzerland. D'Aubigné appears very sensible of this inconsistency: even the loss of Ecolampadius by a peaceful death he represents as a happy encouragement to the Church after the blow it had received; but I don't think D'Aubigné a thorough peace advocate. He makes so much distinction between the Churchman and Statesman, that I fear he would allow of _mere_ rulers and magistrates taking up arms on _merely_ secular affairs, though he does not wish the Church to be defended by such. I should like to know thy impression of the early Christians' opinion on war. Neander allows that a _party_ objected to it, as in the case of Maximilian, A.D. 229; but says that very sincere Christians were soldiers in the Roman army, till Galerius required all soldiers to take part in the heathen ceremonies. _8th Mo. 26th_. Oh, how shall I set forth His tender compassion, who has blessed me this evening with, I was going to say, the abundance of peace and truth? Oh, how near He has been, helping me to cast my all on Him, helping me to leave the things that are behind, yes, and the things that are before too, as far as self is concerned, and commit my future way and safety to Him! When His love has been made known, how have I been grieved by fears of future folly, fears, too, that have been grievously fulfilled. What a pretest this for harassing myself with fears that it will be so again! But, oh, these fears are very far from that fear which the Lord will put into His children's hearts, that they shall not depart from Him. They have no preserving power over me; they are "of the earth, earthy," and solely come from distrust of that grace which is ever-sufficient; from a desire to have a share myself in that victory which is Christ's alone. Oh, if my incessant regards were to Him alone, He would take all care on Himself. "He is the same yesterday, to-day, and forever," and His faith _is_ "the victory which overcomes the world." Humility, true watchfulness, and self-distrust are diametrically opposed to this careful spirit: their language ever is, "I am nothing, Christ is all." _8th Mo. 27th_. Changed indeed; not any light to be seen in my dark heart. Yet I look up, I trust singly, to Him from whom it came yesterday; and thither may I look till again the day break. Can I say, in full sincerity, "_more_ than they that watch for the morning"? Alas that I am so versatile! Christian and worldling within a day. Oh for a deeper sense that I am not my own,--that I have no right to disturb the sanctuary of my own spirit when God has made it such,--that there is no other way than whole-hearted and honest-hearted Christianity to attain the heavenly kingdom! _9th Mo. 9th_. Letter to M.B. * * * Our wily foe finds every thing which produces strong emotion and commotion of mind a good opportunity for trying new temptations, and, at any rate, tries hard to keep us from committing all to a better hand than ours. I feel quite ashamed of the measure of his success with me; but surely we want a new sanctification every day,--a new recurrence to the grace that will _set_ "all dislocated bones," as J. Fletcher calls unsanctified feelings and affections. I was much pleased with this comparison, which I found in his life the other day. I think it is an admirable exemplification of the uneasiness and pain of mind they cause. But how very uncertain our frames of feeling are; sometimes thinking there is but _one_ thing which we have not _quite_ given up to God, and sometimes, with perhaps correcter judgment, lamenting, "_all my bones_ are out of joint." May we, my dear M., encourage each other in seeking help of Him who received and healed all that had need of healing. _9th Mo. 20th_. Finished most interesting review of John Foster's life. * * * Foster was a very deep thinker. He thought the boundary of the knowable wider than the generality do. This may be; but I fancy he does not always admit sufficient weight in his arguments to the manifest relations and actings of the unknown upon the known. He was Calvinistic; this, joined to a strong view of the moral perfection and benevolence of God, led him to the natural result of denying _eternal_ punishments. Could he have seen more of the essence of a human spirit, as he doubtless now sees it, I venture to think that that mysterious personality, by virtue of which man may be said to choose his destiny, _i.e._ to embrace destruction, or to submit to be saved by the Saviour in his own way, that the perception of this personal image of God in man might vindicate the Divine perfection and benevolence, and make it evident that our "salvation is of God, and our destruction is of ourselves." _10th Mo. 2d_. Oh to be permitted any taste of that grace which is free--ever free; which brings a serene reliance on eternal love; which imprints its own reflection on the soul! Oh, be that reflection unbroken by restless disquiets of mind; be that image watchfully prized, and waited for, and waited in. _10th Mo. 5th_. Some sweetness in thinking how much akin is "having nothing" to "possessing all things." _10th Mo. 14th_. Talk with James Teare on the immorality of drinking. Query:--Is it _per se_ a _sin_ to drink a little? He does not affirm it in pure abstract, but says that no _action_ can be purely abstract; and that as to uphold an immoral system is immoral, as the drinking system is immoral, as moderate draughts uphold the drinking system, and, in fact, cannot be drunk by the community without giving birth to drunkenness--_ergo_, moderate drinking is an immoral practice. He does not at all judge those who do not see it; only says they ought to accept light and knowledge, and he cannot doubt what would then be the result. _10th Mo. 17th_. The above talk with J. Teare was a great satisfaction to me; we went that evening to his meeting, and after two hours of deep interest in a crowded meeting I signed the pledge, with a hand trembling with emotion. I could not trust myself to tell S. that the pleasure he expressed was but a faint reflection of mine. I have been expending two days in a letter to the _Friend_ on "Distillation," which I ardently hope to get inserted. _11th Mo. 3d_. Last evening sweetly realized in some degree being in the Lord's own hands; and this morning again enabled to cease from my own vain attempts and trust the Lord. Oh, the folly of the long trials I have made to _do_ something, when I come before Him! It is all in vain. If I am ever saved it will be His doing, His _free grace_; and this moment can I call Jesus _my_ Saviour. On Fifth-day I read Barclay's fifth Proposition--pleased and satisfied almost entirely with it. _12th Mo. 5th_. I have got my letter inserted in the _Friend_; the editor says my zeal has carried me too far as to _means_; he agrees as to the evil of the system. Oh that it were seen as it deserves! But how talk of abolition by _law_, and keep spirit-merchants in the Church? [See _Friend_, vol. iv. page 232.] _12th Mo. 11th_.--Letter to M.B. * * * _Nothing_, I think, loses by its foundation being tried. We see that in yet higher things it is needful and right often to try whether principle is firm; and, though sometimes we may tremble lest faith should fall in the trial, perhaps it would be more just to fear lest the trial should merely show it already to have fallen. What thou sayest about laying aside reasoning is very true; but how hard to do so! Saul's armor doubtless it is, as says the little tract. How easy, comparatively, to let any want go unsatisfied, rather than that imperious reason which urges its claim with so many good pretences, which tells us truth will always bear investigation, and that if we cannot explain by our small faculties experiences in which the highest mysteries are involved, the experiences must have been fallacious! How different is _this sort_ of voluntary and almost presumptuous self-investigation from submitting all to the unerring touchstone! It is, indeed, very instructive to observe that our Saviour's rejoicing in spirit was not over the subjects of some wondrous apocalypse, or over those endowed with miraculous power, but over "babes;" and that in the same way His lamentation was not that the Jews had refused His offers of any thing of this kind, but that they "would not" be "gathered" by Him as "chickens under their mother's wing." It was the fault of my obscure expression, that when I spoke of my "painful reason" I did not make it apparent that I meant it of the _faculty_ of reason, which has been a very unquiet occupant of my mind for some years past, and which has led me to the conclusion that our mental atmosphere, the whole system of feelings, affections, hopes, doubts, fears, perplexities, etc., is one which it is dangerous _needlessly_ and wilfully to disturb. When once we have carelessly wrought up a storm it is not in our own power so quickly to lay it, and the poor mind is almost compelled to endure passively the disturbance till these unruly elements spontaneously subside, or something better interferes for its help. Surely, if there has been any resting-place given us, if our eyes have ever seen the "quiet habitation," we ought to fear the excitement of any thing which, naturally breaks the equilibrium. I believe some people think _imagination_ the unruly member among the mental parts; but with me it is the aforesaid offender decidedly. I hope I do not tease thee about teetotalism: it lies near my heart, and has done so for a long time; and though I too find it an effort sometimes to give up an evening to a meeting of that sort, it is such a comfort to be able to do any thing to show on which side I am, that I think I ought not to mind that. _1st Mo. 4th_, 1847. Yesterday, and the day before, gently blest in spirit with having things placed more in their right position in my heart than for some time before. One evening I had toiled long in vain, could not overcome a sad sense of spiritual deficiency. It occurred to me that this might be the very best thing for me: then I opened my heart and welcomed it; and, oh, how did a smile of compassion beam upon me, and the grace that would not be purchased came in full and free! But it is infinitely important to watch for more. Thus experiencing both "how to be abased" and "how to abound," she learned to be satisfied with poverty, and recognized in barrenness, as well as in richness of joy and love, a guiding and purifying grace, leading on to the perfect life in Christ. _1st Mo. 10th_. Letter to M.B. * * * Oh for that simple faith which thou speaks of as mastering mountains of difficulty, and that not by might or power, but by its intrinsically victorious nature! I have sometimes been struck by the way in which this is asserted in the text, "This is the victory which overcometh the world, even our faith." It is taken for granted that there will be a contest and a victory; but if there is true faith the world will certainly be overcome: I mean provided the faith is held fast. It may be abandoned, or foes within may betray the citadel; but it will not otherwise yield to pressure from without. May we, if possible, encourage one another not to let go that small, and, it may be, famishing and almost expiring confidence, which _hath_, not only is promised, great recompense of reward. I little thought to come to any thing so encouraging when beginning a sort of lamentation over myself. But really there is so much that is deceptive in the deceptive heart; so many things, even our humility, that we once thought of the right kind, turn out to have been some refined manifestation of spiritual pride, that we may daily find, at least I do, that the question "Who can cure it?" follows its judgment as "desperately wicked," with emphasis full as great as that of "Who can know it?" is prompted by the discovery that it is "deceitful above all things." * * * Job Thomas's death-bed has long been an interesting one to me; and I think his parting address, especially seeing it is a translation from Welsh, conveys remarkably the impression of a mind beginning to be shone upon from the other world. On the other hand, death-beds of opposite characters, such as "Altamont" in Murray's Power of Religion, carry a no less convincing evidence of the dark realities to come. When my father was in America he was much interested with hearing from a friend, a female connection of whom had lived in the house with Tom Payne, some account of the last hours of that wretched man, who appears to have become so fully sensible of his fatal errors as to have written a recantation, which some of his infidel friends destroyed. The account they gave to Cobbett was entirely false; as the friend related that he expressed to her the greatest sorrow for the harm that he had done, and, on hearing that she had burned some of his books, he expressed a wish that all had done the same.[2] [Footnote 2: For a farther account see Life of Stephen Grellet, vol. i. p. 163, Amer. edit.] * * * Total abstinence, as well as many other good Causes, and _the_ good cause, have lost a noble advocate in our honored and lamented friend J.J. Ghirney. It is hard to reconcile one's mind to so sudden a summons; so little time for his sorrowing friends to receive those ever valuable and precious legacies, "dying sayings." We have heard of nothing of that kind; and perhaps he was not conscious of the approach of death at all. So much the brighter, doubtless, the glad surprise of the transition. Oh, how one longs for permission to look in at heaven's opened door-way after the entrance of such souls! _1st Mo. 23d_. To-day, writing rhyming Irish, appeal. It got the upper hand and made me sin--so unhappy about it. When I believe sincerely desiring to offer it up to the Lord's, will, I grew easy to continue it. Perhaps it was a selfish and self-pleasing influence, but I think not so. I felt very glad afterwards to be able to ask to have all my heart consecrated by the Lord's spirit; and I do believe that to rectify, not extinguish, the beat of oar facilities, is religion's work. This appeal on behalf of the poor Irish was never made public. It had occupied her thoughts very deeply, and, had she seen fit to publish it, might have been an auxiliary to the material efforts on behalf of the sufferers in which she, in common with many others at that period, was warmly engaged. Many visits to poor people. In some I felt able to talk to them of heavenly things. I believe it is right to speak in love and interest, but never to out-strip our feelings. "I was sick, and ye visited me," refers to a duty; and surely, when we are blessed with a knowledge of the way of salvation, and feel anxious for the salvation of others, it is right to do our endeavors; at the same time well knowing that God only can touch the heart. I believe that indifference and indolence do much shelter themselves under pretence of leaving God's work to Himself. I have often learned salutary lessons in doing my little. _2d Mo. 19th_. I have been musing upon "_my sorrow was stirred_." Can it be that every heart is a treasury of sadness which has but to be stirred up to set us in mourning? Is it proportionate to the amount of evil? Does a certain amount of evil necessarily bring a certain amount of sorrow soon or late? Do we suffer only by our own fault, unless a grief is actually inflicted upon us? I think not. There may be mental storms, over-castings of cloud in the mind's hemisphere, independent of the exhalations from the soil. _2d Mo. 23d_. Letter to M.B. * * * The truth is, that I was once fonder of reading than of almost any thing else. * * * I don't know how to tell thee about the strangely sad impression that has followed, that "this also is vanity." I know it is our duty to improve our minds, and I wish much that mine had been better cultivated than it has been, and yet some utilitarian infirmity of mind has so often suggested, "What use is it?" while I have been reading, that my zest for the book has been almost destroyed, and the very thought of the volume has been saddened by remembering what I felt while reading it. So that what E. Barrett says of light reading is true to me of Schiller and some others:-- "Merry books once read for pastime, If we dared to read again, Only memories of the last time, Would swim darkly up the brain." I hope these feelings are not infectious, or I certainly would not inflict on thee the description. But do not take this as a _general_ picture of me. It is a morbid occasional state of things; consequent, by reaction, on the exclusiveness of aim with which those things were followed. I learned sooner than I suppose many do, the earnestness, coldness, reality of life; and there has come an impression of its being _too late_ to prepare for life, and quite time to live. However imperfectly, I have learned that to live _ought_ to be to prepare to die; but, without stopping to describe how that idea has acted, a secondary purpose of being of some use to others has. I might almost say, tormented my faculty of conscientiousness. Don't suppose that this is any evidence of religion or love. I believe it rather argues the contrary. Every attempt to do good ought to spring naturally from love to God and man; not from a wish merely to attain our _beau-ideal_ of duty. Now, though I so much like reading, I did not seem able to make any use of it; for strangely confused were long my ideas of usefulness, and there has followed many a conflict between these two unsanctified tendencies. Perhaps they have done some good in chastening each other and chastening their owner. Do not think I prospered in either, for I have, as I said, a poor memory; and then I wanted to see fruits of my labors, and spent a great deal of time in making charts; one of the history of empires, one of the history of inventions and discoveries; the latter, especially, was not worth the labor. I have had a taste of many things, and yet, to speak honestly, excel in hardly any thing: the reason of this is partly a great want of order. I never attempted any thing like a "course of reading:" but, when I began a book, _the_ _book_ was the object more than my own real improvement. I read often D.E.F., before I had read A.B.C., and so grew confused, and then, if it is to be confessed, the childish pride of having read a book was not without its influence. Poetry in modern times has certainly become diluted in strength and value; but, though I have not at all a large acquaintance, I think there are many good modern poets. I much admire Wordsworth's "Intimations of Immortality," as well as many of his shorter and simpler pieces--"The Longest Day," for instance. There is a great deal of good instruction, as well as deep thought, in his poetry; but there is not, I think, very clearly an evangelical spirit; indeed, the "Excursion," which is beautiful, is unsatisfactory to me in this respect. Longfellow I think not _clearly_ influenced by religious principle, but I do not see any thing contrary to it. Some of his short pieces are like little _gems_,--so beautifully _cut_, too. Elizabeth Barrett's [Browning] deep thoughts, rich poetical ideas, and thoroughly satisfactory principles, when they appear, [1846] make her a great favorite with me and with us all. Even her fictions, though so well told, are not wrought up, or full of romantic incident; but the tale is plainly used merely as a thread on which to string rich thoughts and lessons. How much this is the case with the "Lay of the Brown Rosary!" Even the sad pieces, such as the "Lost Bower," end generally with a gleam of light, not from a mere meteor of passion or sentiment, but from a day-spring of Christian hope. Perhaps I am too partial, for I know that taste, which in me is particularly gratified with E. Barrett, will influence our judgment. Some of Trench's poems, too, I think, are worth learning; his "Walk in the Churchyard" I particularly like. _3d Mo. 25th._ Letter to M.B. * * * But, oh, I do believe that if people did but accustom themselves to view small things as parts of large, moments as parts of life, intellects as parts of men, lives as parts of eternity, religion would cease to be the mere adjunct which it now is to many. * * * I am convinced that till it be made _the one_ object of our earnest love and endeavors, till we have an _upright_ heart, till the leader of the fir-tree points direct to heaven, and all lateral shoots not merely refrain from interfering, but mainly grow in order to support, nourish, and minister to it, we shall never have that perfect peace, that rest of spirit, that power to "breathe freely,"--conscious that we are _as_ if not _all_ that we ought to be,--which constitute the happiness of a Christian. But enough of this: don't think I pretend to any such attainment, though I can sometimes say, "I follow after." I much admired that part of Jane Taylor's "Remains" which describes her cheerful and unmurmuring acceptance of a humble quiet life, and her dislike of mere show and machinery in benevolence. I do not think the best public characters are those who accept formally, and for its own sake, a prominent station, but those who, following their individual duty, and occupying their peculiar gifts, are _thereby_ made honorable in the earth. To them, I fancy, _publicity_ is often an accident of small moment; and they who walk in the light of heaven mind little whether earthly eyes regard or disregard them. I do not, however, _covet_ for any one whom I love a conspicuous path. There must be many thorns and snares. _4th Mo. 4th_. Much interested with Hester Rogers's life. The Methodist standard of holiness is full as high as Friends'--_viz_. the gospel standard. Struck with the accordance with G. Fox's experience. He was asked if he had no sin, and answered, "Jesus Christ had put away his sin, and in Him (Jesus) is no sin." This was a young man. He grew much afterwards, doubtless, in faith and knowledge. What would be thought of a person, especially young, who should profess so much now? Is the gospel changed? It is, or we lack faith in its principle. We do not _perseveringly_ seek, _determinately_ seek, to know for ourselves what this high attainment is. Nice visit at the Union on First-day. Congregation enlarged, notwithstanding substitution of Bible for Tract, and very quiet. Cornelius, a helpless sick man, seeming near death, melted my heart with his talk. I felt quite unfit to be called a "sister" by such a saint. _4th Mo. 10th_. "To have had much forgiven" is, I can joyfully yet reverently record this evening, my blessed portion; and in the sense, which as a cloud of warmth and light now dwells in my heart, of the loving-kindness and tender mercy of God in Christ Jesus, I have been ready to say, in effect, "Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name," "who forgiveth all thine iniquities, who healeth all thy diseases, who redeemeth thy life from destruction, who crowneth thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies." How is all given me gratis, without money and without price! Nothing is mine but confusion of face for my oft-repeated rebellions. Oh, it is not that we can get salvation for ourselves; it is that we hinder not, refuse not, turn not from, but accept, wait for, pant for the free gift of our Saviour's grace. "To Him who is able to do exceeding abundantly," the work belongs. He can cause that even as sin hath reigned, so shall grace reign; and that as death hath triumphed, so shall spiritual and eternal life triumph also. Amen and amen. _4th Mo. 17th_. How short-lived were the feelings I recorded at the close of last week! I believe an earnest talk with a chatty caller on minor matters, recalled my heart that same evening from its happy abiding-place. I have thought of the words, "Jesus Christ _the end_ of your conversation," and fear he is but a _by-end_ of mine. It is hard to analyze our feelings: perhaps when discomfort from excitement and discontent is greatest, my sin is no greater than when in listless apathy and earthly-mindedness my thoughts are bounded by the seen and the temporal. _5th Mo. 24th_. A solemn warning from Uncle R. on Fifth-day did me good. I was blessed with some degree of ability to use the words, "Into Thy hands I commit my spirit," and though I feared to add, "Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord of truth," in its full sense, yet I have felt how precious were the words, "as unto a _faithful_ Creator." Oh, does He not say in _these_ days, "Open thy mouth wide, and I will fill it"? Is His hand shortened at all? Can we not have faith in our principles? The following lines were written about this, time, in allusion to the marriage of her eldest, sister, and the funeral of John Wadge, an old and valued friend of the family. It was hoped that the cactus which had belonged to J.W. would have blossomed in time for the wedding; but the first flower only opened a fortnight afterwards, on the morning of his own funeral: and when, in a few years, the marriage of the beloved writer of the lines was so speedily followed by her own decease, the striking appropriateness of these touching verses could not fail to be remembered. TO A CACTUS FLOWER. 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. She remarks in her Journal, after her return home:-- I stayed at Ipswich three weeks after the birth of my precious little niece, Frances Elizabeth; rejoicing in her daily growth, and calm trustful fearlessness--a lesson which nothing ever preached to me so loudly before. Respecting my spiritual state at Ipswich, I would say that great blessings, and I would fear great ingratitude, must be acknowledged. Some evening hours in my chamber were exceeding sweet, and some meetings solemn indeed. * * * I returned in rich and flowing peace. Many a lesson I had through my four months' absence, but none like that which awaited my return. My father met me at Plymouth; we reached home about eleven o'clock at night, and went at once to the chamber, where four months previously I last heard the voice of my uncle, and, though he still breathed, I was not to hear it again. He had sunk gradually for weeks, and now, though his lips moved a little, a word could not be heard. His face was sunk and pallid, his breathing uneasy, and his eyes were closed. After a short time we left, and at four o'clock in the morning, without a struggle, his spirit passed quietly away to his "eternal inheritance." "They that turn many to righteousness shall shine as the stars for ever and ever." I never, I believe, shall forget how forcibly came to my mind, as I sat beside his lifeless form, the words, "To this end Christ both died, and rose, and revived, that He might be Lord both of the dead and the living," and my thoughts turned on many a solemn and blessed trust implied in them. Her uncle, Samuel Rundell, died on the 4th of 5th Month, 1848, at the age of eighty-five. In the _Annual Monitor_ for the following year is a short Memoir of his life. It had been for some years a frequent occupation with Eliza, together with her sisters and cousins, to spend the long winter evenings with her aged uncle and aunt, and after the decease of the former these attentions were more constantly needed by the survivor. It was striking to notice Eliza's cheerful alacrity to relinquish, when her turn came round, her favorite pursuits, often for some weeks together, in order to comfort and enliven the declining days of this aged relative. _7th Mo. --th_. My mental condition a quiet but not painless one. I had been much favored, though in pain and trouble, amidst which I had a kind note from J.T., who says, "When at Liskeard, and since, I have believed that it might be said unto thee, 'The Master is come, and calleth for thee;' and I wish, if thou hast been made sensible of this, it may be thy very earnest concern to sit at His feet in great humility of mind, that thou mayst hear from season to season the gracious words that may proceed as out of His mouth. It may be that in the ordering of His gracious designs, He may see fit, as He has done with many others, to allure thee and bring thee into the wilderness; but I have no doubt that He will also give thee vineyards from thence, and thou wilt be made sensible that indeed it is His own right arm that has and will bring salvation unto thee" Though at present incapable of feeling as I have done, yet, being desirous of finishing up my Journal, I must acknowledge that great and gracious have been the dealings of my heavenly Father with me, causing me to rejoice in Him who has done for me "exceeding abundantly above all that I could ask or think," chiefly in the way, which I have found a very blessed way, of enabling me to give up my own will to His, and to be subject in things little and great to Himself. As far as I have known the yoke of Christ, it is indeed a sweet and easy yoke; and the chiefest sorrow which I have found during my endeavor to bear it has been from my aptness to throw it off. The worst of snares are the most secret. We are now quietly and unexcitedly at home; and I wish industriously to do my little duties, and follow my little callings: of these the Workhouse women supply one of the most satisfactory to myself. They are a sad sight; but I feel that my small labors with them are not rejected, but desired, and I hope to a few at least they may be of some use. On First-days I now first read a short tract, then read in the Testament two or three chapters, verse by verse, with the women, then hear them say hymns,--which three or four learn gladly: this fills the hour. And once in a week I like to go in and try to teach those who cannot read. I have much felt, lately, that it is vain to try as a mere satisfaction to conscience to do these things, because we _ought_: it must be from a better motive--true keeping of the "first and great commandment," and the second, which "is like unto it." No busy doings at home or abroad will ever do instead. _8th Mo. 5th. 7th-Day_. I must in thankfulness record free and great mercies this week. First-day was a happy one. In the morning rain and a cough kept me at home. I read the crucifixion and resurrection in different Evangelists, and cannot tell how meltingly sweet it was. Surely I did love Jesus then because He had first loved me. Sundry sweet refreshing brooks have flowed by my wayside, and some dry lonely paths I have trodden, (since,) but think He who is alone the foundation and corner-stone, immovable and undeceiving, has become more precious. Oh, how shall I be enough careful to trust him alone? I have got on a little with Gibbon's Rise and Fall, and have begun Neander on the Emperors, finished one volume of Goethe with L., and begun Milton with M., and English history with R. _9th Mo. 2d_. The week tolerably satisfactory; but how truly may we say, "A day in thy courts is better than a thousand"! This evening's unexpected, unsought, unasked, free, gratuitous mercy has made the last two hours worth more than some whole days of this week. Oh, how kind is He who knows how to win back and attract to Himself by imparting ineffable desires after what is good, even to a heart that has grown dry and dead and worldly! I have thought that some measure of our growth in grace may be found in the degree in which our carnal natural reluctance to receive Christ back into our vessel, come how He may, is diminished. How full of significance is the inquiry, "To whom is the arm of the Lord revealed?" Blessed revelation; and well is it for those who feel ready to adopt the prayer, "Awake, awake, O arm of the Lord," if they know the way of its coming. Oh, how does its acceptance presuppose an experience of something of the kind, so awfully set forth as from Omnipotence Himself!--"I looked, and there was no man, therefore mine own arm brought salvation unto me." Yes, it is when He sees that we have no human expectance or confidence left, and are, as it were, at our wits' end; it is then that His own arm brings salvation, that He says, "Stand still, and see the salvation of God; for the Lord shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace." Oh, how great the condescension which has given me a glimpse of "so great salvation"! But I have remarked that it never has been in answer to any questionings or searchings of my own. Some great perplexities I have had lately, being so unable to satisfy myself how far religion or its duties should be the act of ourselves--so confused about prayer, etc. Difficulties, hardly capable to be put into words, put me in real distress; but the good seems to be _revealed_, if I may use such a word, to another part of me; or, as I. Pennington would say, "to _another eye_ and _ear_ than those which are so curious to learn." The Lord grant that I may at last become an obedient and truly teachable child; for that faculty, whatsoever it be, that asks vociferously, seems not to be the one which, as I.P. says, "_graspingly receives,"_ but is rather a hinderance to its reception. _10th Mo. 14th_. Outwardly, the chief variety in my experience has been an interesting visit with my mother at Kingsbridge and Totness. A solitary walk in the garden at Totness, on First-day afternoon, I think I can never forget. No sunshine--though not mere darkness--was upon me during nearly all the week: yet I wondered to find that at Kingsbridge, though visiting was a constant self-denial, in withdrawing me from the earnest search in which I was engaged, I got on more easily than common, and felt much more love than usual to my friends. The first gleam of sunshine did not come through any man's help, but in my lone matin the day after our return. I tried to cast my care on God, and on Seventh-day morning was favored with a blessed evidence that He did care for me. Since then it has not been repeated; but earnest have been my cries in secret to my heavenly Father, whose mercies indeed are great; and my lonely hours have been employed mostly in seeking Him, having little taste for reading of any general kind. One morning in particular, at Trevelmond, in the plantation, waiting for my father, was my heart poured out to God. Calmness has often succeeded; and then I dread the coming of indifference and coolness. Oh, this is surely the worst of states! I had rather endure almost any amount of anguish. Yesterday, the probability that my course on earth may be short occurred forcibly. I recurred to the words quoted by J.T., "The sting of death is sin," with encouragement to hope for "the victory." However, the future is not my care. May I be the care of Him whose care the future is, and then---- _10th Mo. 22d_. At home with a cold, and may just record my poor spirit's lowness and poverty amid, as I trust, its honest desires to become wholly the Lord's. "Ye ask, and have not, because ye ask amiss, that ye may consume it upon your lusts," is surely true of spiritual food. We should desire it that we "may grow thereby," not from mere spiritual voluptuousness; and, oh, in my own desires for the will of God to be done, how often have I not known what spirit I was of! How often have I been tenaciously standing on the very ground that I was asking to have broken up and destroyed! A short lone meeting in the parlor, blest chiefly with humiliation, and this I would regard as a blessing. Letter to ----. I am tempted to spend a few lonely minutes in thanking thee for thy truly kind salutation, advice, and encouragement; though I fear to say much in reply. I hope and trust thou art not altogether mistaken in me: in one respect I know thou art not,--that I have seen of the mercy and love of a long-suffering Saviour, whom I do at times desire to love and serve with all my heart; and not the least of His blessings I esteem it that any of His children should care for me for His sake. I dread depending on any, even of these, which, as well as the fear of man, I have found does bring a snare; and as far as experience goes, I seem to have tasted more of the "tree of the knowledge of good and evil" than of the "tree of life;" which, however, I would fain hope, "yielding its fruit every month," has some for the wintry season of darkness and of frost. Yes, my dear friend, thou hast rightly judged in this also, that the winter is sometimes very cold, and the night very dark. May thy desires for me be accomplished, that these may indeed work for my good; much as the utter absence of feeling would sometimes tempt me to think it the result of that worst of all sentences, "Let her alone;" to which the added memories of many a "mercy cast away" are very ready to contribute. Am I in this repining? I hope not; for every day brings fresh cause to acknowledge that because my enemies, though lively and strong, "do not quite triumph over me," therefore I may still trust that He favoreth me. It is seldom that I write or speak in this way of myself. May we learn more and more of the utter insufficiency of any earthly thing, or of any power of our own to do what is essential for our salvation, and then, when we hang solely and entirely on the Lord Jesus, we shall be safe. Of this I feel no doubt or fear:--the fear is of having confidence in any thing besides, of spiritual pride, of self-sufficiency. Yes, I find self has many lives, and the very sorrows and humiliations of one day, if we do not beware, may become the idols of the next. "We have eaten and drunk in thy presence:" can such a language ever be used in vain-glory, while we remember "the wormwood and the gall," which we now see to have been administered in fulfilment of His own words, "Ye shall indeed drink of my cup"? Indeed, it seems to me that nothing is too high, too good, or too pure for Satan to make use of, if he can but get us and it into his hands. May the Lord be pleased to rebuke this devourer for our sakes, and give at length to the often-desponding heart to know that Himself hath promised, "when the wicked are cut off, thou shalt see it," and that the "God of peace shall bruise Satan under our feet." _12th Mo. 4th_ To the same. * * * I am sorry for thy physical state, yet doubtless it is but the inverted image of a counterbalancing mental good, which is, or is about to be, perhaps to signify that "God doth not need Either man's works or His own gifts; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best; They also serve who only stand and wait." It is surely not for the value of the service itself, that He calls for it so long and so repeatedly, till at last the iron sinew gives way: no, but for the sake of bending the iron sinew itself, and when it _is_ bent in one direction, I conclude He does not mean to stiffen it there, but would have it bend perhaps back to the very same position as at first it was so hard to bend it _from_, with this one wide difference, that in the first case it was so in its own will, but now in His will. Perhaps thou thinkest I am darkening counsel: I do not wish to do so, but write just how things have happened to me in my small way. Ought we not to be willing to be bent or unbent any way? and if a bow is to "abide in strength," it must be unbent when it is not wanted. But as we have all different places to fill, and different dispositions and snares, and besetments, we must not measure ourselves among ourselves. It is indeed very good, as thou sayest, to be sometimes alone, and at times I trust I have found it so; but it has its dangers also, especially to me, who am perhaps more apt to make self of too much importance than to shrink from "due responsibility and authority." Indeed, this latter word belongs not to me at all, and if I may but keep life in me, (or have it kept,) well indeed will it be. Oh, till we have grace enough willingly to do the smallest matters, thankfully to "sit in the lowest room," meekly and patiently to be put out of our own way, and see our plans and intentions frustrated, and find ourselves of small account or value in the Church or in the world, yes, till we have grace enough to forget self altogether, "content to fill a little space, so thou art glorified," I know not where is our claim to be followers of Him "who made Himself of no reputation." I am very far from this. Couldst thou have seen how much hold the many small duties of my lonely week have taken on my mind, how little time I have found for the purpose for which we both value solitude, and how much my "lightly stirred" spirit has been hurried about from one object to another, I fear thou wouldst scarcely think even this note other than presumptuous. Oh, how should I be rebuked by the thought, "One thing is needful, and but one: Why do thy thoughts on many run?" _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 the year seasons return, but not to me." It would, however, be most ungrateful to complain. To live at all is a _great_ favor--an undeserved and unspeakable favor; and though it be a life of pain and weariness, and even grief, may it never become a life of thankless ingratitude! We who have tried our heavenly Father's patience so long, dare we complain of waiting for Him? _4th Mo. 13th_. Letter to M.B. * * * However high be the capacity of the mind, it is humiliating to find what small things can distract it, if its anchor-hold be not truly what and where it ought to be; and who does not find the need of this being often renewed and made fast? The little experience I have had, that even a life comparatively free from trial, except as regards its highest significance, "is but vanity," and the belief that it is so infinitely surpassed by another, has much modified to me the feeling of witnessing (might I venture to say of _anticipating?)_ the transition for others or for myself. I nevertheless cannot say much from experience; for it has not yet been my lot to lose one of my own intimate or nearly attached friends, except where the course of time had made it a natural and inevitable thing; and I know there must be depths of sorrow in such events only fathomed by descending to them. _4th Mo.--th_. Letter to M.B. What a privilege it is to be permitted to expect and look for a better guidance than our own judgment or inclination, even in the small things of our small lives; small though they are, compared with the great events which are ruled by our heavenly Father's will, how much is involved in them as far as _we_ are concerned! and we need not measure the controlling care of Providence by the abstract greatness or littleness of any event. Compared with His infinity, the fate of an empire would be not more worthy of His care than the least event of our lives; but it is _love_--the same wonderful love that can comfort and bless the dying-pillow of a little one, in which we want more practical faith for our safe conduct through this uncertain life. Did we _live_ in such a faith, it would be sweet and easy to _die_ in it. _4th Mo. 30th. Bristol_. Yesterday was a memorable day to me; the evening meeting found me very sad and burdened; when I thought I was made sensible of something like an offer from One who is infinite in power and love, to take this burden away, to bear it Himself, and to do in me His own will. There seemed something like a covenant set before me, that all this should be done for me on condition of my acquiescence with and subjection to that supreme will, that I should refuse neither to suffer His own work within me nor to do His manifested will. It may be that I stamp too highly what was most gently and calmly spread before my heart. It may be that the relief, the peaceful calm, which followed my endeavor to unite with this precious proposal, was a mistaken thing; but I believe not. Strikingly in unison with all this was the evangelical and practical sermon of S. Treffry which followed, and my feelings in returning home and sitting down alone for a few minutes to seek a confirmation, were like a seal to all that I had heard in meeting. This morning I am far from rich or lively, but seem bound neither to doubt nor to complain; but only and constantly to endeavor to submit every thought of my heart to my dear Saviour's will; and thus, after many a tossing, I have been enabled to say, "I rest my soul on Jesus,-- This weary soul of mine." There may I ever be, O Lord. _5th Mo. 13th. First-day evening_. Oh that here I might once more set up my Ebenezer, and say, "Hitherto Thou hast helped me, O Lord." "My Father's arms, and not my own, were those that held me fast." Ah! my own hold in the last fortnight has often relaxed, though many a heart-tendering evidence have I had that "He is faithful that hath promised." Yesterday morning when I awoke, dead as ever in myself, some sweet whisper of goodness at hand saluted my ear, and, oh, it was but a sound of the abundance of heavenly rain that soon made my heart overflow. _8th Mo. 4th_. Letter to ---- * * * At our Monthly Meeting, only a few words from ----, advising young ones to be patient and submissive. And surely we may well be thankful to learn so wholesome a lesson, seeing how many sorrows we have often brought upon ourselves by the contrary disposition, and how faithful is the promise that "the meek He will guide in judgment and teach His way." How contemptible, as well as sinful, that rebellious spirit sometimes appears (when we honestly weigh it) that wants to make in its own special favor exceptions to the wise management of our kind and gracious heavenly Father! Oh, why should we prolong our woes by such perversity, when we feel at times as if it would be our highest joy to be what He would have us to be, and our very meat and drink to do His will? _8th Mo. 13th_. This evening we had a precious meeting indeed. A solemn silence, in which much had been felt, was followed by a fervent prayer from ----. Truly my heart's response was, "Let thine own work praise thee." Do I write too much if I record the blessing of ability to crave for myself this evening an increased knowledge of and obedience to the Shepherd's voice, and that no disguise of Satan may ever impose on me for this? _9th Mo. 7th_. Letter to M.B. * * * I often wonder at the attractions so many find in merely following the multitude in their recreations. * * * Do we not sometimes find, if our honest wish is to refresh ourselves for duty, and not to escape from it, that even our rest and recreation is owned by a blessing to which one would not for all the world be strangers? How kind was He who had welcomed back his faithful twelve from their labors for others, when He said, "Come ye _yourselves_ apart into a desert place, and rest a while; for there were many coming and going, and they had no leisure so much as to eat." But even then they were to learn no selfish indolence, and rest was quickly laid aside to share their morsels with thousands. If we were always His companions, did "all our hopes of happiness stay calmly at His side," how would our sitting down to rest and rising up to toil be alike blessed! And then, when the scene is changed, and sorrow and care become our portion, the same who was our joy in prosperity will be our refuge in adversity; and "because thou hast made the Lord thy habitation, there shall no evil befall thee." I write my wishes for us both; may it be thus with thee and me, and when it is well with thee, think of one who longs sometimes to know these things for herself. But how well it is that our safety is in other hands than ours! how often, had it depended even on our continued desire for that which is good, had all been over with us! "Thy parents' arms, and not thy own, Were those that held thee fast." _11th Mo. 4th_. "Hunted with thoughts," as J. Crook so truly describes it, "up and down like a partridge on the mountains," often feeling in meeting as if nothing could be compared with the joy of _resting_ in Jesus, a rest to which I am still much a stranger; no more able to command the mob of unquiet thoughts than to hush the winds. At other times, as this evening in my chamber, a sort of strained anguish of soul, wherein my desire has been that my eyes might he ever toward the Lord, that He, in His own time, may pluck my feet out of the net. The mental pain I have passed through makes _some_ escape seem most desirable. If to lay down the body were all I needed to escape, and I were fit for it, how willingly would I accept such an invitation! But I dare not ask it, nor any other thing, but only that He who alone can, may make me in His own time what He would have me to be; and this evening I have been thinking that the painful feelings I suffered might be the means appointed for freeing me from the bondage of the worldly mind, and from those tormenting, hurrying thoughts. Oh, be it so; whether by means utterly incomprehensible to me, or not, be the needful work done. I trust the comprehension is not needed; and that the simplicity and submission which _are_ needed may be granted me; and that still [if] my enemies be expelled, as I hope they will be by "His own arm," (as dear J.T. said,) their presence will not be laid to my charge. Alas, that I am so often guilty of dallying with them! What wonder that the wilderness is so long and tortuous, when I reckon the molten calves, the murmurings, the fleshly desires? _1st Mo. 17th_, 1850. Letter to M.B. * * * Canst thou feel any sympathy or compassion for one who pleads guilty to the folly of a flurried mind, "wasting its strength in strenuous idleness," and that, too, with open eyes, seeing its own weakness and despising it? One of the worst things such a folly includes is that it allows no leisure to the mind; whereas, I believe well-ordered minds, however much care may be placed upon them, can throw this aside, when not necessarily engaged, and repose in the true dignity of self-command. This is, I believe, some people's natural gift; but it surely ought, by supernatural means, to be within every one's reach if only the government were on the shoulders of the "Prince of Peace." Oh, how much that means! What "delectable mountains!" What "green pastures!" What "still waters!" What "gardens enclosed!" What "south lands," and "springs of water," are pictured in that _beau-ideal_ "on earth as it is in heaven"! Well my second page has spoken of a land very far off from the haunted region described in the first; but to "turn over a new leaf" is easier in a letter than in a life. Thy idea of the next ten years altering us less than the last will perhaps prove true; but, oh, the painful doubts that force themselves on me, whether the present channel is such that we can peacefully anticipate it only as deepening, and not as having an utter change of direction! How much harder to live in the world and not be of it than to forsake it altogether! So lazy self says; and, in turning from present duty, tries to justify itself by the excuse that it would willingly leave this world for another. _2d Mo. 4th. First-day evening_. Little as I have felt inclined to put pen to paper of late, I thought this evening that some small memento might be left, as it were, at this point of the valley, just to say, Here were the footsteps of a weary halting pilgrim at such a time--one that brought no store of food or raiment, no supply of wisdom or subtlety, no provision for the way, nothing but wounds and weaknesses, household images, secret sins; but by favor of unspeakable long-suffering, continuing unto this day--and, as she would fain hope, not deserted. A. troop of thoughts doth grievously overcome her, and faint is her hope that she shall overcome at the last; yet does she desire to set up the Ebenezer, if not of rejoicing, which as yet cannot be, yet of humble hope, in a cloudy and dark day, that He who has said, "Light and gladness are sown for the upright in: heart," will yet verify His promise in the day-spring of the light of His countenance, if any measure of integrity remain within. Oh, that He may keep, as the apple of His eye, that which a troop of robbers are watching to spoil, and may provide it with a hiding-place in His pavilion of love! And for one thing is my earnest wish directed to Him, that, unable as I am to direct my own steps aright, He would provide a leader for me, and a willing heart within me, and grant me _enough_ of His guidance to keep me in the way, and enough of a willingness to walk therein and not stumble. _3d Mo. 7th_, Letter to M.B. * * * I know well that impatience will sometimes put on the pretence of something much better, and that we shall never run to good purpose unless we "run with patience." Unhappily, a slow gradual progress is sadly opposed to my inconstant nature, and after one of the many interruptions it meets with, how prone am I to wish for some flying leap to make up for the past! It seems so hard a thing to get transformed, and therefore--strange inconsistency indeed--one would be translated. But truly it might be said, "Ye know not what ye ask." * * * I have been interested with reading the early part of "No Cross, no Crown," and especially the chapter on lawful self, where the receiving back again, as Abraham did Isaac, the lawful pleasures which had been resigned to the Divine will, is so nicely spoken of; and I do believe it explains the cause of half the gloom of would-be Christians. They do not quite refuse, nor quite resign their hearts, and so they are kept, not only without true peace, but without the enjoyment of those earthly goods which have been called for, not to deprive their owners of them, but to be restored in _this life_ "an hundredfold." How is it to be wished that these half measures were abandoned, and that if we have put our hand to the plough, we might not look back, as we so often have done, to the unfitting ourselves for that kingdom which is not only righteousness, but peace and joy. "That your joy may be full," is plainly the purpose of our Saviour towards His children; and yet how many, as Macaulay says, "have just enough religion to make them unhappy when they do wrong, and yet not enough to induce them to do right." _5th Mo. 28th_. It is an unspeakable blessing to be permitted and enabled to pray. How can I be sufficiently thankful that it has been mine? Last night my heart was fervently engaged towards my God; and this evening, though the sense of my utter destitution and weakness was very painful, was it not a blessing if it led me to Him? I have thought of the test, "In quietness and confidence shall be your strength." There is danger in fleshly confidence; yet there is no strength, but a new danger in fleshly fear. Oh, I would be stripped of _all_ fleshly dispositions of whatever kind, or however specious: they war against the soul; but because mine enemy has not quite triumphed over me, may I not believe that _He_ favoreth me in whose favor is life, and whose is a faithful love? Oh for its perfect dominion in me! His will is my sanctification, my perfection. It is His "good pleasure to give me the kingdom"--even to me. Amazing grace! What in me but my greatest foe could hinder the full adoption of the prayer, "Thy will be done"? _6th Mo. 3d_. The little measure of faith I have is not worn out, but rather purified and strengthened; but, oh, when I think of the reality, the momentous import, of the change of nature from sin to holiness, which has to be effected, what a baptism may I not have yet to be baptized with, and what perils to pass through! Oh, if it might please my heavenly Father to shorten and hasten the process, and deliver me from earth and its dangers into a changeless state of safety and peace in His dear presence! But I do believe He would rather be glorified by living Christians than by only dying penitents. A watchful, holy life is His delight. Oh that this high calling may not be slighted or cast away! The near approach of my birthday has led me to look back over the brief notes of twelve months. The interesting details we have received of the Yearly Meeting remind me of what I felt at the conclusion of the last. The Lord has again been with the Church's gathering, faithful as of old, and, where seats were vacant, hath filled His people with joy. _6th Mo. 5th_. I wish simply to record how last night, when in bed, I was favored with a calm, watchful frame, and lay enjoying the mental repose till long after my usual hour of sleep. This morning at breakfast-time it was renewed, with a sweet sense of the willingness of our heavenly Father to enable His children to serve Him. He made them for that end: it is His will that they should do so. It cannot be that He will refuse them the indispensable assistance. How sweet was this feeling! but hurry, and too much care about little things, sadly dissipated me in the day. This evening I have had a gracious gift of some of those _Sabbath_ feelings again, after reading the seventeenth chapter of Jeremiah. The verses referring to the Sabbath-day, and bearing no burden therein, were solemnly instructive. The utter inability of my natural heart to attain or retain such a state shows me the necessity of all being done for me through faith in Divine power, "His name, through faith in His name." Oh for watchfulness unto prayer continually, and that the cumber of earth may be cast away! "Take heed that your flight be not in the winter," has been my watchword, though how imperfectly obeyed! and if, through infinite mercy, the season be changing, if He who has faithfully kept me from utter death there-through is beginning to give me more of rest, oh, let me never forget the solemn addition, "neither on the Sabbath day." _6th Mo. 13th_. * * * I wish now to record the very solemn and encouraging visit of James Jones from America to our meeting this day. How wondrously did he speak of trials and afflictions, and the necessity of entire resignation through all! Though oceans of discouragement and mountains of difficulty loom up before thee, thou wilt be brought through the depths dry-shod, and be enabled to adopt the language, "What ailed thee, O thou sea, that thou fleddest, and ye mountains, that ye skipped like rams?" Thou wilt be "led through green pastures, and beside still waters," speaking of the call to service in the Church, which he believed was to some in an especial manner in the early stages of life. I heard all; but such was my dejection that I seemed to _receive_ little, though I could not but feel the power. I seemed incapable of taking either hope or instruction to myself. J.J. left us after dinner, and, on taking leave, took my hand in a very solemn manner, and, after a few minutes silence, said, tenderly, but authoritatively, "If the mantle falls on thee, wear;" words which will long live in my heart. Would that the power which sent them may fulfil them! None other can. _7th Mo. 1st_. Last week at Plymouth Quarterly Meeting. An interesting time. I trust that which silenced and solemnized my spirit was something better than myself. What could I do but endeavor to lie down in passiveness under it, and crave that nothing might interfere to mar the work of the Lord? Much was said to encourage the hope that those who truly love the Lord will at length be brought into more peace and liberty in Him; that He will qualify them to fill just that place He designs for them in His house. Oh, how I long to become that, and that only, which pleases Him, that neither height nor depth might separate me from His love! And when I think of the deceitfulness of my heart, the danger of being lifted up seems so appalling that the former deliverance seems yet greater than the latter. _7th Mo. 23d_. I have been glad to be released from some of my charges and cares, as well as to share the loving interests of home with all my dear sisters, and trust it is not all laziness which makes me shrink from engaging in new though useful objects. I seem to have much need of quiet, and have enjoyed many hours with dear F.'s precious children. Often, as now, I am very destitute, and sometimes very sad; but sometimes, though rarely, "all is peace." Long shall I remember a moonlight half-hour, on Sixth-day, in the fields and garden, where I sat down to enjoy the cool of the day, and for a time all sorrow was far away, and the very "Prince of Peace" did seem to reign. Then did I feel I had not followed "a cunningly-devised fable," and the precious words did comfort me, "If children, then heirs." But, oh, how otherwise I often am! how utterly destitute! This day we have had a sweet little visit from ----. His encouragement to the tribulated children saluted my best life, overborne as it felt with the burden of unregenerate nature--ready to say, "Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?" and, amid many a giving way to the worryings of earthly thoughts, struggling to say, "Lord, I believe: help thou mine unbelief." Often have I remembered dear Sarah Tuckett's encouraging words, "But through all, and underneath all, will be the everlasting Arms." Amen, and amen. _8th Mo. 4th._ Still, still amen, says my poor weak spirit, in the remembrance of "goodness tried so long," of the faithful love of my heavenly Father, which melted my spirit on the morning of Fifth-day week, with the blessed hope that I had not followed "a cunningly-devised fable" in seeking a nearer union with my Saviour. I little thought what was awaiting me that day--a very important proposal from ----, put into my hands by my father. After glancing at the contents, I laid it aside, to seek for a little calmness before reading it, and needed all that morning's manna to strengthen my conviction, "Thou art my Father." Into _His_ hands I have sought to commit myself and my all, trusting that a covenant with everlasting love will not be marred by aught beneath the skies. Some precious feelings have I since enjoyed; "And one of them shall not fall to the ground without your Father," "Ye are of more value than many sparrows," have been almost daily in my heart. On Sixth-day, after spending the afternoon in the country with a cheerful party, before going to bed, such a blessed sense of my heavenly Father's presence and love was vouchsafed me, that every uneasy thought was swallowed up in-the precious conviction, "I know in whom I have believed." This love did indeed appear the "pearl of great price," and all else as "dust in the balance." _8th Mo. 20th_. Last week I was once or twice favored with a precious feeling of Divine love. At one time my earnest sense of need and desire to seek Him to whom I could appeal amid many a recollection of past transgressions, in the words, "Thou knowest that I love thee," was most sweetly followed by the remembrance of the words, "I remember thee, the kindness of thy youth, the love of thine espousals; when thou wentest after me in the wilderness, in a land that was not sown." At another time the precious promise, "Because thou hast made the Lord thy habitation, there shall no evil befall thee," came livingly before me, and then I felt how far short of the terms I had fallen. Oh, how preciously did I feel the worth of an atonement! how my Saviour's pardon did not only remove the burden of guilt, but really reinstate me in the privileges which my backslidings had forfeited, so that the promise of safety was still mine! * * * _9th. Mo. 20th_. [Alluding to a visit from some friends.] How precious are these marks of our Father's love! His eye is surely on us, and His hand too, for good. May we never, may _I_ never, do any thing to frustrate His merciful designs! Very various has been my state--so dead and earthly, sometimes, that I may indeed feel that in me "dwelleth no good thing," but now and then so filled with desires after God, that I feel assured that they come from Himself. _9th Mo. 26th_. This afternoon, in a lonely walk, my sorrow was stirred, and I hope I prayed for mercy; but it has been hard to keep any hold of the anchor. But what! shall I leave my only Helper because of my evil case--my only Physician because of my desperate disease? I can take comfort in the thought that He knows the worst, and that He has sworn eternal enmity to sin. Then, if He loves me, a sinner, He must be willing and able to save me; and Jesus Christ is the mediator between God and man, that He may be the perfect divider between the sinner and his sin. Oh, what a work is this--which none but Omnipotent grace can do! Oh, be it done for me. _11th Mo. 20th_. Letter to M.B. [Alluding to her prospect of marriage.] * * * How does such an occasion teach one the weakness of human nature, and our utter dependence on our heavenly Father's preserving care, who "knows our frame and remembers that we are but dust." And if we can in truth say, "If Thy presence go not with me, carry me not up hence," and endeavor to decide in His fear. I hope we may trust, that if it be not of Him, something will be provided for our rescue, and that if it be, He will remember His ancient promise, "My presence shall go with thee, and I will give thee rest." _1st Mo. 4th_, 1851. So very much has happened since I made my record here, that I scarcely know where to begin. Never did a year end thus with me. I had almost called it the most important of my life; and certainly it is so as regards time, and also a very important one as regards eternity. Now I find my hopes, my interests, my anticipations, my every feeling and affection, have a strong reference to another than myself--one whom I believe the Providence of a merciful, heavenly Father has led me to regard with esteem and love, as a sharer in the future portion of the path, of life. Surely it has been a serious thing, much as I have fallen short in the duties of my present favored and sheltered lot, to consent to undertake responsibilities so weighty and untried; and yet I have cause to hope in the mercy of Him who has helped me hitherto, whose covenant is an everlasting covenant, even a covenant of peace, that shall never be removed by any earthly change. Oh that it may never be forsaken by me! Oh that every breach may be forgiven me! Oh that the wisdom that is from above may be my safeguard and director! How has it comforted me, in thinking of leaving such dearly-loved ones behind, to feel that one Friend above all others, whose love has been the most precious joy of my life, will go with me, and be with me forever, and, I trust, bind in that bond of heavenly love, even more and more closely, the spirits He, I trust, has brought together, and make us one another's joy in Him! Now that we are at home in the quiet round of duties and employments which have filled so many (outwardly at least) peaceful years, and that perhaps my continuance among them reckons but by months, oh for a truly obedient, affectionate, filial spirit, both to my heavenly Father and the precious guardians of my childhood! I have strongly felt that my highest duty towards him with whom my future lot may be linked, as well as my own highest interest, is to live in the love and fear of God. Many deficiencies I shall doubtless be conscious of! but if I may live, and we may be united in the love and fear of God, all, all will be well. Oh, then, to be watchful and prayerful! _1st Mo. 25th_. Letter to M.B. * * * There is much, very much, connected with any experience in these matters calculated to teach us that this is not our rest; and often have I thought, when pondering the uncertain future, that but for the small degree in which the hope of things beyond, steadfast and eternal, keeps its hold, I should be ready to sink; and then I think of kind rich promises on which I try to lay hold, "Thy shoes shall be iron and brass," and "As thy day, so shall thy strength be." And so, dear M., I trust it will be with us all, if our trust be but rightly placed; and in this I fear I have sometimes, perhaps often, been mistaken. I am sure it is well to have this sifted and searched into, and none of the pains which must attend such a process are in vain. When we have learned more fully what and how frail we are, then we can better appreciate the help that is offered, and the abundant blessing of peace when it does come. The depth of our own capacity for suffering is known to few of us; and when we have made a little discovery of it, some short acquaintance with the dark cold caverns of hopeless woe into which it is possible to fall, even when all externally is bright and apparently prosperous, how thankful then should we feel for the daylight of hope! Perhaps I am using strong language. I would not use it to every one, but I think thou knowest that words are feeble rather than strong to express what may be the real portion of one whom spectators look on as very happy; and I do feel sure that not a grief that can befall us even in this hidden world of ours, but _may_ be the stepping-stone to a joy with which also a stranger doth not intermeddle; and how shall we sooner find it than by "casting all our care on Him who careth for us"? "He knoweth our frame, and remembereth that we are dust, and is touched with a feeling of our infirmities." _3d Mo. 14th_.--Letter to M.B. * * * I am abundantly convinced that if we can find the right place and keep it, and endeavor to fulfil its duties, whatever they may be, _there_ is our safety, and _there_ is our greatest peace; and what a blessing to know in any degree where the knowledge and the power are both to be obtained! * * * _6th Mo. 21st_. After a fortnight's visit to my dear aunts, I followed Louisa to Tottenham. Many an occasion of deep instruction was offered to us at the Yearly Meeting; and yet from all this what remains? A solemn inquiry for all; and how much so for me, now that every principle of the heart and mind must prepare to encounter unwonted exercise and trial, now that I daily need all that I can have in a peculiar manner, and now that the future, amid the hopeful calm which it sometimes assumes, will sometimes almost frown upon me with lowerings of fear? Fear it is, not of others, but of myself, and fear of the ignorance or precipitancy of my yet but very partially regulated mind. Oh for that other fear which only "is a fountain of life, preserving from the snares of death!" Oh for that love which casteth out the slavish fear, and maketh one with what it loves--first with that God from whom it comes, and then with those in whom it dwells! Dwell, oh, that it may, in our two hearts, their best, their first, their strongest, dearest bond, and dwell, too, in the hearts of those I leave behind, and cause that still and henceforth we may be "together though apart"! The responsibility of having so important an office to fulfil towards any fellow-being as that of sharing in, influencing, and being influenced by all his wishes, actions, and tendencies, has felt very serious. * * * * Never before had I so strong a sense of the identity of our highest duty towards ourselves and towards each other; and that _to live_, and _to be as_ and _what_ we ought, in the best sense, is the chief requisite for influencing one another for good. _6th Mo. 24th_. Though I have this morning been helped and comforted, I must confess much unsubdued evil has manifested itself even within these few days. The bitter waters within, the tendency to what is evil, the corrupt root, have sadly appeared.--Oh, there is the one cause, not minding enough the good part which shall not be taken away, and so disquieted at the loss or disturbance of lower things. "How shall we escape if we _neglect_ (not only _reject_) such great salvation?" I was made mercifully sensible, last night and this morning, that such is our Father's love, that His aim is chiefly to bestow, our duty to receive, that He calls and invites; but it is not that we may work a performance of our own, but receive His own good things. Oh, the folly, the ingratitude, of being inattentive to such a blessing! Oh, the rebellious pride of choosing our own self-will, and our own way, when the privilege may be ours of becoming the obedient and loving children of God--of receiving from Him the willing and the obedient heart which we may offer up to Him again, and which He will accept! _6th Mo. 30th_. Letter to M.B. [Alluding to various engagements.] * * * These "fill the past, present, and future" of these last months at home with many and various occupations and meditations. It is a blessing not to be more disturbed within, if it be but a safe calmness. Oh, that is a large condition; but how unsafe is all calmness resulting from shutting our eyes from the truth of our worst side! Yet I think when we can really be glad at the thought that our worst side is seen and known, there is some hope of remedy and of peace, and (may I not say?) _alliance_ with the Physician who has all power and skill. Then only can we welcome any thing, however trying, which we can believe comes from His hand, or may tend to make us any nearer the pattern we strive for, or any more likely to fulfil rightly the serious part we have to take in life. _7th Mo. 16th_. I hope I do sincerely desire to seek for strength to cast my many burdens on Him who careth for me; and, oh, if I did but live in the spirit, and walk in the spirit, more faithfully, surely I should know more of what it is to "be careful for nothing," but in every thing to make known my requests unto God. Quiet is most congenial. Oh that the few weeks remaining to me here, may all be given to Him who alone can bless! But this desperate heart--might it not well be despaired of? I trust I have got to this point, "God be merciful to me a sinner." "Let me fall now into the hands of the Lord, for His mercies are great," and not into-human hands, nay, _not my own_. I thought I saw some sweetness in the words, "By His stripes ye are healed." _7th Mo. 17th_. Why do I not feel that nothing I can _do_ is so important as what I _am_, and that things without had better be ever so much neglected, than things within set wrong for their sake? _7th Mo. 21st_. Had very comfortable feelings yesterday in meeting. Oh, it was joyful to believe that God was near to bless and to forgive. This evening, I have longed to commit my soul and its keeping into my Father's hands. Oh for a little more faith in His infinite, everlasting mercy! To come even boldly to the throne of grace, is the high calling even of those most in need of mercy. _7th Mo 26th_. Letter to C.B.C. * * * I hope that so far I have been favored with a measure of real help and good hope, though often sensible of multiplied difficulties and dangers, amid the desire to maintain such a state of mind and feeling as I ought. Perhaps the strong light in which I have often perceived how the best earthly hope may be blighted or blasted, even when all seems outwardly favorable, is a true blessing; and would that it might lead me oftener where all our wants can be best and only supplied! I know that _self_ is the foe to be dreaded most, and that is so ever near, sticks so close, that there can be no remedy effectual that is not applied with the penetrating power and all-wise discretion which are no attributes of ours. And yet how often do we vainly try to help ourselves! Two days after this, she wrote to her friend M.B. and alluded very feelingly to the prospect of leaving her old home and its associations. Ever taking a humble view of herself and of her fitness for the duties she was expecting to assume, she writes of "feeling increasingly my deep unfitness and lack of qualification for so very responsible an undertaking as sharing in and influencing and being influenced by all that concerns another. May I be permitted the privilege of which thou hast spoken, that the Lord's presence may go with us, and give us rest, and be to us a little sanctuary wheresoever we may come. _Then_ all will be right. * * * So thou seest just where I am,--in need of faith and hope, and sometimes wanting all things, even amid circumstances which I can find no fault with. Farewell, dear M.; and if thou nearest that I get on well, or am in any way made happy or useful, one conclusion will be very safe, respecting thy unworthy friend,--that it is not in _me_." This closes a correspondence which appears to have been attended with much comfort and profit to the two friends. _8th Mo. 11th_. The time flies, and then the place that has known me will know me no more, except as a sojourner and pilgrim to my father's hearth; and yet I cannot realize it: could I, how should I bear it? This day, much as before, weak in body, death-like in mind; but this evening had such a desire for retirement--so undesired before--and such precious feelings then. Oh, I could go through much with _this_ to sustain me, but I cannot command it for one instant; and, oh, how I felt that He alone can keep my soul alive, whose is every breath, natural and spiritual! Oh, what a joy to feel His Spirit near, the thick, heavy wall of separation melted away. Would that the way could, be kept thus clear to God--my life, my strength, my joy, my all! Much that is very interesting has passed,--chiefly a visit from T.E. and his wife, of Philadelphia. The day they left us, we sat in silence round the dinner-table, till he said that words seemed hardly needful to express the precious feeling of union that prevailed. * * * It was very sad to lose them; and yet I never felt before so strongly how the individual blessing to each soul is not a merely being present, and recognizing, and rejoicing in such times as these. How the words of one that hath a heavenly spirit and a pleasant voice may be heard in vain! _8th Mo. 20th_. How can I describe these eventful days? One lesson may they teach me, that God is love, and that whatever good thing I am blessed with is not in me. He has been so kind, so gracious, and I so very perverse, frequently so distrustful, so easily wounded; but He, as if He will not take offence, again and again has pity on me. How was I met and saluted with the words, "_By Myself have I sworn_," as part of some promise! Then I felt and rejoiced in His faithfulness to all in me and in all the universe that is His. _By Himself_, then _He_ will never fail; and I hope I shall be preserved by Him. _8th Mo. 21st_. I was so grievously stupid last week, so unable to realize any thing--feared when I should come to myself that it would be terrible; but no, it is not so: I have love for all, and I hope it will grow for all and take in all. It is not that one love swallows up another, as one sorrow does: yet I am very weak, and need daily help. Oh that it may not be withheld! With this record her Journal concludes; and, in reflecting upon it as a whole, the reader can scarcely fail to observe the evidence it gives of progress in the Divine life, of growth, as it were, from the blade to the full corn in the ear, now early ripened for the heavenly garner; and perhaps in nothing is this progress more discernible than in the manner in which through many fluctuations she was enabled to look away from the suggestions of unresting self, which were so painful to her sensitive and conscientious spirit, and to stay her mind on her Saviour, entering into that rest which the apostle says is the portion of those who believe,--"a rest which remaineth for the people of God," and which they only realize in its fulness who have accepted Christ as all sufficient for every need of the soul, not only pardon of past sins, but also of daily recurring transgressions, and whose trials and provings of spirit have led to the blessed result of increased oneness with their heavenly Father. _8th Mo. 21th_. To her sister F.T. she writes, the day before her marriage,-- "I am still a wonder to myself,--so thankful for dear mother's cheerfulness, and for the kindness and love of all around. I have taken leave of nearly all. Last evening we had a nice walk. Then for the first time I felt as if the claims of past, present, and future were perfectly and peacefully adjusted, to my great comfort." The walk to which this allusion refers is very fresh in the remembrance of her sister and of her (intended) husband, who accompanied her. Her manner was strikingly calm and affectionate; and as they returned home, after a pause in the conversation, she said, taking a hand of each,-- "I have heard of some people when they are dying feeling no struggle on going from one world to the other; and I was thinking that I felt the same between you. I don't know how it may be at last." Strangely impressive were these words at the time; and when we remember that she never saw that sister again after the morrow, can we doubt that this preparation was permitted to soften the bitterness of the time, so near at hand, when this should have proved to be the final parting on earth? In looking back to this time, there is a sweet conviction of the peace which was then granted her, which did seem something like a foretaste of the joys of the better home which was even then opening before her and upon which her pure spirit had so loved to dwell. She was married, at Liskeard, to William Southall, Jr., on the 28th of 8th month, 1851. She was anxious that the wedding-day should be cheerful; and her own countenance wore a sweet expression of quiet satisfaction and seriousness; and the depth of feeling which prevailed in the whole party during that day was afterwards remembered with satisfaction, as being in harmony with what followed. In a tenderly affectionate note, written from Teignmouth the same evening, she says, "I can look back without any other pang than the necessary one of having stretched, I must not say broken, our family bond;" and then she adds the sincere desire for herself and her husband, "Oh that we may be more humble and watchful than ever before, and that my daily care may be to remember those sweet lines which helped me so this morning,-- "When thou art nothing in thyself, Then thou art close to me." A fortnight spent among the lakes of Westmoreland and Cumberland was a time of much happiness. It was her first introduction to mountain scenery; and her letters to the home circle she had just left, contain animated descriptions of the beauties around her. A few extracts from these, showing the healthy enjoyment she experienced, and the cheerful and comfortable state of her mind, particulars which acquire an interest from the solemn circumstances so soon to follow, may not be unsuitably inserted:-- BOWNESS, 9th Month, 1st, 1851. MY DEAR L.:-- * * * We had a lovely ride and ferrying over Windermere to Colthouse meeting on First-day. * * * I am almost well, and able to enter into these beauties. Will you be satisfied with seven sketches, such as they are, for this day? I thought, as we passed Doves' Nest, and read in the guide-book F. Hemans's description of her dwelling there for twelve months, and how many sad hearts, beside hers, had come thither for a refuge from sorrow, what cause we had to be thankful for (so far) another lot; and yet, dear L., with all I see around me, my heart is very often with you, and turns From glassy lakes, and mountains grand, And green reposeful isles, To that one corner of the land Beyond the rest that smiles. Beyond the rest it smiles for me, Thither my thoughts will roam-- The home beloved of infancy, My childhood's precious home! And yet somehow it is not with a reproachful smile that it looks on me, nor with a regretful heart that I think upon it. It is delightful to think of dear father and mother's coming to Birmingham so soon, and of meeting R. this day fortnight. To her Mother. GRASMERE, 3d of 9th Month, 1851. MY DEAR MOTHER:-- We have had a lovely day, and I scarcely know where or how to begin the tale of beauty. If there be any shadow of truth in the notion that "a thing of beauty is a joy forever," we must have been laying in a store of delight which may cheer many a busy and many a lonely hour. Truly, as we have gazed upon the glorious mountains; looked down from the summit of Silver How, on the green vale of Grasmere, and the far-off Windermere; looked with almost awful feelings on the black shadowy rocks that encompass Easdale Tarn, (all that yesterday,) and to-day, passed from waterfall to waterfall, through the solemn and desolate Langdales, under the twin mountain _Pikes_, "throned among the hills," dived into the awful recess of Dungeon Ghyll, where the rock, with scarcely a crack to part it, stands high on each side of the foaming torrent, which dashes perpendicularly down the gorge, then out upon the sunny vale, and home through the brotherhood of mountains to our quiet dwelling of Grasmere; surely all this, and much, much more, has made the days very precious for present enjoyment and for future recollections. The moon is bright as ever I saw it, and we have lately returned from the smooth, still Grasmere, where there was hardly ripple enough to multiply its image; and where we could have sat for hours, nourishing the calm and solemn thoughts we had just brought from the quiet corner of the churchyard where we had sat by Wordsworth's grave. It was growing dark, but we could just read on the plain slate head-stone the sole inscription, "William Wordsworth." * * * But I cannot make you fully imagine these scenes, so varied, so picturesque. How little pleasure I had in anticipating this journey, while those formidable things lay between! The thought of the mountains seemed not worth a straw, and now looking back to only this day week is wonderful. Home still smiles upon me like a lake that catches a sunbeam; and sometimes I feel truly thankful that the way that I knew not has led me here. * * * The thought of seeing you is bright indeed. Thy loving daughter, ELIZA. To her Sister. LODORE INN, 5th of 9th Month, 1851. MY BELOVED M.:-- * * * I am glad to say that we still have very fine weather. At Keswick we were planning how we could see Frederick Myers, but that evening his widow was returning to the parsonage with her three fatherless children, and we could only look on the family vault in the lovely churchyard, the school-room, library, etc., and think of his anticipations, now no doubt so happily realized, of the "'well done,' which it will be heaven to hear." A fine black storm hung over Skiddaw and Saddleback, and _such_ a rainbow spanned it. The western sky was full of the sunset, and the lake lay in lovely repose beneath. Of the clouds we really cannot say more than that they are often very beautiful, and sometimes dress up the mountains in grandeur not their own; but I have seen none that might not be Cornish clouds. I am quite well. * * * For my sake be cheerful and happy. Thy very loving sister, E.S. To her Father. SCALE HILL HOTEL, 8th of 9th Month, 1851. MY BELOVED FATHER:-- On Seventh-day, after breakfast at Lodore, we set off for a treat indeed--a canter up Borrowdale. The morning splendid. Keswick Lake sparkling behind us. The crags of Borrowdale in the blue misty sunshine of morning overhung by not less beautiful shades. We were quite glad to get to this sort of mountain scenery again, which we had so enjoyed at Grasmere, and leave smooth, bare, pyramidal Skiddaw and its "ancient" fellows behind. We at last ascended the steep zigzag which begins Sty Head Pass, confirming our resolution now and then by admiring the plodding industry of our mountain horses. It was indeed pleasant when the last gate was opened and we were safe within the wall of rough stones which headed the steep ascent, and we could wind more at leisure beside the foaming "beck" which runs out of Sty Head Tarn. This desolate mountain lake was soon reached, and the noble dark Scawfell Pikes--the highest mountain in England, (3166 feet)--were its majestic background. But that we had been gradually inured to such scenes, this would indeed have been the most impressive we have beheld. On we rode till deep shady Wastdale opened below us, and we found ourselves at the head of the Pass. I have enjoyed this journey very much more than I expected, and the weather, on the whole, has been favorable. I think of you all with double affection, which accept very warmly from Thy affectionate daughter, E.S. To her Sister. PATTERDALE, 11th of 9th Month, 1851. MY BELOVED L.:-- * * * This delightful morning, Ulleswater, which we admired as much, if not more than any lake which we have seen, was of the brightest blue, and the valley behind as rich in loveliness, when we set off for Helvellyn. The top is just five miles from the Inn. At last the pony was tied to a stake, and we wound up the Swirrel Edge. The rocks are almost perpendicular, and strangely shivered, and we looked down on the Red Tarn sparkling in the sun with, as it were, thousands of stars. At last we reached the top, a bare smooth summit, whence the wide misty landscape stretched all around us. Six lakes should have been visible; but we were obliged to be content with the whole stretch of Ulleswater, eight miles behind us, Bassenthwaite to the north, and perhaps a bit of Keswick; but I would not have missed the scene for any reasonable consideration. Scott, of course, stood on the top of the hill looking down on the Tarn, with Striding Edge on his right. Alas! no "eagles" are ever "yelling" on the mountain, nor "brown mountain heather" is in sight--only common mountain grass. On the top of Helvellyn she wrote the following lines in a sketch-book:-- How softly the winds of the mountains are saying, "No chamber of death is Helvellyn's dark brow;" On the "rough rocky edge" are the fleecy flocks straying, And "Red Tarn" gleams bright with a thousand stars now. The "huge nameless rook" has no gloom in its shadow; It catches the sun, it has found it a name; And the mountain grass covers like the turf of the meadow The arms of Helvellyn and Catchedecan. There is not on earth a dark city's enclosure, Or vast mountain waste, where the traveller may roam, That peace may not soothe with its balmy composure, And love may not bless with the joy of a home! To her sister. ULVERSTON, 15th of 9th Month, 1851. MY BELOVED M.:-- Thy very welcome letter yesterday met me soon, after returning from Swarthmore, where, of course, we had a very different assembly from yours. It was very interesting, having been at Pardsey Crags last week, where the thousands had listened to George Fox's preaching, now to see Swarthmore and remember how things used to be when he "left the north fresh and green;" but G. Fox never saw the meeting-house. It was built, I believe, after his death, though the inscription "_Ex dono G.F._" is over the porch. His black-oak chairs stand in the meeting-room, and his two bed-posts are at each side of the foot of the stairs. Swarthmore Hall is an ancient-looking, high farm-house, with stone window-frames, as we have seen it drawn. The Hall, where the meetings used to be held, looks very antique: black-oak panels remain in parts. Judge Fell's study is just inside, and his desk in the window, whence he could hear what passed, though he never went to the meetings. The house is in sad repair. It seems strange to lay aside our daily companions, the map and the guide-book, and tarn our backs wholly on the mountain land, for the level and busy plains of England, with their "daily round and common task." But I know that the bright and beautiful mountain-scenes will often come again before the mental eye--"long-vanished" beauty that "refines and paints in brighter hues;" and I hope the pleasure will long be gratefully remembered. The new home was reached on the 16th, from whence she writes,-- To her sister. EDGBASTON, 20th of 9th Month, 1851. MY BELOVED L.:-- * * * I do not like to end this eventful week without trying to send you a few lines. * * * Please tell mother, with my dear, dear love, how very acceptable her note was, and how much I hope that her kind good wishes may be realized, and how frequent a thought of pleasure it has been while we have been setting things in order, that before long I may enjoy to show our little territory to her and father,--to have her kind advice and opinion about my little household. * * * I yet feel as strongly as ever a daughter's love to the home of my childhood. When I think of you, I can fully share in the illusion thou spoke of, fancying that before long I shall be among you just as before. * * * To her sister, P. Tregolles. YEW-TREE ROAD, 9th Month, 1851. * * * I could not have thought I should have felt so easy amongst so many, lately, such strangers; but every day I feel more strongly that on one nail "fastened in a sure place" many things may hang easily; and truly all treat us with such kindness, that I should be ungrateful not to value highly my connection for its own sake, whilst that on which it hangs grows firmer too. * * * The remembrance of the cheerfulness with which Eliza Southall entered into the duties and cares of her new position in her adopted home has afforded cause for much gratitude on the part of those dear relatives who welcomed her there. Newly made acquainted with some of them, she won their love and esteem by her unaffected simplicity and the geniality of her sympathies; but, whilst she showed true conjugal solicitude in her plans for domestic comfort and social enjoyment, it was evidently her first desire to have her heart and her treasure in heaven. It was designed in the ordering of Divine providence that a cloud should very soon overshadow the bright promises of her arrival; and the following account of the illness which so speedily terminated her life will, it is hoped, convey a correct impression of the peacefulness of its close. It is compiled from memoranda made very soon after her decease, but is of necessity imperfect; the attention of those who contributed from memory portions of her conversation being so much absorbed by their interest in the conflict between life and death, and by the overwhelming feelings of an hour of such moment to some of them. Whilst it is hoped that nothing inserted may appear to go beyond the simplicity of the truth, it may be added that it seems impossible to convey in words a full and faithful idea of the holy serenity of her last hours, which showed that the work of religion had not been in vain in her heart. With the exception of a slight cold, which soon left her, she appeared to be in her usual health and spirits. But it was so for only two weeks, and on Third-day, the 30th of 9th Month, on returning from a visit at Woodfield, she complained of not feeling well. The next day she was more poorly, and medical advice was obtained. The following morning she suffered much pain, but the remedies used soon relieved her; and, though she was not able to leave her bed, the symptoms did not continue such as to excite much uneasiness. She enjoyed hearing another read, and not unfrequently Isaac Pennington's letters, or some other book, was in her own hand, and during occasional pain and uneasiness she would request to have some chapter in the Bible read, or a hymn of comfort. There was always an air of cheerfulness in her chamber, and the affectionate greeting with which each relative who visited her was welcomed was very precious. Few words passed of a religious nature, or such as to induce the supposition that in four more days earth would be exchanged for heaven, except one short remark to her husband in the evening: "I have been thinking of the text, 'Then whose shall these things be which thou hast provided?' they may not be mine much longer." This was touching to his feelings, but was viewed as her wonted cautious manner of speaking of temporal things. There was nothing further in her remarks which showed that she regarded her case as a critical one. On Sixth and Seventh days she seemed decidedly better--entering into the varied interests around her. The evening of the latter day was particularly bright and cheering, when she conversed cheerfully with her husband and sister and spoke of her plans for the future. She also listened with pleasure to some pieces of poetry which were read, and amongst them appeared to derive comfort from the hymn beginning,-- "Nearer, my God, to Thee-- Nearer to Thee! E'en though it be a cross That raiseth me; Still all my song would be, Nearer, my God, to Thee-- Nearer to Thee!" Early on First-day morning she seemed rather depressed, and requested her sister to repeat the hymn, "'Tis a point I long to know," [Olney Hymns.] In the course of the morning she wrote a touching note to her beloved mother: it was her last effort of the kind:-- 5th of 10th Month, 1851. My beloved Mother:-- I have got permission to use a pencil in thanking thee for thy kind sweet lines which this morning's post brought me. I am thankful for being so remembered by my own precious mother now so far away. * * * It is a new experience to me to lie here so long; but, now that I am much better, and what pain I have is transient and easy to be borne for the most part, it is my own fault if the days are profitless. I quite hope, by the time father comes, to be able to enjoy his visit--and so I could now; but then it could only be in this chamber, already become quite familiar. * * * We are so thankful to hear of thy amendment to this hopeful stage! I trust nothing will prevent thy being able to leave home with father; and then how soon we shall rejoice to see thee here! Thy ever loving, and trying to be submissive, ELIZA. Her medical attendant still took an encouraging view of her case, and she was so nicely in the afternoon that her husband left her to go to meeting. The evening was passed pleasantly, and the family retired to rest as usual. She continued very comfortable till about mid-night, when a very sudden attack of violent pain came on, which continued without intermission for about three hours. Very affecting, during this time, were her earnest cries for patience and strength. "Oh that I had been more faithful! It is because I have been so unfaithful!" She was reminded that these sufferings ought not to be regarded in the light of punishment, but that "whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth." Some texts were read at her request. "They are very nice," she said, "but I cannot receive them all now." Truly this was a time when all human help was felt to be unavailing, and when none but the Ruler of the waves Himself could speak a calm; and, if we may judge from the subsequent altered and tranquil expression of her countenance, her petitions were mercifully granted. "Do not cry, my dear," she said; and then, "Oh, how kind to speak cheerfully!" adding, "I hope this illness may be made a blessing to us all in time to come." When the doctor, who was hastily called, arrived, she said, "I hope I shall be able to bear the pain: I will try to bear it." Whilst in much suffering, she requested to have the forty-sixth Psalm read, which had always been a peculiar favorite with her. On her mother S. entering the room, she greeted her with the words, "Dear mother!" saying, "What a comfort it is to have some one to call mother!" The remedies resorted to, afforded temporary relief; and great was her thankfulness for the alleviation from what she described as anguish--anguish--anguish! But her strength was greatly prostrated, and for some hours she dozed--being only occasionally conscious. About nine or ten o'clock on the morning of Second-day, the pale and exhausted expression of her countenance convinced us that the time for letting go our hold of this very precious treasure was not far distant. Overwhelming as was this feeling, the belief that she was unconscious of her state added to our anxiety. We longed to be permitted an evidence from her own lips that she felt accepted through Christ her Saviour; though her humble walk with God through life would have assured us, had there been no such expression. Our desires were, however, mercifully granted, to our humbling admiration of that grace which had made her what she was. About noon she roused a little, and, one of the medical men having stated that a few hours would probably produce a great change for better or for worse, her beloved husband concluded it best to inform her that she was not likely to continue long amongst us. She replied, with striking earnestness, "What! will it be heaven?" He asked if she could feel comfortable in the prospect, and she replied, "I must wait a while." A few minutes of solemn silence followed, in which it is impossible to convey in words the earnest prayerful expression of her countenance and uplifted eyes, when it seemed as if, regardless of any thing around her, she held immediate communion with her God. She then said, "I feel a hope, but not assurance." Her husband said, "Trust in thy Saviour, my dear." "Yes," she replied. Soon after this, being asked if she would like her medical attendants to come into the room, she answered, "Oh, any one who wishes. I could speak to the queen." After acknowledging their kindness to her, she addressed them in an earnest manner on the importance of devoting all their talents to the glory of God, so that their chief aim in their profession might be to serve Him. She alluded to the insufficiency of human skill and the emptiness of earthly attainments at such a time as this; adding, "But above all things serve the Lord." They were deeply impressed with her great calmness and resignation. She spoke to those around her in a striking manner on the unsatisfying nature of all things here. "Oh, they are nothing--less than nothing and vanity--nothing to me now;" earnestly encouraging all to prepare for heaven--to serve the Lord; quoting very fervently and beautifully our Saviour's words, "'I ascend unto my Father and your Father, unto my God and your God.' * * Upwards! upwards! upwards!--I hope we may all meet in glory." A short time afterwards, appearing a little discouraged, she asked, "Do you feel assured for me? can you trust for me?" And on being told that we felt no doubt, her diffident mind seemed comforted; "but," she added, "I want assurance: I hope; but I don't feel sure--I do _hope_ in Christ." The text was repeated, "'Lord, I believe: help thou mine unbelief.'" She was reminded that He died for all. She rejoined, "Then for me; but I have nothing of my own--not a thing to trust in, only in the mercy of God. I don't feel any burden of sin--only of neglect. I hope it is not a false peace. Do you think it is?" Her aunt repeated, "'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.'" "Oh, precious!" she exclaimed: "though He hideth His face, yet will I trust in the Lord; I will trust in the Lord, for He is faithful--faithful--faithful! I have a humble trust, but _no rapture_. But I don't feel sure that I shall die now; I cannot see how it may be." Again and again were her eyes turned to heaven in earnest prayer, "If I die, oh, receive me to Thyself." Throughout her illness a holy feeling of serenity and love pervaded the sick-chamber: she affectionately acknowledged every little attention, and frequently expressed a fear of giving trouble, saying, one night, "What won't any one do for love?" No expression of regret escaped her lips at leaving her earthly prospects. Her possessions in this world were loosely held, and therefore easily relinquished for those enduring treasures which had long had the highest place in her heart. Her heart overflowed with love to all around her, saying, "All is love;" and many were the messages she sent to her absent relatives and friends. "Give my dear love to father and mother: tell them how glad I should have been to have seen them; but how glad I am mother was not here! I know she could not have borne it. Tell them how thankful I am they brought me up for heaven. Tell them, not raptures, but peace. Tell them not to grieve, not to grieve, not to grieve! Tell them how happy I have been here; that I wanted for nothing." To her sisters, "All love--nothing but love;" adding that she might have had much more to say, had she been able, "but I must not; I must be quiet." As the different members of her husband's family surrounded her bed, she addressed each with a few appropriate words. Taking her mother S.'s hand, she said, "Thou hast been a kind mother to me: I can never repay thee. * * *" To her father S., who was absent, she sent her love. He, however, returned in time to see her. From his having left her so much better on Seventh-day, she feared he might be alarmed at the change, anxiously inquiring whether he was aware of it, and affectionately greeted him when he came, saying, "I am _so glad_ to see thee!" To one she said, "Dear ----, seek the Lord; seek Him and serve Him with a perfect heart. 'Why should we fear youth's draught of joy.'[3] Tell her that verse from me. * * * " She inquired for J.H.; and, on his coming into the room, being rather overcome with her exertions, she said, "I am too weak to speak now;" but, waving her hand, she pointed her finger towards heaven with an almost angelic smile. After a short pause, she renewed her leave-taking, adding, at its close, "Farewell--my best farewell! now I have nothing more to say. Farewell!" And a little after, turning to her sister, "Now, my dear R., there seems nothing to say--nothing but love--all love!" She then asked for a few minutes alone with her dear husband, and took a calm and tender leave of him also. Difficulty of breathing now became very trying to her; but again and again she tried to cheer us by the assurance that she had no pain--"only oppression: don't think it pain." The lines being repeated "Though painful at present, 'Twill cease before long; And then, oh, how pleasant The conqueror's song!" she responded with a sweet smile, and exclaimed, "Oh, glorious!" She dwelt with comfort on the text, "Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth," and once, commencing to repeat it herself, asked her sister to finish it. No cloud now appeared to remain before her. "I don't see any thing in the way," she said. Her sister reminded her that the everlasting arms were underneath and above her, waiting to receive her. "Dear R.," she replied, "she can trust for me." * * She spoke at intervals until a few minutes before her departure, but not always intelligibly. On her dear husband's asking her if she felt peaceful, she assented with a beaming smile, and soon after, resting in his arms, she ceased to breathe. She died on Second-day evening, the 6th of 10th month, 1851. Thus, at the age of about twenty-eight years, and within six weeks after the happy consummation of a marriage union which promised much true enjoyment, was this precious plant suddenly removed, to bloom forever, as we humbly trust, through redeeming love and mercy, in a celestial paradise. The funeral took place at Friends' burial-ground at Birmingham, on the following First-day; being only three weeks from the time she had first attended that Meeting as a bride. It was a deeply solemn time; but, amidst their grief, the hearts of many responded to the words expressed at the grave-side: "Now, unto Him who hath loved her, and washed her from her sins in His own blood, unto Him be glory and dominion, for ever and ever, Amen." [Footnote 3: "Why should we fear youth's draught of joy, If pure, would sparkle less? Why should the cup the sooner cloy Which God hath deign'd to bless?"] THE END. 
21492	----	A True Hero; A Story of the Days of William Penn, by W.H.G. Kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ A very interesting book. It certainly brings home the problems faced by the various Dissenting sects in England in the reign of James the Second, particularly those facing the Quakers. It tells the story of a Quaker family, who fled from England to seek a new life in America in the late 1600s. It's a short book, and it makes a very good read, or of course a good audiobook. As reviewer I found it most instructive. ________________________________________________________________________ A TRUE HERO; A STORY OF THE DAYS OF WILLIAM PENN, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON. CHAPTER ONE. The Protectorate had come to an end ten years before the period when our story commences; and Charles the Second, restored to the throne of England, had since been employed in outraging all the right feelings of the people over whom he was called to reign, and in lowering the English name, which had been so gloriously raised by the wisdom of Cromwell. The body of that sagacious ruler of a mighty nation had been dragged out of its tomb among the kings in Westminster, and hanged on the gallows-tree at Tyburn; the senseless deed instigated by the petty revenge of his contemptible successor. The mouldering remains of Blake, also, one of the noblest among England's naval heroes, had been taken from its honoured resting-place, and cast into an unknown grave in Saint Margaret's churchyard. Episcopacy had been restored by those who hoped thus to pave the way for the re-introduction of Romanism, with its grinding tyranny and abject superstitions. The "Conventicle Act," prohibiting more than five persons, exclusive of the family, to meet together for religious worship according to any other than the national ritual, had been passed, and was rigidly enforced; the dominant party thus endeavouring to deprive the people of one of the most sacred rights of man,--that of worshipping God according to the dictates of conscience. England's debauched king, secretly a Papist, had sold his country for gold to England's hereditary foe, whose army he had engaged to come and crush the last remnants of national freedom, should his Protestant people dare to resist the monarch's traitorous proceedings. The profligacy and irreligion of the court was widely imitated by all classes, till patriots, watching with gloomy forebodings the downward progress of their country, began to despair of her future fate. Such was the state of things when, on the morning of the 14th of August, 1670, several sedate, grave-looking persons were collected at the north end of Gracechurch Street, in the City of London. Others were coming up from all quarters towards the spot. As the first arrived, they stood gazing towards the door of a building, before which were drawn up a body of bearded, rough soldiers, with buff coats, halberds in hand, and iron caps on their heads. Several of the persons collected, in spite of the armed men at the door, advanced as if about to enter the building. "You cannot go in there," said the sergeant of the party; "we hold it in the name of the king. Begone about your business, or beware of the consequences!" In vain the grave citizens mildly expostulated. They received similar rough answers. By this time other persons had arrived, while many passers-by stopped to see what was going forward. Among those who came up was a tall young man, whose flowing locks and feathered cap, with richly-laced coat, and silk sash over his shoulder, to which, however, the usual appendage, a sword, was wanting, showed that he was a person of quality and fashion. Yet his countenance wore a grave aspect, which assumed a stern expression as he gazed at the soldiers. He stopped, and spoke to several of those standing round, inquiring apparently what had occurred. About the same time, another man, who seemed to be acquainted with many of the persons in the crowd, was making his way among them. He was considerably more advanced in life than the first-mentioned person, and in figure somewhat shorter and more strongly built. Though dressed as a civilian, he had a military look and air. From an opposite direction two other persons approached the spot, intending, it seemed, to pass by. The one was a man whose grizzly beard and furrowed features showed that he had seen rough service in his time, his dress and general appearance bespeaking the soldier. His companion was a youth of sixteen or seventeen years of age, so like him in countenance that their relationship was evident. From the inquiries they made, they were apparently strangers. "Canst tell me, friend, what has brought all these people together?" said the elder man to a by-stander. "Most of these people are `Friends,' as they call themselves," answered the man addressed, a well-to-do artisan, "or `Quakers,' as the world calls them, because they bid sinners exceedingly to quake and tremble at the word of the Lord. To my mind they are harmless as to their deeds, though in word they are truly powerful at times. The bishops and church people do not like them because they declare that God can be worshipped in the open air, or in a man's own home, as well as in the grandest cathedral, or `steeple house,' as they call the church. The Independents are opposed to them, because they deem ministers unnecessary, and trust to the sword of the Spirit rather than to carnal weapons; while the wealthy and noble disdain them, because they refuse to uncover their heads, or to pay undue respect to their fellow-men, however rich or exalted in rank they may be. They have come to hold a meeting in yonder house, where the soldiers are stationed; but as speaking will not open the doors, they will have to go away again disappointed." "If they are the harmless people you describe, that seems a hard case," observed the stranger. "By what right are they prohibited from thus meeting?" "I know not if it is by right, but it is by law," answered the artisan. "You have doubtless heard of the `Conventicle Act,' prohibiting all religious worship, except according to the established ritual. The `Friends' alone hold it in no respect, and persist in meeting where they have the mind!" "What! do all the other dissenters of England submit to such a law?" exclaimed the stranger. "Marry do they," answered the artisan. "They pocket the affront, and conform in public to what is demanded, satisfying their consciences by worshipping together in private. Do you not know that every head of a family is fined a shilling on every Sunday that he neglects to attend the parish church? You can have been but a short time in England not to have heard of this." "Yes, indeed, my friend. My son and I landed but yesterday from a voyage across the Atlantic; and, except from the master and shipmen on board, we have heard but little of what has taken place in England for some years past." "Then take my advice, friend," said the artisan. "Make all the inquiries you please, but utter not your opinions, as you were just now doing to me, or you may find yourself accused of I know not what, and clapped into jail, with slight chance of being set free again." "Thank you, friend," said the stranger; "but will all these people submit to be treated thus by those few soldiers? By my faith, it's more than I would, if I desired to enter yonder house of prayer." While this conversation was going on, the number of people in front of the Quaker's meeting-house had greatly increased; and though the greater number appeared quietly disposed, there were evidently some hovering about, and others now elbowing their way through the crowd, who were inclined to create an uproar. At this juncture, the young gentleman who has already been described, stepping on one side of the street where the pavement was highest, took off his hat. "Silence, I pray you, dear friends; I would speak a few words," he said, in a rich musical voice. "We came here purposing to enter yonder house, where we might worship God according to the dictates of our consciences, and exhort and strengthen one another; but it seemeth to me that those in authority have resolved to prevent our thus assembling. We are men of peace, and therefore must submit rather than use carnal weapons; and yet, friends, having the gift of speech, and the power of the pen, we must not cease to protest against being thus deprived of the liberty which Englishmen hold so dear." CHAPTER TWO. While the young man was speaking, the stranger and his son had worked their way close to the stout soldier-like man who has been described. The stranger's eye fell on his countenance. He touched his son's shoulder. "An old comrade in arms!" he whispered. "A truer man than Captain William Mead,--trusty Bill Mead, we used to call him,--never drew sword in the cause of liberty. If I can but catch his eye and get a grip of his honest hand, I will ask him who that young man can be,--a brave fellow, whoever he is." In another instant the two old comrades had recognised each other. "What, Christison! Nicholas Christison! is it thou?" exclaimed Captain Mead, examining the stranger's countenance. "Verily, I thought thou wast no longer in the land of the living; but thou art welcome, heartily welcome. Come with me to my house in Cornhill, at the sign of the `Spinning Wheel,' and thou shalt tell me where thou hast been wandering all this time; while, may be, we will have a talk of bygone days." "With all my heart," answered Christison; "but tell me who is that noble youth addressing the people? He seems by his dress and bearing not one likely to utter such sentiments as are now dropping from his mouth!" "Verily, he is not less noble in deed and word than in look," answered Mead. "He is William Penn, the son of the admiral who fought so well for the Commonwealth, and now serves a master about whom the less we say the better." "I remember him well; a brave, sagacious man, but one who was ever ready to serve his own interest first, and those of his country afterwards. I should not have expected to find a son of his consorting with Quakers." "No, verily; as light from darkness, so does the son differ from the father in spiritual matters," answered Mead. "The son has sacrificed all his worldly prospects for the sake of his own soul and for those of his fellow-creatures. In a righteous cause he fears no foes, temporal or spiritual; and is ready to lay down his life, if needs be, for the truth." "A brave youth he must be, by my troth," observed Christison. "Wenlock, my boy, I pray Heaven you may be like him. I would rather have thee a thorough true-hearted man, than the first noble in the land." At this moment, Mead, who had been stopped by the crowd from making his way towards the place where William Penn was speaking, saw an opportunity of advancing, and again moved forward, accompanied by his old friend and his son. There was, indeed, a general movement in the crowd, and voices in tones of authority were heard shouting, "Make way there; make way!" The people who uttered these cries were soon recognised as sheriffs' officers. They were advancing towards Penn. Their intention was evident. "They are about to arrest him," said Mead; "but he has done nothing worthy of bonds." "No, by my troth he has not," exclaimed Christison; "and I would gladly, even now, strike a blow for the cause of liberty, and rescue him from their power, if they attempt to lay hands on him." "No, no, friend, put up thy sword," said Mead; "we fight not with carnal weapons. He would not thank you for any such attempt on your part." By this time the constables had reached Penn, and informed him that he was their prisoner. Two others at the same time came up to where Mead was standing, and arrested him also. It was a sore trial to the old Republican officer to stand by and see his friend carried off to prison. "By whose authority am I arrested?" asked Penn, turning with an air of dignity to the officers. One of them immediately produced a document. "See here, young sir," he said in an insulting tone, "This is our warrant! It is signed by the worshipful Lord Mayor, Sir Samuel Starling. I have a notion that neither you nor any of your friends would wish to resist it." "We resist no lawful authority; but I question how far this warrant is lawful," answered the young Quaker. "Howbeit, if thou and thy companions use force, to force we yield, and must needs accompany thee whithersoever thou conductest us." "Farewell, old friend," said Mead, shaking Christison by the hand, as the constables were about to lead him off. "I would rather have spent a pleasant evening with thee in my house than have had to pass it in a jail: but yet in a righteous cause all true men should be ready to suffer." "Indeed so, old comrade; and you know that I am not the man to desert you at a pinch. As we are not to pass the evening together at your house, I will spend it with you in jail. I suppose they will not exclude you from the society of your friends?" Mead shrugged his shoulders. "It is hard to say how we may be treated, for we Quakers gain but scant courtesy or justice." These last remarks were made as Mead, with a constable on either side of him, was being led off with William Penn to the Guildhall. The old Commonwealth officer and his son followed as close behind them as the shouting, jeering mob would allow them; Christison revolving in his mind how he should act best to render assistance to his old friend. At length they arrived at the hall where the Lord Mayor was sitting for the administration of justice. Captain Christison and his son entered with others who found their way into the court. A short, though somewhat corpulent-looking gentleman, with ferrety eyes and rubicund nose, telling of numerous cups of sack which had gone down between the thick lips below it, occupied the magisterial chair. "Who are these knaves?" he exclaimed, in a gruff voice, casting a fierce glance at the young William Penn and his companion, Captain Mead. "What! ye varlets, do you come into the presence of the Lord Mayor of London with your hats on? Ho! ho! I know you now," he exclaimed, as an officer handed him a paper, while he turned his eyes especially on Penn. "Let me tell you, if you pay not proper respect to the court, I will have you carried to Bridewell and well whipped, you varlet, though you are the son of a Commonwealth admiral! Do you hear me, sirrah?" "By my troth," whispered Christison to his son. "I should like to rush in with my sword and stop that foul-speaking varlet's mouth, Lord Mayor of London though he be. And now I look at him, I remember him well, Master Starling, a brawling supporter of the Protector when he was seated firmly at the head of Government. And now see, he is louder still in carrying out the evil designs of this Charles Stuart and his myrmidons." These words, though said in a low voice, were not altogether inaudible to some of the by-standers. "Beware!" said some one at his elbow. To this tirade of the Lord Mayor, the young gentleman made no answer. "Do you hear me, sirrah?" he exclaimed again; "I speak to you, William Penn. You and others have unlawfully and tumultuously been assembling and congregating yourselves together for the purpose of creating a disturbance of the peace, to the great terror and annoyance of His Majesty's liege people and subjects, and to the ill example of all others; and you have, in contempt of the law of the land, been preaching to a concourse of people whom you tumultuously assembled for the purpose of instigating them to rebel against His Majesty the king and the authorities of this city of London." "Verily, thou art misinformed and mistaken, sir," answered the young man, in a calm voice. "I neither created a disturbance, nor did I utter words whereby any disturbance could have been created, while I have ever been a loyal and dutiful subject of King Charles as His Majesty." "Ho! ho! ho! you have come here to crow high, I warrant you," exclaimed Sir Samuel Starling; "and your companion, Master Mead, will, I warrant, declare himself equally innocent of offence!" "Thou speakest truly, friend," answered Captain Mead; "I was the cause of no disturbance, as all those present very well know; for no disturbance indeed took place, while my principles forbid me to oppose the authorities that be." These calm answers only seemed to enrage Sir Samuel Starling, who, heaping further abuse on the prisoners, exclaimed, "Take the varlets off to the `Black Dog' in Newgate Market; there they shall remain in durance till they are tried for their crimes at the Old Bailey, and we shall then see whether this young cock-of-the-woods will crow as loudly as he now does." Young Wenlock could with difficulty restrain his father's indignation when he heard this order pronounced by the city magistrate. He however, managed to get him out of the court. "We will go and see where they are lodged, at all events," said the captain, who at length yielded to his son's expostulation. "Perchance I may render my old friend Mead, and that noble young fellow Penn, some assistance." CHAPTER THREE. In a dirty, ill-ventilated room in a low sponging-house in Newgate Market, known as the "Black Dog," two persons were seated. Cobwebs hung from the windows and the corners of the ceiling, occupied by huge, active spiders, lying in wait for some of the numerous flies which swarmed on the dust-covered panes. On the walls were scrawled numerous designs, executed by the prisoners who had from time to time occupied the room, to while away their hours of durance. The air felt close and sultry, the heat increased by the rays of the sinking sun, which found their way in by the window, through which also entered unpleasant odours ascending from the court-yard below. One of the persons, whose handsome dress contrasted strangely with the appearance of the room, was busy writing at a rickety table. With youth, wealth, talents, a fair fame, the godson of the future monarch of England, he might, had he so willed, have been a peer of he realm, the founder of a noble family. The other, who has been described as Captain Mead, rose from his seat, and walked up and down with somewhat impatient steps. "I am writing to my dear father to tell him the cause of my absence," said young Penn, stopping for a moment. "I fear that his sickness is very serious, and deep is my regret to be kept away from him; yet do I glory in thus suffering for the great and noble principles for which we are striving,--liberty of conscience, liberty of action. What is life worth to man without these? And yet our infatuated countrymen run a great risk of losing both, if they refuse to listen to the voice of warning, and to prepare in time for the threatened danger." Just then a turnkey opened the door, and in an impudent tone of voice said, "Here's a man and a lad come to see Master Mead. There, go in and sit as long as you please, till the hour arrives when all visitors must be turned out." "Ah! friend Christison and thy fine boy, thou art welcome to this our somewhat sorry abode," said Mead. "I would rather have seen thee at my family board this evening, as I had proposed; but we must submit to the powers that be. I will now make thee known to our friend Master William Penn, whose father thou and I served under in days gone by." "Ay, marry, I remember him well!" exclaimed Christison. "We were with him when he chased that piratical, malignant Rupert, and well-nigh caught him. Many a rich argosy would have been preserved to the Commonwealth had we succeeded; but the devil favours his children, and the rover got off." "We will not now speak of those times," said Mead. "I am not surprised to hear thee, old comrade, allude to them thus; but I, now taught better, have laid aside the use of carnal weapons." "Well, well, I know you will always do as your conscience dictates," said Christison; "and gladly do I shake hands with the son of my old commander." William Penn rose, and courteously welcomed the visitor, giving a kind smile and a touch on the shoulder to young Wenlock. "Let my presence not interfere with you, friend," he said; "but as thou seest I am busily engaged in writing on matters of importance; thou mayst talk state secrets to each other, and I shall not hear them; so, pray thee, Master Christison, make thyself at home with thy old friend." Saying this, he resumed his seat and continued writing, completely absorbed in his work. Captain Mead warmly thanked his old friend for coming to see him. "And what is it I hear of you," asked Christison; "that you have joined the followers of George Fox?" "Verily, I have deserted all worldly systems, and have united with those who believe that the guidance of the Spirit is sufficient to lead us into all truth: the Holy Scriptures being the only fit and outward rule whereby to judge of the truth. I pray thee, old friend, do not strive against that Holy Spirit, a measure of which has surely been given to thee. That is the light and life of the Holy Word which `in the beginning was with God, and was God.' That it is which will enlighten thy mind, if thou strivest not to quench it." In a similar strain Mead continued putting forth and explaining to his old friend the doctrine held by the Quakers. He spoke to him of the unity of the Godhead. "We believe," he added, "that their light is one, their life one, their wisdom one, their power one; and that he that knoweth and seeth any one of them knoweth and seeth them all, as our blessed Lord says, `He that hath seen me hath seen the Father.' We believe, too, though most wrongfully accused of the contrary, that God the Son is both God and man in wonderful union; that He suffered for our salvation, was raised again for our justification, and ever liveth to make intercession for us. He is that Divine Word that lighteth the souls of all men that come into the world with a spiritual and saving light, as none but the Creator of souls can do. With regard to our worship, we hold that `God is a Spirit, and desires to be worshipped in spirit and in truth,' not only on one day, but on all days of the week; not only when meeting together, but in the daily concerns of life; and the man who worships not then, will render poor worship when he assembles with his fellow-men at the time he may think fit to set apart for that purpose. As we acknowledge no other Mediator than the Son of God, who came on earth and died for our sins, and, having risen from the grave and ascended into heaven, is now seated at the right hand of God; so we require no person to pray for us, or allow that it is according to God's will that persons should receive payment for praying, exhorting, or preaching, or in any other way spreading God's truth. We believe, too, that the water-baptism, so generally administered, is not according to God's mind; that the baptism spoken of in the Scriptures is that of the Spirit,--the answer of a good conscience towards God by the resurrection of Jesus Christ; that by one Spirit we are all baptised into one body; while, with regard to the Lord's Supper as it is spoken of, we do indeed deem that the supper of the Lord is needful, but that it is altogether of a spiritual nature. We object altogether to oaths, because our Lord says, `Swear not at all.' We hold war to be an abomination to God, and contrary to that new commandment given us by Christ, `That ye love one another, even as I have loved you.' We hold, too, that a civil magistrate has no right to interfere in religious matters, and that though `Friends' may admonish such members as fall into error, it must be done by the spiritual sword; and as religion is a matter solely between God and man, so no government consisting of fallible men ought to fetter the consciences of those over whom they are placed." "No, indeed," exclaimed Christison. "To the latter principle I have long held; and it seems to me that there is much sense and truth in the other tenets which you have explained. I, as you know, am a blunt man, not given to book learning; but, in truth, old friend, I should like to hear from you again more at large of these matters." "There seems every probability that thou wilt know where to find me for some time to come," answered Mead; "and I shall be heartily well-pleased further to explain to you the principles we hold to be the true ones for the guidance of men in this mortal life." "Father," said young Wenlock, as he and the elder Christison were returning to their lodgings; "I should like to take service with young Master Penn, should he require a secretary. Your old friend, Captain Mead, has also taken my fancy; but yet I feel I would go anywhere with so true-hearted and noble a man as the other." "You have formed a somewhat hasty judgment, Wenlock," said his father. "We have been but a couple of hours in his society, during which time he spoke but little; and though, I grant you, he is a true gentleman, and would have made a fine soldier, yet his temper and habits may be very different to what you suppose." "Oh! no, no, father. I know I could trust him; I watched him all the time he was writing. He said he was addressing his father, and I saw his change of countenance; sometimes he was lost in thought, sometimes he seemed to look up to heaven in prayer; and more than once I saw his eyes filled with tears, and a firm, determined look came over his countenance; yet all the time there was nothing stern or forbidding,-- all was mild, loving, and kind. I have never seen one I would more willingly serve." "I hope that you may see him frequently, Wenlock," said his father, "and you may thus have an opportunity of correcting or confirming your judgment. I purpose visiting my old friend Mead whenever I can." Captain Christison kept to his word. The result of those frequent interviews with the worthy Quaker, as far as Wenlock was concerned, will be shown by-and-by. The first of September, 1670, the day fixed for the trial of William Penn and Captain Mead, arrived, and the prisoners were placed in the dock to answer the charge brought against them. Christison and his son were at the doors some time before they opened, that they might, without fail, secure a place. "Now most of these people, I warrant, fancy that they have come simply to witness the trial of the son of one of England's brave admirals for misdemeanour. The matter is of far more importance, Wenlock. Master Penn disputes, and so do I, that this `Conventicle Act' is legal in any way. We hold it to be equally hostile to the people and our Great Charter. Is an edict which abolishes one of the fundamental rights secured to the nation by our ancient Constitution, though passed by Crown and Parliament, to be held as possessing the force of law? If this court cannot show that it is, the question is, will a jury of Englishmen, when the case is made clear to them, venture to convict?" On entering the hall they found ten justices occupying the bench, Sir Samuel Starling, the Lord Mayor, at their head. As soon as the court opened, the clerk ordered the crier to call over the jury. Having answered to their names, of which the result showed that they had every reason to be proud, they were sworn to try the prisoners at the bar, and find according to the evidence adduced. If Wenlock had been inclined to admire William Penn before, much more so was he now, when, standing up, he replied to the question whether he was guilty or not guilty. Of course he and Mead pleaded not guilty. The court then adjourned. After it had resumed its functions the prisoners were brought up, but were set aside in order that several cases of common felony might be disposed of; this being done for the purpose of insulting Penn and his friend. Little progress having been made in their case, they were remanded to their abominable dungeons in Newgate, and the court adjourned for two days. CHAPTER FOUR. Christison and his son arrived in good time when the court again sat, on the 3rd of September. The officers having taken off the hats of the prisoners as they entered, the Lord Mayor abused them for so doing, and bade them put them on again. He then abused the prisoners for wearing their hats, fining them forty marks each for contempt of court. The indictment was again read. It was to the effect that William Penn and William Mead, with other persons, had assembled on the 15th day of August for the purpose of creating a disturbance, according to an agreement between the two; and that William Penn, supported by William Mead, had preached to the people assembled, whereby a great concourse of people remained, in contempt of the king and his law, creating a disturbance of his peace, to the great terror of many of his liege people and subjects. William Penn, who ably defended himself, proved that the day when he had gone to Gracechurch Street was the fourteenth, and not the fifteenth; that he did not preach to the people; that he had not agreed to meet William Mead there; that William Mead had not spoken to him. Mead also proved that he had not preached; that he had not abetted Penn, and that no riot had taken place. Contrary to the evidence, the Recorder Jefferies insisted that the prisoners should be brought in "guilty." The jury, however, in spite of the threats held out to them by the Lord Mayor and the Recorder and others, would not agree upon a verdict. The most determined to give an honest one was Master Edward Bushel, whose name deserves to be recorded. On again being compelled to retire, they were absent for some time. When they once more returned, the foreman announced that their verdict was "Guilty of speaking in Gracechurch Street." Again every effort was made to induce them to pronounce a different verdict. A third time they were ordered to retire. Again, in writing, they handed in their verdict, finding William Penn "Guilty of speaking to an assembly in Gracechurch Street," and acquitting William Mead. The baffled and beaten bench, now losing temper, ordered the jury to be locked up, and the prisoners to be taken back to Newgate. Penn, now addressing them, required the clerk of the peace to record their verdict. "If, after this," he exclaimed, "the jury bring in a different verdict to this, I affirm that they are perjured men. You are Englishmen," he said, turning to the jurors. "Remember your privileges. Give not away your rights!" The following day was Sunday. They were called up, however, and the clerk again inquired if they were agreed. The foreman replied as before, "Guilty of speaking to an assembly in Gracechurch Street." "To an unlawful assembly?" exclaimed the Lord Mayor. "No, my lord," answered the noble Master Bushel. "We give no other verdict than we gave last night." In vain the Lord Mayor and the Recorder Jefferies threatened as before; the Lord Mayor shouting out, "Gaoler, bring fetters, and shake this pestilent fellow to the ground!" "Do your will," answered Penn; "I care not for your fetters!" The Recorder Jefferies now cried out, "By my troth, I could never before understand why the Spaniards suffered the Inquisition among them; and, to my mind, it will never be well with us in England till we have among us something like the Inquisition." "Boy," whispered Christison to his son, "you heard those words. The knave has a good idea of his master's notions and designs. If the Inquisition,--and I know something of it,--is ever established in this fair England of ours, it must either be quickly driven out again, or our country will be no fit place for honest men." Once more the jury were locked up, without food, fire, or water; but they were Englishmen to the backbone, and were ready to die in the cause of civil freedom, rather than play traitors to their own convictions. On Monday the court again sat. Each juror was separately questioned, and one and all pronounced "Not guilty." The Recorder on this fined them forty marks a man, and imprisonment in Newgate till the fines were paid. Penn and Mead were fined in the same way, the Recorder crying out, "Put him out of court! Take him away!" "`Take him away!'" exclaimed Penn. "Whenever I urge the fundamental laws of England, `Take him away!' is their answer; but no wonder, since the Spanish Inquisition sits so near the Recorder's heart." Both prisoners and jurors were carried off to Newgate, refusing to pay the fines: Penn and Mead as a case of conscience; while Bushel advised his fellow-jurors to dispute the matter. The jurors were committed to prison on the 5th of September, and it was not till the 9th of November that the trial came on. Learned counsel were engaged for their defence; Newdegate, one of them, arguing that the judges may try to open the eyes of the jurors, but not to "lead them by the nose." Christison and his son were present. "I had hoped to spend some years in my native land, and renew the friendship I formed in my youth," observed the former; "but I tell thee, Wenlock, if this trial goes against those twelve honest men, I will forswear my country, and go and seek thy fortune and mine in some other land, where knaves do not, as here, `rule the roost.'" When, however, the twelve judges gave an almost unanimous verdict in favour of the jurymen, Christison agreed that, after all, there were more honest men in the country than he had feared was the case. To return, however, to William Penn and Mead. They were remanded to Newgate, refusing to pay the fines imposed on them, as a matter of conscience. Without difficulty, Christison and Wenlock obtained admittance to them. "Truly, friends, you are hardly dealt with," said the former, as he shook hands. "We had tyrannical proceedings enough in the time of the first Charles, but it seems to me that we are even worse off now. I would that I could collect a band of honest fellows and rescue you out of this vile den." "I pray thee, be silent, dear friend," said Mead. "We are here for conscience sake; and our consciences being right towards God, would support us under far greater trial." "Well, well, I suppose you are right," answered Christison; "but it sorely troubles me to see you here. I came back to England, understanding that the country was enjoying rest, and prospering under the new reign; but it seems to me that the rest is more that of wearied sleep than prosperous tranquillity, and that ere long the people will revive, and will once more draw the sword to reassert their rights." "I pray not," said Mead; "but I do pray that those principles which I have unfolded to thee, old friend, may be promulgated throughout the length and breadth of England; as it is through them, and them only, that the country can obtain true rest, and prosper as a Christian people would desire." Two days after this, the prisoners were pacing their cell, talking earnestly on matters seldom discussed within prison walls, when the turnkey entered. "Gentlemen," he said, "I bring you news such as may perhaps be satisfactory. Your fines have been paid, and you are at liberty to depart from hence. I trust you will not forget the attention and courtesy with which I have treated you!" "Verily, knave!" exclaimed Mead, laughing as Quakers were not wont to laugh, "thou ought to go to Court and push thy fortune there. I would willingly pay thee for all the attention thou hast shown us, but I fear thou wouldst not be satisfied with the payment. If I give thee more than thy deserts, thou wilt be better pleased. Here, take this groat. Art thou satisfied?" The turnkey made a wry face, and Mead followed Penn, who had hurried out, anxious to be free from the prison. On the outside they met Christison and Wenlock, with several other friends, waiting for them. Penn hastened to his lodgings to change his dress, requesting Mead to order horses directly, that he might proceed down to his father. "Come," said Mead to his old comrade; "many days have passed since I gave thee an invitation to my abode; but as I have not since then been a free agent, I could not have received thee as I desired." CHAPTER FIVE. Wenlock Christison and his son proceeded up Cornhill a short time after the events which have been described. They were examining the various signs over the shop doors, in search of that which distinguished Master Mead's abode. "Ah! there it is," said Wenlock; "that must be the `Spinning Wheel' he told us of." A demure youth with well-brushed hair was standing at the door, in courteous language inviting passers-by to enter and inspect his master's goods. "Is this Master Mead's abode, young man?" inquired Captain Christison. "Verily, friend, it is," answered the shopman. "If thou wilt enter, thou wilt find thy money's worth for any goods thou mayst purchase. Master Mead bringeth good judgment to bear on his purchases, and buys only such goods as those in which he has confidence. Enter, friend; enter, I pray thee." "Thank you," said Christison; "but I wish to see Master Mead himself." "If thou wilt enter through this door, thou wilt find him in the upper story with his family," answered the shopman, leading the way; and Christison and Wenlock proceeded upstairs. Master Mead cordially welcomed his old friend, introducing him to a comely matron whom he spoke of as his wife Martha. "And here is my daughter Mary," he added, pointing to a remarkably pretty and fair-haired girl, who smiled sweetly, and held out her hand to her father's guests. She might have been two or three years younger than Wenlock, though, being well grown, there seemed but little difference in their ages. While their elders were talking, the young people, after a few desultory remarks, found themselves drawn into conversation. "I hear from my father that thou hast been a great traveller already," said Mary Mead. "Yes, indeed," answered Wenlock. "I scarcely remember ever remaining more than two or three months in one place. When my mother died, my father left our home in New England, ever after seeking for some spot where he might settle, but finding none, till at length he determined to go back to the old country." "You can have had but little time for obtaining instruction then?" said Mary, "I thought boys were always sent to school." "I picked up what I could out of what my father calls the `big book of life,'" answered Wenlock. "He also gave me such instructions as time and opportunity would allow, though there are many more things I should like to learn. I have, however, read not a few books; I can handle a singlestick as well as many older men, can ride, row, and shoot with arquebuse or crossbow, and I can write letters on various subjects, as I will prove to you, Mistress Mary, if you will allow me, when I again begin my wanderings; for I doubt whether my father will long remain in this big city. He is constantly complaining that the times are out of joint; and although we have been in England but a few weeks, he threatens again speedily to leave it." "That were a pity," said Mary. "I prefer the green fields, and the woods, and the gay flowers, and the songs of birds, to the narrow streets, the dingy houses, and the cries of London; but yet I opine that happiness comes from within, and that, if the heart is at rest, contentment may be found under all circumstances." "You are a philosopher," said Wenlock. "No," answered Mary quietly, "I am a Quakeress, an you please: and our principles afford us that peace and contentment which they of the world know not of." "I must get you to teach me to be a Quaker, then," said Wenlock. "I have been listening attentively to your father's discourses to mine, and even he, who was so much opposed to such ideas, has greatly been attracted by them; and, to tell you the truth, Mistress Mead, I have made up my mind that they are the best that I have heard of. There may be better, but I know not of them." "Oh, no, no. There can be no better than such as are to be found in the Book of Life," said Mary. "You must judge of our principles by that, and that alone. If they are not according to that, they are wrong; but if they are according to that, there can be none better." Wenlock, as he talked to the fair young Quakeress, felt himself every moment becoming more and more a convert to her opinions; and had not his father been present, he would then and there have undoubtedly confessed himself a Quaker. The young people had found their way, somehow or other, to the bow window at the further end of the room, their elders, meantime, carrying on a conversation by themselves, not altogether of a different character. Mead, aided by his wife, was explaining to Christison, more fully than he had hitherto done, the Quaker doctrines. Could he, a man of the sword, however, acknowledge fighting to be wrong, and henceforth and for ever lay aside the weapons he had handled all his life? "But surely, friend, if thou dost acknowledge that man is formed in God's image, it must be obvious to thee that to deface His image must be contrary to His law and will. The world is large, and God intends it to be peopled; whereas, by wars, the population ceases to increase, and that happy time when hymns of praise shall ascend from all quarters of the globe is postponed." Mistress Mead occasionally made some telling remark to the same effect. "Well, friend Mead, I have listened to all you have advanced," said Christison at length, "and I cannot, as an honest man, fail to acknowledge that you are in the main right. When next I come, I will hear what further arguments you have to adduce; but the truth is, when I determined to return to England, it was with the purpose of taking service in the English army, or in that of some foreign Protestant State, in which I hoped also to obtain employment for my son; whereas, if I turn Quaker, I must, I see, from what you tell me, give up all such ideas, and then how to obtain employment for him or myself I know not. I have no wish to be idle, and as `a rolling stone gains no moss,' I have laid by but little of this world's wealth for a rainy day, or for my old age." "Verily, thou must indeed give up all ideas of fighting and blood-shedding," answered Mead. "Yet I see not that thou needst starve. There is no lack of honest employments, if a man will but seek them. `Thou canst not serve two masters.' Our God is a God of peace. The devil is the god of war; and devilish work is fighting, as I can answer from experience, and so canst thou, old comrade." Christison sighed. "Well, well, friend," he said, "I feel you are right, and I will think over the matter. And now it is time that I should bid thee farewell. I have a visit to pay to a friend who lives some way on the other side of Temple Bar, and it will be late before we can get back to our lodgings." Mead did not attempt to detain his friend. The young people started when Wenlock was summoned. They were sorry the visit had so soon come to an end. "We shall see you again," said Mary, frankly putting out her hand, "and then I will speak to you more of these matters." Wenlock of course promised that he would very soon come again. Christison and his son took their way along Cheapside, past old Saint Paul's, and proceeded down Ludgate Hill. "You seemed pleased with young Mistress Mead, Wenlock," said his father. "Indeed I was," answered Wenlock. "Though so quiet in manner, she has plenty to say. I never felt more inclined to talk in my life. I have promised to pay another visit as soon as I can, and when we go away, to write to her and give her an account of our adventures." "You seem to have made progress in her good graces, Wenlock," said his father; and as he was a man of the world, it might possibly have occurred to him that when his son should desire a helpmate, fair Mistress Mary might prove a very suitable person. That perfect confidence existed between father and son which induced Wenlock to speak his mind on all occasions and on all subjects. They at length reached their destination, and the old soldier found his friend Lawrence Hargrave at home. In their conversation, which was chiefly on matters political, Wenlock took but little interest, his thoughts indeed being just then occupied chiefly by Mary Mead. He was glad, therefore, when his father announced his intention of returning home. They walked on rapidly, for the night was cold. It was dark also, for the sky was overcast. As they were going along Fleet Street, they heard the sound of horses' hoofs approaching at a somewhat rapid rate. They drew on one side, when a faint cry of "Help! help!" reached their ears. "Come on, Wenlock," shouted the captain, rushing on. Directly before them they saw the outlines of two horses and several persons apparently struggling on the ground. The sounds of "Help! help!" again reached their ears. "Here is help to whoever is in the right," cried Christison, drawing his sword. "I am in the right; the others wish to kill me," said the same voice. "No, no; he is a prisoner escaping from justice," growled a man in a rough voice. "It is false! Help! I am the Duke--" At that moment, a blow was heard, and the speaker was felled to the ground. "I take the weakest side," cried Christison, attacking the other men, who now, drawing their swords, attempted to defend themselves. The old officer, a dextrous swordsman, disarmed the first, sending his weapon flying to the other side of the street. The next he attacked, giving him a severe wound on the arm. Young Wenlock, who, according to the fashion of the times, also wore a sword, joined in the fray, and made so furious an onset on the third fellow, who was at that moment about to run his weapon into the body of the prostrate man, that he compelled him to draw back. Placing himself across the body, he kept the fellow at bay, till another wound which his father bestowed on his antagonist made him retreat; when, the sound of carriage-wheels being heard in the distance, the three fellows, leaping on their horses, took to flight, leaving Christison and Wenlock masters of the field; the fallen man, only slightly stunned, had been slowly recovering; and when Christison stooped down to help him up, he was able, without much difficulty, to rise to his feet. "Thanks, my friends, whoever you are," he said. "I observed the brave way in which you attacked my dastardly assailants; and I observed also the gallant manner in which this young gentleman defended me, when one of them would have run me through the body. To him I feel, indeed, that I am indebted for my life." CHAPTER SIX. In a country house near Wanstead, in Essex, one of England's bravest admirals,--Sir William Penn,--lay on a bed of sickness. By his side stood a grave-looking gentleman in a scarlet cloak, and huge ruffles on his wrists. "Tell me honestly, Master Kennard, whether you deem this sickness unto death?" "Honestly, Sir William, as you ask me, I confess that you are in a worse state than I have before known you. At all events, it behoves you to make such preparations as you deem important, should you be summoned from the world." "It is enough; I understand you, my friend," said the admiral, with a smile. "I would rather it were so. I am weary of the world, and am ready to leave it; but there is one who seems but little able to watch over his own interests, and, I fear me much, will be subjected to many persecutions in consequence of the opinions he has of late adopted. I would therefore ask you to indite a letter in my name to our gracious Sovereign and his royal brother, that I may petition them to extend to him those kind offices which they have ever shown to me. The Duke of York is his godfather, as you know; and, whatever may be his faults, he is an honest man, and will fulfil his promises. You will find paper and pen on yonder table. I pray thee perform this kind office for me." Dr Kennard did as he was requested, and forthwith the letter was despatched by a trusty hand to London. Soon after it had been sent off, a servant announced that Master William Penn had just arrived, and craved permission to see his father. Grief was depicted on the countenance of the young man when he entered his father's chamber. He had just had an interview with his mother, and she had told him that all hopes of the admiral's recovery had been abandoned by his medical attendants. He knew not how his father might receive him. Although, when they last parted, the admiral's feelings had been somewhat softened towards his son, yet he had not even then ceased to blame him for the course he had pursued. Sir William Penn had already received numerous rewards and honours for the services he had rendered to his sovereign, and he had every reason to believe that he would have been raised to the peerage. His son William had, however, refused to accept any title, and he had therefore declined the honour for himself. He was now, however, at the early age of forty-nine, struck by a mortal disease, and he had begun to estimate more truly than heretofore the real value of wealth and worldly honours. When William entered, he put out his hand. "I thank Heaven, son William, you have come back to see me ere I quit this troubled scene of life," said the dying admiral. "I once wished to know that my son was to become a peer of the realm, the founder of a great family; but such thoughts have passed away from me. I now confess, William, that you have `chosen the better part.' Your honour and glory no man can take away from you. In truth, I am weary of this world, and, had I my choice, would not live my days over again, for the snares of life are greater than the fears of death." The affectionate son expressed his joy at hearing his father speak thus. The admiral smiled. "Yes," he said, "our thoughts change when we see the portals of death so close to us. With regard to you, William, I am satisfied; but for our unhappy country I cannot cease to mourn. Alas! what fearful profligacy do we see in high places: vice and immorality rampant among all classes; the disrepute into which the monarchy and all connected with it have justly fallen; and the discredit into which our national character has been brought abroad." William almost wept tears of joy when he described his father's state of mind to his mother. They could now converse freely on important matters. One day, while his son was with the admiral, two letters were brought him. "Here," he said, "read them, son William, for my eyes are dim." The young man took the letters. "Indeed, father, they are such as should satisfy us," he said. "This one is from the king, who seldom puts pen to paper. He promises largely to protect me from all foes, and to watch over my interests. He expresses great regret at hearing of your illness, and wishes for your recovery. The other, from the Duke of York, is to the same effect. He speaks of his friendship to you for many years; and his sincere desire is, to render you all the service in his power. Therefore, with much satisfaction he undertakes the office of my guardian and protector when I am deprived of you. There is a kind tone throughout the epistle, for which I am duly grateful." William then read both documents to his father, who desired to hear them. Still the admiral's constitution was good, and hopes were entertained that he might recover. "My children," he said, calling his son and daughters to his bedside, "I have but a few days to live,--I know it. I leave you some worldly wealth, but that may be taken from you. I would leave you my counsel, of which no man can deprive you. There are three rules I would give you, which, if you follow them, will carry you with firmness and comfort through this inconstant world. Now listen to me. Let nothing in this world tempt you to wrong your conscience; so you will keep peace at home, which will be a feast to you in the day of trouble. Secondly, whatever you design to do, lay it justly, and time it seasonably, for that gives security and despatch. Lastly, be not troubled at disappointments, for if they may be recovered, do it; if they cannot, trouble is vain. If you could not have helped it, be content. There is often peace and profit in submitting to Providence; for afflictions make wise. If you could have helped it, let not your trouble exceed your instruction, for another time." These rules, the admiral's son laid to heart; and, as his after life showed, they were never forgotten. William was greatly rewarded for all he had gone through by hearing his father at length thoroughly approve of his conduct. "My son, I confess I would rather have you as you are, than among those frivolous and heartless courtiers who beset our sovereign. Their fate must be miserable. They are bringing reproach and ruin upon our country; and albeit, though I wish to die as I have lived, a member of the Church of England, yet I am well-content that you, my son, should be guided by the principles you have adopted; and I feel sure that if you and your friends keep to your plain way of preaching, and also keep to your plain way of living, you will make an end of priests to the end of the world." Almost the last words the admiral uttered were: "Bury me near my mother. Live all in love. Shun all manner of evil. I pray God to bless you; and He will bless you." The spirit in which the admiral died, greatly softened the poignancy of the grief felt by his wife and son. The funeral procession set forth towards Bristol, where the admiral had desired to be buried, in Redcliffe Church, where a monument, still to be seen, was raised to his memory. William Penn was now the possessor of a handsome fortune inherited from his father. With youth, a fine appearance, fascinating manners, well acquainted with the world, numerous friends at court, and royal guardians pledged to advance his interests, he, notwithstanding, resisted all the allurements which these advantages offered to him, and set forth through the country, travelling from city to city, and village to village, preaching the simple gospel of salvation. In a picturesque village in Buckinghamshire, called Chalfont, a young gentleman on horseback might have been seen passing up the chief street. There were but few people moving about at that early time of the morning. At length he saw one advancing towards him, who, though dressed in sober costume, had the air of a gentleman. "Friend," said the young horseman, "canst tell me the abode of Master Isaac Pennington?" "Ay! verily I can," answered the pedestrian; "and, if I mistake not, he to whom I speak is one who will be heartily welcome. His fame has gone before him in this region, remote as it is from the turmoils of the world. Thou art William Penn; I am Thomas Elwood, a friend of the family. Their abode is the Grange, which they have rebuilt and beautified. Further on, at the end of the street, is the dwelling of one known to all lovers of literature,--John Milton. And here is my cottage, where thou wilt be always welcome." "Thanks, friend Elwood," said William Penn, dismounting from his horse. "If thou wilt show me the Grange, I will thank thee, and accept at another time thy hospitality." "I am bound thither myself," said Elwood, "and I shall enjoy thy society on the way." On reaching the Grange, William Penn found assembled in the breakfast parlour several guests. The lady of the house was Lady Springett, the widow of a Parliamentary officer; she had some years before married Isaac Pennington, both having adopted the Quaker principles. But there was one person present who seemed more especially to attract the young Quaker's attention. She was the daughter of Lady Springett; her name, Gulielma Maria, though addressed always by her family as Guli. William Penn had not been dreaming of love, but he at once felt himself drawn towards her; and before he left the Grange he acknowledged to himself that she had the power of adding greatly to his worldly happiness. Again, however, he went forth on his mission, but he frequently returned to Chalfont, and at length the fair Guli promised to become his wife. CHAPTER SEVEN. We left Captain Christison and his son just as they had gallantly rescued the stranger who had been set upon by ruffians in one of the principal thoroughfares of London. They had scarcely time to proceed far with him before they met a carriage accompanied by a couple of running footmen. "O my lord duke! Are you safe? are you safe?" exclaimed the men. "No thanks to your bravery, varlets," answered the nobleman. "Had it not been for these gentlemen, you would probably have never seen me again alive. And now, gentlemen," he said, turning to the captain and his son, "let me beg you will take a seat in my carriage, that I may convey you to your abode; or, if you will, honour me by coming to my mansion, that I may thank you more particularly for the essential service you have rendered me. I am the Duke of Ormonde. I was seated in my carriage, not dreaming of an attack, when two men suddenly opened the door, dragged me out, and, before my attendants could interfere, one of them, a powerful fellow, hoisted me up on the saddle before him. I struggled, and had just succeeded in bringing him with myself to the ground, when you came up. Why I have been thus assaulted I cannot tell, but I fear that it was in consequence of the animosity of some political opponents." "Thank you, my lord duke," answered Christison. "We are lodging in the City, and I would not wish to take your grace so far out of your way, nor can we intrude upon you at this hour of the evening; but to-morrow morning we will, with your leave, wait on your grace. We have met before, though perhaps the recollection of the circumstances may not be altogether pleasant. I will not therefore now speak of them, though, as your grace at present sits on the upper end of the seesaw, you may look back on those days without annoyance." "As you will," said the duke; "but you have not given me your name, and I should wish to recollect one who has rendered me so essential a service." "Wenlock Christison,--an old soldier, an it please your grace," said the captain, introducing his son at the same time. "Ah! ah! now I recollect you well, Captain Christison," answered the duke, "and truly I bear you no grudge because you sided with those I considered my foes; but let bygones be bygones, and I shall be very glad to see you again." Saying this, with the help of his attendants, the duke entered his carriage, shaking hands very warmly with Wenlock. "I owe you a heavy debt, young gentleman," he said, "and one I shall at all times be glad to repay, and yet consider that I have not paid you sufficiently." "A fortunate meeting," said Captain Christison to his son, as they walked on together. "The Duke of Ormonde is a powerful nobleman, and a truly upright and honest gentleman at the same time. What he promises he will fulfil. It is more than can be said of most of those in King Charles's court. Take my advice, Wenlock. Do not let this opportunity of gaining a good position in the world pass by. I do not suppose that he will offer me anything, but if he does, I shall be inclined to accept it. You see, Wenlock, our finances are far from being in a flourishing condition. I cannot turn to trade like my friend Mead, as I have no knowledge of it. In truth, as our family have always followed the calling of arms, or one of the liberal professions, I am not much disposed to yield to my worthy friend's arguments, and sheathe my sword for ever. I cannot understand why people should not be soldiers, and at the same time honest men and Christians." "I will have a talk with Mistress Mary Mead on the subject," answered Wenlock, "when next we meet. At the same time I desire to follow your wishes, father." "I rather suspect that Mistress Mary's bright eyes will weigh somewhat in the balance with her arguments, Master Wenlock," said his father, with a laugh. "However, we will pay our visit to the duke, and if he throws fortune in our way, I see not why we should refuse to clutch it." The next morning was bright and dry. The captain and his son set off to pay their intended visit to the Duke of Ormonde. Wenlock, in his new slash doublet and hose, with a feather in his cap and a sword by his side, looked a brave young gallant, as in truth he was. His father gazed at him proudly. "It were a pity," thought the old soldier to himself, "to see the lad turn Quaker, and throw away the brilliant prospects he has of rising in the world. Such a chance as this may never occur to him again; for though I perchance might get him a commission in a troop of horse with myself, yet he would have many hard blows to strike before he could rise to fortune and fame, while a bullet might, long ere he reached them, cut short his career." On arriving at the Duke of Ormonde's residence, they were at once shown into an ante-chamber, where two or three pages in attendance minutely scrutinised young Wenlock. They suspected, perhaps, from his manner and appearance, that he had come to take service with them. Courtesy, however, prevented them making any inquiries on the subject. After a short time, a gentleman came out of the duke's chamber and invited Captain Christison and his son to enter. His manner was especially respectful, and this evidently raised the visitors in the opinion of the young pages. The duke came forward and shook Captain Christison cordially by the hand. He received Wenlock in a still more kind manner. Then turning to a dignified young man by his side, he said, "Allow me to introduce you to my son Ossory. He desires also to thank you for the service you have rendered his father." "Indeed I do, gentlemen," said Lord Ossory, coming forward; "and I only hope that this young gentleman will allow me to show my gratitude. Who the villains were from whom you rescued the duke we have been as yet unable to ascertain, but there can be no doubt that their purpose was to murder him; indeed, preparations for hanging some one were found made this morning under the gibbet at Tyburn; and coupling this with a threatening letter received a few days ago by the duke, we suspect that they intended to put him thus ignominiously to death." Captain Christison made a suitable reply to these remarks of the duke and the earl. "As to myself," he said, "I have been a stranger to England for many years, and came home for the sake of seeing my native land again, and then taking service afloat or on shore, wherever I might find my sword acceptable, and my conscience would allow me." "I understand you, my friend," said the duke; "and since old foes have shaken hands, and Roundheads and Cavaliers now unite together, I trust that you will not object to accept a company in my regiment. As senior captain, you will have the command; and as you have fought at sea, you will not object, I presume, to serve again on board ship, should a war break out. Lord Ossory, who is in the navy, desires to retain your son about his own person, should the young gentleman like to see something of the world. Otherwise, I should be glad to give him a post in my household." "You overwhelm us with kindnesses, my lord duke," said Captain Christison. "For myself, nothing would suit me better than what you propose, and I must beg to leave my son to choose for himself. What say you, Wenlock? Do you wish to take time to think on the matter, or will you run the chance of seeing service under the noble Earl of Ossory?" The worldly ambition of the old soldier, excited by the flattering remarks of the duke, imparted itself to Wenlock. Could he make up his mind to turn draper's assistant in the City, as he had been meditating doing yesterday, while so brilliant a prospect had opened itself up before him? The thought were ridiculous. "I heartily accept the offer of the Earl of Ossory, my lord duke," he said, with a bow which could not have been surpassed had he been all his life at court. "I could not wish to serve under a more noble and gallant leader." "I am glad it is so settled," said the Duke. "To be frank with you, Captain Christison, I remember you well, and the good service you did to the cause you advocated. I have not forgotten, either, the courteous way in which you treated me when I fell into your hands on the fatal field of Worcester; and, by my troth, the way the Cavaliers behaved on that occasion made me ashamed of my order and the cause I served. You tell me that you are lodging in the City. You can, however, move here as soon as you please. There are rooms for you both, and places at my table. In truth, after the dastardly attack made upon me last night, I shall be thankful to have two such trusty friends within call, for I know not when I may be again assaulted." Thus invited, the captain and his son were glad to move that very evening to the duke's house; indeed, the few gold pieces remaining in the old soldier's purse reminded him that he must find some speedy means of replenishing it, or run the risk of having to live upon short commons. The captain had never been a prudent man, and Wenlock little thought what a hole the cost of his suit had made in his father's exchequer. CHAPTER EIGHT. "And thou art going away on board a warship to fight and slay, and, alack! perchance to be slain," said Mary Mead, whose hand was held by Wenlock Christison. "It is sad to think of such cruel deeds, and sadder still that thou, Wenlock, should engage in such work. I had thought my father had shown thee the sinfulness of warfare, and that I might have said something to the same effect that might have moved thee." "So you did, Mary; and when I am with you truly I feel inclined to play the woman, and, throwing up all my brilliant prospects, to join myself to your father or Master William Penn, and to go forth as they are wont to do to promulgate their doctrines." "Nay; but that would not be playing the woman, surely," said Mary, reproachfully. "It is no woman's work they have to go through, although some women are found who boldly go forth even into foreign lands, and, in spite of danger and opposition, are not behind the men in zeal in the good cause." "I am wrong, Mary, thus to speak. I should greatly have disappointed my father had I refused to serve under the Earl of Ossory; besides which, no other means are open to me of supporting myself. I must, I find, depend upon my sword; for my father now tells me, what I did not before know, that all his means are expended, and that without a profession I should be little better than a beggar." "Alack! alack!" said poor Mary, and the tears came into her eyes. "For `they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.' You know, Wenlock, too, that my father would gladly have found employment for you, if you would have accepted it." This remark came home to Wenlock's heart. It was the truth, and he could not help acknowledging that he had preferred his worldly associates, and the so-called brilliant prospects offered to him by the earl, instead of becoming a haberdasher's apprentice, an humble Quaker, and the husband of the pretty Mary Mead. He still hoped, indeed, to win her. She had acknowledged her love for him, and he had built up many castles in the air of which she was to be the mistress. After serving a few years under Lord Ossory, he expected to rise in rank, and to come home with ample wealth, which would enable him to settle down on shore, and marry her. Master Mead had parted from Captain Christison somewhat coldly. He bade Wenlock farewell with a sigh. "Thou hast been led to act as thou art doing by thy father, and I cannot blame thee," he said. "I had hoped better things of thee, and I would now pray that thy heart may be turned to the right way." Mary was very sad after Wenlock had gone. He was frank and artless, good-looking, and of agreeable manners; and believing that he was about to join her sect, she had given her heart to him without reserve. He had come frequently to the house after he had taken service under Lord Ossory, though his duties had of late prevented his visits being as frequent as at first. Several months had thus passed away, his father having in the meantime joined the fleet under the Earl of Sandwich, one of the bravest of England's admirals at that time. He would have taken Wenlock with him, had not Lord Ossory desired that the young man should remain in his service. The morning after parting from Mary, Wenlock accompanied Lord Ossory to Portsmouth. Here a ship of sixty guns, the _Resolution_, was waiting to receive the earl as her captain. Not till Wenlock was on board, and sailing out from Spithead past Saint Helen's, had he any notion whither the fleet was bound. He, with several other young men and boys, were occupants of part of the captain's cabin, which was devoted to them. "You will see some service, Christison," said the earl. "I wish it were of a more worthy character than it is likely to prove. King Charles's exchequer is low, and we have been sent out here to capture a homeward-bound fleet of Dutch merchantmen expected shortly in the Channel. You heard the other day of the Dutch refusing to strike their flag when the _Merlin_ yacht passed through their fleet with Lady Temple on board. Her captain fired in return, and was rewarded with a gold chain on his arrival at home. This is our pretence, a sorry one, I confess, for war." The _Resolution_ formed one of the fleet under Sir Robert Holmes, consisting altogether of some thirty-six men-of-war. Eight only had, however, been got ready for sea, and with these Sir Robert was about to take a short cruise outside the Isle of Wight, for practising the crews. Scarcely, however, had they lost sight of land before the _Resolution_, being to the westward, descried a fleet standing up Channel. She communicated the intelligence to the rest of the squadron. They were soon made out to be Dutch. The sea officers, after examining them carefully, declared that there were several men-of-war among them. On their approaching nearer, of this there was no doubt. Sir Robert Holmes, however, followed by the _Resolution_, stood gallantly towards them, when in addition to the seventy merchantmen expected, six stout men-of-war were perceived. Of the English ships five were frigates. The Dutch, who had timely notice of the intended attack, were prepared for battle, with their decks cleared, divided into three squadrons, each guarded by two men-of-war, and together forming a half-moon. Sir Robert approaching them, ordered them to strike their flags. On their refusing to do so, he fired a broadside into the nearest ship. They, however, lowered their topsails. Again he asked whether they would strike their flags. On their refusing, he again fired; and now the action became general. Sir Robert especially attacked the ship of the Dutch commodore, while Lord Ossory attacked another commanded by Captain du Bois. For some hours the action continued, but so well did the Dutch defend themselves, that when darkness put an end to the fight, no material advantage had been gained. The next day, however, the English fleet being joined by four more frigates from Portsmouth, again attacked the Dutch. Lord Ossory gallantly boarded Captain du Bois' ship. Wenlock was among the first to dash on to the deck of the enemy. His swordsmanship served him in good stead. Many, however, of his companions were killed around him, and for some time he was left with but few followers on the enemy's deck. Lord Ossory, seeing the danger of his young officer, calling upon his men, led a fresh body of boarder on to the deck of the enemy. In spite however of his valour, they were driven back on board his own ship. Out of the whole Dutch squadron, indeed, when darkness again came on, only one man-of-war and three merchantmen had been captured. With these Sir Robert was compelled to return to port, the Dutchmen making good their escape. "It was scurvy work," exclaimed Lord Ossory, as the ship came to an anchor. "Such is unfit for gallant gentlemen to engage in. I would rather sheathe my sword, and forswear fighting for the future, than to undertake again such a buccaneering business." Wenlock, however, had got a taste for sea life. His gallantry in the action had been remarked, and was highly commended. When therefore the _Royal James_, on board which his father was serving under the Earl of Sandwich, came to an anchor, he begged that he also might join her. Through Lord Ossory's introduction, the admiral received him very courteously, and promised to look after his interests. The captain of the ship, Sir Richard Haddock, also expressed his satisfaction at having him on board. The _Royal James_ was one of the largest ships in the navy, carrying a hundred guns, and nearly one thousand men, including seamen and soldiers. Captain Christison, now in his element, was delighted to have his son with him, and well-pleased at the credit the young man had gained. "You will see some real fighting before long, Wenlock," he observed. "Braver men than Lord Sandwich and his captain do not exist, and now this war with the Dutch has broken out we shall not let their fleets alone." Some time after this, the English fleets, consisting of nearly a hundred sail, under the command of the Duke of York, the Earl of Sandwich being the admiral of the blue squadron, were lying at Spithead. War had been declared against the Dutch, in reality at the instigation of France, whose armies were at the same time pouring into Holland. Early in May, a French fleet of forty-eight ships, under the command of Count d'Estrees, arrived at Portsmouth, and soon afterwards he and the English together put to sea. After cruising about for some time in search of the enemy, they anchored in Sole Bay. "Wenlock, before many days are over you will have seen a real sea-fight. The very thought of it warms up my old blood," exclaimed his father. "I know you will acquit yourself well; and if the enemy's fleet falls into our hands, as I doubt not it will, we shall have no cause henceforth to complain of want of money in our purses." Alas! what would Mary Mead, what would her father and William Penn, have said to such sentiments? CHAPTER NINE. The English and French fleets lay in Sole Bay, a brave sight, with flags flying and trumpets sounding from the different ships. Just as day broke on the 28th of May, numerous sail were seen dotting the horizon. On they came. There was no doubt that they were the ships of the Dutch fleet. The Duke of York threw out the signal for action; and the ships setting sail, some of them cutting their cables in their eagerness, stood out of the bay. The French, who were on the outside, were nearest to the Dutch. From the deck of the _Royal James_, no less than seventy-five large ships were discovered, and forty frigates. The fleet was commanded, as was well known, by the brave Admirals de Ruyter, Banquert, and Van Ghent. The French were first attacked by Admiral Banquert. And now the guns on both sides sent forth their missiles of death,--round shot and chain shot, the latter cutting to pieces the rigging and spars of their antagonists. "See, Wenlock, those Frenchmen fight well," exclaimed Christison. "We must acquit ourselves in a like gallant way." This was said as the _Royal James_ was standing into action, approaching a large Dutch ship called the _Great Holland_. "But see! what are they about? They are beating a retreat. Two or three of their ships remain in the enemy's hands. They have no stomach for the fight, that is clear; or, from what I hear, they are playing the game they have long done. It is the old story. They wish the Dutch and us to tear ourselves to pieces, and then they will come in and pick up the fragments." Meantime, the Duke of York in the _Saint Michael_ was engaged with Admiral de Ruyter, his ship being so severely handled that he had to leave her, and hoist his flag on board the _Loyal London_. "Ah! we have enemies enough coming down upon us," exclaimed Christison, as the _Royal James_, at the head of the blue squadron, became almost surrounded by Dutch ships. The _Great Holland_ was the first to lay her alongside, the Dutchmen, however, in vain endeavouring to board. Admiral Van Ghent next attacked her with a squadron of fire-ships. The brave Earl of Sandwich encouraged his men to resist, in spite of the numerous foes round him. Again and again the Dutchmen from the deck of the _Great Holland_ attempted to carry the _Royal James_. Each time they were beaten back. Sometimes the earl put himself at the head of his men; at others Christison and his son repelling the boarders. All this time the other Dutch ships kept up a terrific fire on the _Royal James_. More than once the earl turned his eyes towards the remainder of the English fleet, but none of the ships seemed prepared to come to his assistance. The Englishmen were falling thickly; already many hundreds strewed the deck. "When a man's destruction has been resolved on, it is easy to bring it about," observed the earl to his captain, Sir Richard Haddock, who stood by his side. "However, neither friends nor foes shall say that Edward Montagu failed in his duty to his country, or ceased to fight till the last." Saying this, he again cheered his men. Never did a crew fight with more fierce desperation than did that of the _Royal James_. Even the wounded refused to quit their guns, till they dropped at their quarters. A cheer at length arose from their decks. The _Great Holland_ had been beaten off, and was retiring in a disabled state. De Ruyter, his person conspicuous on the deck of his ship, still assailed her however. At length a shot was seen to strike him, and he sank, apparently slain, to the deck. For a short time the hard-pressed ship of the gallant admiral enjoyed a respite; but by this time she was reduced almost to a wreck, while six hundred of her brave crew lay dead or dying about her decks, with many of her officers, and several gallant gentlemen who had volunteered on board. Night was coming on, the constant flashes from the guns, however, showing the fury with which the fight was continued. Still the earl refused to retire from the combat. Christison and his son had hitherto escaped. "I have seen many fierce battles, Wenlock, but never one like this," said the old officer; "and our fighting is not over to-day. See here come more foes!" As he spoke, several ships were seen bearing down upon the _Royal James_, and now, opening their fire, they surrounded her with smoke. The four hundred survivors of her crew fought their guns with the same desperation as at first; but in the midst of the smoke a ship, approaching unperceived, grappled closely with her. Directly afterwards there was a cry of fire! Flames were seen bursting forth from the enemy, now, when too late, known to be a fire-ship. In vain the crew endeavoured to free themselves from her, but the Dutch sent such showers of shot among them that many were killed in the attempt. Wenlock had been keeping near his father, who, for the first time since the commencement of the fight, acknowledged that they were in desperate circumstances. Scarcely had he spoken, when Wenlock heard a sharp cry by his side, and turning round, he saw his father falling to the deck. He lifted him up; but as he gazed in his countenance, he saw that those eyes which had always looked at him with affection were glazing in death. "Father! father! speak to me," said Wenlock; but there was no answer. He laid him down on the deck. And now on every side the flames were bursting forth through the ports. Already the fore part of the ship was a mass of fire. Just then the brave Sir Richard Haddock received a shot in the thigh. He fell, but again raised himself to his feet: "Lower the boats, lads!" he shouted. "Ere a few minutes are over, no one will be able to live on board our stout ship. Where is the earl?" "He went to his cabin," answered some one. "Christison, come with me; we must get him into a boat. I fear he is wounded." Wenlock was obeying his commander, when just at that moment he felt a severe pang, and was conscious that a missile of some sort had passed through his side. In spite of his wound, however, he followed the captain. The earl was seated at the table, with a handkerchief over his eyes. "My lord, a boat is in readiness, and we have come to conduct you to it," said Sir Richard. "No, friend, no," answered the earl. "I cannot brook some bitter words spoken to me yesterday by the Duke of York. If my ship is to perish, I will perish with her." In vain Sir Richard and Wenlock tried to persuade the brave earl to listen to reason. Already the crackling sounds of the flames were heard, and wreaths of smoke came driving into the cabin. Then came a terrific sound. Wenlock scarcely knew what had happened, when he found himself plunged into the water. He was a strong swimmer, and struck out for life. Near him was another man whose features, lighted up by the flames from the burning ship, he recognised as those of Sir Richard Haddock. He swam towards him. "Leave me, Christison," he said; "I am desperately wounded, and cannot survive this night. You too I saw were wounded, and will have enough to do to save yourself." "No, no, sir," answered Wenlock; "I see close to us a spar. It will support us till some help arrives. I will tow you towards it if you will float quietly." Sir Richard did as he was advised, and in a short space of time Wenlock had placed him on the spar. It was not, however, sufficient to support both of them. Another was seen at a little distance. Securing the captain to the first, Wenlock swam to the other. He had wished to remain by his captain, but by some means he perceived that they were gradually receding from each other. In vain he shouted to the ships nearest to him. The din of battle drowned his voice. First one tall ship, then another, went down. The whole ocean around seemed covered with fragments of wrecks and struggling men. Of the latter, one after the other, however, sunk below the surface. At length he saw several ships approaching him. Again he shouted. It seemed to him that one was about to run over him, and courageous as he was, he gave himself up for lost. Leaving the spar, he swam off, hoping thus to avoid her. She must have been hotly engaged, for her topmasts and all their rigging were hanging over the side. As the ship passed by, he caught hold of the rigging, and drawing himself up, found a firm footing. Though his wound pained him considerably, he still had sufficient strength to climb on board, not knowing as he did so whether he was to find himself among friends or foes. CHAPTER TEN. Almost exhausted, pale as death, the blood flowing from his wound opened by the exertions he had made, Wenlock Christison dropped down on the deck of the stranger, not knowing whether he was to find himself on board an English or Dutch ship. The condition of the ship showed that she had been hotly engaged, for numbers of dead men lay about her blood-stained decks. From their appearance, as the light of the lanterns occasionally glanced on them, Wenlock at once saw that they were Dutch. Dutch was among the languages with which he was acquainted, having met many Hollanders in America. "Who are you?" said an officer, who saw him come over the side. "An Englishman, and one of the few survivors of the ill-fated ship which blew up just now," he answered. "Well-nigh a thousand men who walked her decks in health and strength this morning are now in eternity." "You are indeed fortunate in escaping then," said the Dutch officer, "and though we must consider you a prisoner, you will be treated with due courtesy on board this ship. I see that you are wounded, and badly it seems to me, so that you must be forthwith put under the surgeon's care." Wenlock thanked him, and supported by a couple of men was carried below. After this he knew nothing of what happened to him, for scarcely had he been placed on a bed than he fainted. When he came to consciousness he found the surgeon ready to administer some medicine, soon after which he fell asleep, nor did he awake again till daylight. He inquired eagerly what had occurred. "You must not talk much," said the surgeon; "but this I will tell you, that we have had a very fierce engagement, and lost three of our stoutest ships; while, if the truth is known, you English have not been less sufferers. Depend on it, altogether between us, four or five thousand people have been killed: a sensible employment for human beings. Heu! while we,--a free Protestant people,--were fighting for liberty, you English were beguiled by your own traitorous sovereign, bribed by the King of France, to attack us." The surgeon, Nicholas Van Erk, notwithstanding his remarks, treated Wenlock with the greatest kindness. They however gave him ample material for thought. In a short time the Dutch fleet arrived off the coast of Holland, and the injured ships proceeded to the chief naval ports to undergo repair. The _Marten Harptez_, the ship on board which Wenlock had found refuge, proceeded to Rotterdam. "You are a prisoner, but I have got leave to receive you at my house," said Mynheer Van Erk; "and as I have a good many sick men to look after, I do not purpose again going to sea. In truth, fighting may be a very satisfactory amusement to people without brains; but I am a philosopher, and have seen enough of it to be satisfied that it is a most detestable occupation." Wenlock found himself conveyed to a comfortable mansion in Rotterdam overlooking a canal; indeed, what houses do not overlook canals in that city? He was very weak, for his wound had been severe,--more severe than he had supposed; and he was surprised that he should have been enabled to undergo so much exertion as he had done. Van Erk, indeed, told him that had he remained much longer in the water, he would probably have fainted from loss of blood, and been drowned. "As you may become a wise man and enjoy life, being young, that would have been a pity," observed the philosopher; "but it depends how you spend the future whether you should or should not be justly congratulated on your escape." The doctor's wife and only daughter,--the fair Frowline Gretchen,-- formed the only members of the surgeon's household, with their serving maid Barbara. They, fortunately for Wenlock, were not philosophers, but turned their attention to household affairs, and watched over him with the greatest care. He, poor fellow, felt very sad and forlorn. For many days he could only think with deep grief of the untimely loss of his brave father. In time, however, he began to meditate a little also about himself. All his prospects appeared blighted. The friends who might have spoken of his brave conduct in the fight were dead. He had hoped to obtain wealth, and to return and marry Mary Mead. He had not a groat remaining in the world. Never in his life before had he been so downhearted Gretchen observed his melancholy. "You should not thus grieve for being a prisoner," she observed; "many brave men have been so, and the time will come when you will be set at liberty." Wenlock then told her how he had lost his father, and how his own hopes of advancement had been blighted. "Have you no one then who cares for you?" she asked, in a tone of sympathy; "no one in your native land to whom you desire to return?" "Yes," said Wenlock; and he then told her of his engagement to the fair Quakeress. "Ah! I am not surprised at that," observed the Dutch girl, with a sigh. After this, though as kind as usual, Wenlock observed that she was somewhat more distant in her manner to him than she had been at first. Considering that he was a prisoner, his time passed very pleasantly. Having given his word to the authorities and to his host that he would not attempt to escape, he was allowed to go about that picturesque town as much as he pleased. Month after month the war continued, and he remained a prisoner. His affection, however, for Mary Mead had rather increased by absence than diminished; and fearing that she might forget him, he at length wrote her a letter, entreating her to remain faithful, and promising, as soon as he should be able, to return to England and follow any course she might advise. In vain he waited for an answer to this letter; week after week passed by, and none came. "She has forgotten you," said Gretchen one day, observing him look very sad. Wenlock started! He was thinking the same thing. "I know not," he answered; "I have heard that women are fickle." "I did not say that," observed Gretchen; "but if you chose to disregard the wishes of one you professed to love, I am not surprised that she should at length have dismissed you from her thoughts. I do not say she has, but it is possible." Wenlock had for some time felt ashamed of being idle; for though his host might have received payment for his support from the government, yet that, he was sure, could not be sufficient to cover the expense to which he was put. He expressed his wishes to his kind host. "A very sensible remark," observed the surgeon, "and as you have now recovered from your wound, and regained your strength, it is proper that you should be employed. I have a brother, a merchant, trading with Surinam. He may possibly give you employment. You speak several languages, and write a good hand. You will, I doubt not, soon be ranked among his principal clerks, if you have a good knowledge of accounts." "If he will try me, I will do my best," answered Wenlock. The next day he was installed as a clerk in the office of Peter Van Erk, one of the principal merchants in the city. Wenlock had an aptitude for business of which he had not been aware. He took a positive pleasure in his work, and soon attracted the observation of his quick-sighted employer. The kind surgeon was highly pleased. "You do credit to my recommendation, Christison," he observed; "you will soon win the confidence of my brother, and will then be on the fair way to making your fortune." Time passed by. Wenlock made himself so useful that in a short time his employer agreed to pay him a handsome salary. When peace was declared, therefore, he felt that it would be folly to return to England, where he had no home and no one from whom he had a right to demand assistance. He had forfeited William Mead's regard by acting contrary to his advice, while from Lord Ossory he might possibly fail to receive further patronage. He had heard enough of the fickleness of those in authority, and he did not expect to be better treated than others. He therefore continued to work away steadily as a merchant's clerk in the house of Van Erk and Company, of Rotterdam. CHAPTER ELEVEN. "Come with my mother and me to a meeting to which we are going this evening!" said Gretchen, when Wenlock returned home at a somewhat earlier hour than usual, for he still lived at the house of the kind surgeon. "Some Englishmen arrived yesterday in Rotterdam, and they are about to address the public on some important religious matters. They are said to be very earnest and devoted people, and one of them speaks Dutch perfectly. Their names I cannot remember. Those short, curious, English names quickly escape my memory." Wenlock at once agreed to Gretchen's request; indeed he had no longer the heart to refuse her anything she asked. It might have been just possible that, had he learned that the fair Mary had forgotten him and accepted another suitor, he would have had no great difficulty in consoling himself. Yet it was not so at present. He always treated Gretchen with kindness and respect, but was fully convinced in his own mind that he never allowed a warmer feeling to enter his bosom. The large public hall in which meetings of the sort were generally held was nearly filled by the time the Van Erk party arrived. They, however, were shown to seats near the platform whence the speakers were to address the people. Many more persons crowded in, till the hall was quite full. Just then five gentlemen appeared on the platform, advancing with slow and dignified steps. A curious and very mixed feeling agitated Wenlock's heart when among them he recognised Master William Penn, and his father's old friend, Captain Mead. The thought of his father rushed into his mind, and a tear filled his eye. He thought, however, also of Mary, and he longed to ask her father about her; yet, at that moment, to do so was impossible. As the speakers appeared, the whole hall was hushed in silence. At length William Penn offered up a prayer in Dutch. He then introduced a tall thin, careworn man, as George Fox, who addressed the people in English, Penn interpreting as he spoke. He urged on them in forcible language to adopt the principles which the Friends had accepted, and many were moved to tears while he spoke. William Mead then came forward, but said little. Another Englishman, Robert Barclay, then addressed the assemblage. He was followed by Penn himself; who, in calm yet forcible language, placed the simple truths of the gospel before his hearers. Wenlock's feelings were greatly moved. His reason too was convinced. He had had a severe lesson. He had declined to accept those principles, and sought for worldly honour and distinction instead. The result had been the loss of his beloved father, he himself escaping with life almost by a miracle. "Those are old friends I little expected to meet again," said Wenlock to Gretchen and her mother. "I must speak to them now, lest they leave the city to-morrow and I may miss them." As the assembly broke up, the speakers descended into the body of the hall, and Wenlock found himself standing before William Penn and Captain Mead. Neither of them knew him, though they looked at him kindly, having observed the deep attention with which he had listened to their discourses. "I am afraid, Master Mead, I am forgotten," said Wenlock, feeling that he must speak at last. The Quaker started, and examined his countenance narrowly. "What!" he exclaimed, "art thou the son of my ancient comrade? Verily I thought that he and thou were long since numbered with the dead. How is it, young man? Has thy father escaped also?" "Alas! no," said Wenlock; and he gave a brief account of his father's death. "And hast thou been content to pass so long a time without communicating with thy old friends?" said Mead, in a reproachful tone. "No, indeed. I wrote to Mistress Mary," said Wenlock; "but she replied not to my letter." "My daughter received no letter from thee, young man," said Mead; "and I will not deny that she grieved at the thought of thy loss." "O Master Mead, I wish that I had written oftener, till one of my letters had reached you or her," exclaimed Wenlock; "but I thought that she had discarded me." "I see; I see! And thou wast too proud to run the risk of being chid further for thy youthful folly," said the Quaker. "You are right, I confess," answered Wenlock. "But tell me, how is she? Where is she? Would I could once more see her and explain my conduct." "Perchance thou mayst see her sooner than thou dost expect," said Mead. "Come to-morrow morning to the house where we lodge, and we will talk further of this matter." "What! is she in Rotterdam?" exclaimed Wenlock, in a voice trembling with agitation. "She accompanied us thus far on our journey; but I know not whether she will go farther. I must not let thee see her, however, to-night, as, believing thee dead, it might perchance somewhat agitate her; for I do not deny, Wenlock, that thou wast once dear to us all. But whether thou canst sufficiently explain thy conduct since thou didst part from us, to regain thy lost place in our regard, I cannot now determine." "Oh, I trust I can," exclaimed Wenlock, all his affection for Mary reviving immediately at the thought of again meeting her. William Penn received the young man very kindly, and then for some minutes spoke to him with deep seriousness of his past life. "Thou canst not serve God and Mammon, Friend Wenlock," he said. "Thou didst attempt to do so, and Mammon left thee struggling for thy life on the ocean. More on that matter I need not say." Wenlock, on reaching home, found that his friends had been deeply impressed by the addresses they had heard. They were also much surprised to find that two of the speakers were known to him. "Indeed, one of them," he said, "is a very old friend; and should he invite me to accompany him to England, I should wish to do so." "What! and leave us all here, not to return?" said Gretchen. "It is right that I should tell the truth at once," thought Wenlock. He did so. "And is this English girl very, very pretty," asked Gretchen; and her voice trembled slightly. "I thought her so when we parted; and amiable, and right-minded, and pious I know she is." "Ah!" said Gretchen, "I should like to see her while she remains in this city." The next morning Wenlock set out to pay his promised visit to his Quaker friends. Master Mead met him at the door of the house. "Come in; Mary will see thee," he said; and taking him upstairs, he led him into a room, at the farther end of which a young lady was seated with a book before her. She rose as her father and their visitor entered, and gave an inquiring glance at Wenlock, apparently at first scarcely knowing him. Another look assured her who it was, but no smile lighted up her countenance. She advanced, however, and held out her hand. "Thou art welcome, Master Christison," she said; "and I rejoice to find that thou didst escape the sad fate we heard had overtaken thee. And yet, was it kind to leave old friends who were interested in thee, albeit thou didst differ from them in opinion, without knowing of thy existence?" Her voice, which had hitherto remained firm, began to tremble. "Oh, no, no, Mary!" exclaimed Wenlock. "I cannot blame myself too much. Yet I did write; but I ought to have written again and again, till I heard from you. I should have known that the risk of a letter miscarrying was very great." "Yea; verily thou ought to have put more confidence in us," said Mary. Then Wenlock again blamed himself, and Mary showed herself before long inclined to be more lenient than her manner had at first led him to hope she might prove. Penn and his party remained for some days at Rotterdam, holding numerous meetings. Many among the most educated of the inhabitants,--officers of the government, merchants, and others,--came to hear them preach; while many of the principal houses of the place were thrown open to them. Among other converts was Wenlock's employer, Mynheer Van Erk, as was also his kind friend the surgeon and his family. Gretchen and Mary met frequently. "You have not over praised the English maiden," said the former to Wenlock. "I hope you will be fortunate in regaining her regard; for it is clear to me that you still look on her with affection." Penn, with three of his companions, proceeded on their tour through Holland and part of Germany, gaining many proselytes to their opinions. Mead, who had some mercantile transactions at Rotterdam, remained in that city. After they were concluded he prepared to return home. Wenlock wished to accompany him. "No, my young friend," he answered, "I cannot allow thee to quit thy present employer without due notice. Should he wish to dispense with thy services, I will receive thee when thou dost come to me." Wenlock had now openly professed himself to be a Quaker. Perchance, Master Mead, who had no lack of worldly wisdom, desired to try the young man's constancy, both as to his love and his religion; for, in both, people are very apt to deceive themselves, mistaking enthusiasm and momentary excitement for well grounded principle. As winter approached, Penn and his party returned to Rotterdam, and sailed for England. CHAPTER TWELVE. The beams of the evening sun were streaming through a deep bay window of the country house of Worminghurst, in Sussex, on the heads of two men seated at a large oak writing table in a room which, lined as it was with bookcases, showed that it was devoted to study. The heads of both of them betokened high intellect, traces of care and thought being especially discernible on the countenance of the elder,-- that lofty intellect to be quenched, ere a few short years were over, by the executioner's axe,--a deed as cruel and unjust as any caused by the cowardice and tyranny of a monarch. The table was covered with parchments, papers, books, and writing materials. Both were holding pens in their hands, now and then making note from the documents before them, at other times stopping and addressing each other. The younger man was William Penn, who, lately having obtained a grant of a large tract of country on the American continent, was now engaged in drawing up a constitution for its government, assisted by the elder,--the enlightened patriot and philosopher, Sidney. "See! such a constitution as this for Carolina will not suit a free people such as will be our colonists!" said the former, pointing to a document before him, "albeit it emanated from the brain of John Locke. Here we have a king, though with the title of palatine, with a whole court and two orders of nobility. Laws to prevent estates accumulating or diminishing. The children of leet men to be leet men for ever, while every free man is to have power over his negro slaves. Truly, society will thus be bound hand and foot. All political rights to be taken from the cultivators of the soil. Trial by jury virtually set aside. The Church of England to be alone the true and orthodox, and to be supported out of the coffers of the State." "In truth, no," said Sidney. "John Locke has not emancipated himself from his admiration of the feudal system. Let this be our principle,-- that those whose lives, properties, and liberties are most concerned in the administration of the laws shall be the people to form them. Let there be two bodies to be elected by the people,--a council and an assembly. Let the council consist of seventy-two persons, to be chosen by universal suffrage, for three years, twenty-four of them retiring every year, their places to be supplied by new election. Let the members of the assembly be elected annually, and all votes taken by ballot. The suffrage to be universal. Let it have the privilege of making out the list of persons to be named as justices and sheriffs, and let the governor be bound to select one half of those thus recommended. Now we must consider numerous provisional laws relating to liberty of conscience, provision for the poor, choice of civil officers, and so on, which can be in force until accepted by the council. We shall thus, dear friend, I trust, have secured freedom of thought, the sacredness of person and property, popular control over all powers of the state; and we will leave our new democracy to develop itself in accordance with its own genius, unencumbered with useless formalities and laws." "Yes; I trust that the simplicity of our constitution will secure its permanence," said Sidney. "I will take the papers home with me to Penshurst, and there maturely consider over all the points." Left alone, William Penn might have been seen lifting up his hands in earnest prayer to heaven that his noble scheme might prosper. He was interrupted by a knock at the door, and a servant announced a visitor. In another minute a young man entered the room with modest air and in sober costume. "Who art thou?" said Penn, looking up. "Wenlock Christison," answered the visitor. "I came at the desire of Friend Mead." "Yea; I wish to see thee, young friend," said Penn; "but when thou earnest into the room I did not at first recognise thee. Thou art somewhat changed, I may say, for the better. Sit down, and I will tell thee what I require. Look at this map of the American continent. See this magnificent river,--the Delaware, entering the Atlantic between Cape Henlopen and Cape May. See those other fine rivers,--the Susquehannah, the Ohio, and the Alleghany. Here is a country but a little less than the size of England; its surface covered with a rich vegetable loam capable of the highest cultivation, and of producing wheat, barley, rye, Indian corn, hemp, oats, flax. Here too are mighty forests supplying woods of every kind, abounding too in wild game and venison, equal to any in England. The rivers are full of fish, oysters, and crabs in abundance. On the coast the most luscious fruits grow wild, while the flowers of the forest are superior in beauty to any found in our native land. A few settlers from Sweden are already there, and some Hollanders. The native red men have hitherto proved friendly; and I trust by treating them kindly, with due regard to their just rights, we may ever remain on brotherly terms with them. They are mere wanderers over the land, build no cities, nor permanently cultivate the ground. I trust before to-morrow's sun has set, unless I am deceived, to obtain a grant of this territory, in lieu of a debt owing by the government to my father of nearly 15,000 pounds. I wish forthwith to despatch a vessel with certain commissioners authorised to purchase lands from the natives; and as Friend Mead has spoken favourably of thee, it is my wish to send thee with them. Wilt thou accept my offer? I will tell thee, if thou wilt, more particularly of thy duties." Wenlock's heart somewhat sunk within him at this proposal. He had been hoping to make Mary Mead his wife; yet he was sure her father would not allow her to go forth into a new settlement, and to undergo all the incidental risks and hardships. How long a time might pass before he could return, he could not tell. Of one thing only he felt sure, that she would be faithful to him. Some time had passed since he left Rotterdam, his friend Van Erk having given him permission to go over to England to enter the employment of William Mead. He had, since then, been living in his family, enjoying an almost daily intercourse with Mary; not yet, however, having obtained a position to enable him to marry her. Her father had resolved to put his patience and constancy to the test. Here, however, was a trial he had not expected; and when Penn had sent for him, he had, with the sanguine spirit of youth, hoped that it was to receive some appointment which would enable him to realise the wishes of his heart. Still the offer was a flattering one, and he felt that it would be unwise in him to decline it. He therefore, in suitable language, accepted the offer. "Stay here then," said Penn, "as I have abundance of work for thee for some days to come, and I will then more fully explain to thee my wishes." While Penn was still speaking, a messenger arrived from London. He brought a summons for him to attend a council at Whitehall, a note from a friend at court informing him that it was to settle the matter of the colony. He hastened up to London. In the council chamber were already assembled his majesty's privy councillors, and at the farther end of the room was the king himself, hat on head. William Penn, not the least conspicuous among them for his height and manly bearing, advanced up the room in his usual dignified manner; but neither did he doff his hat nor bend his knee before the king's majesty, although he has come in the hope of obtaining an object among the dearest to his heart. "I have come at thy desire, and thank thee for the invitation," said Penn, standing before the king. "Verily thou art welcome," said the monarch, with a smile on his lips; at the same time removing his hat and placing it by his side. "Friend Charles, why dost thou not keep on thy hat?" said Penn with perfect gravity; at the same time making no attempt to remove his own. "Ha! ha! ha! knowest thou not, Friend William, that it is the custom of this place for only one person to remain covered at a time?" answered the king, laughing heartily. "To business, however, my lords," he added. "And what name hast thou fixed on for this new province, Master Penn?" "As it is a somewhat mountainous country, I would have it called New Wales," answered the Quaker. Here Master Secretary Blathwayte, who was a Welshman, interposed; in reality objecting to have the country of a sect to which he was no friend called after his native land. "Well then, as it hath many noble forests, let it be called Sylvania," said Penn. "Nay, nay; but I have a better name still," exclaimed the king. "We will call it Pennsylvania, in honour of your worthy father,--the great admiral. The forest land of Penn, that shall be it; and my word shall be as the law of the Medes and Persians." At this the courtiers laughed, not, perchance, considering the king's word of much value. However, the name was thus fixed, the patent being then and there issued under the king's inspection. With the charter in his possession, Penn returned home to make the final arrangements with Sidney for the great work he had undertaken. The document was written on a roll of parchment. At the head of the first sheet there is a well-executed portrait of Charles the Second, while the borders are handsomely emblazoned with heraldic devices. Great had been the opposition made to Penn's receiving this grant. Sidney had come back to Worminghurst. "God hath given it to me in the face of the world," exclaimed Penn, as the friends met. "He will bless and make it the seed of a nation." Truly has that prediction been fulfilled. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. Two fine vessels lay in mid stream a little way below London, with sails loosened, ready to take their departure. The wind was light, and they were waiting for the turn of the tide. Many boats surrounded them, and numerous visitors still thronged their decks. On board one of them was William Mead and his family. Wenlock Christison held Mary's hand as her father was about to lead her to the side of the vessel, to descend into the boat. "Thou wilt be supported, Wenlock, if thou dost look whence support can alone be gained," said Mary; "and my father has promised that when thou dost return he will no longer withhold me from thee. What more can I say? Thou dost know my love, and I have faith in thee." "Thanks, Mary, for those words," said Wenlock. "I trust I may do my duty, and soon return to thee." Thus the young Quaker and his betrothed parted. The other visitors quitted the good ship _Amity_, and her consort the _John Sarah_, which now, with sails sheeted home, slowly glided down the Thames. They made but slight progress, however, as they had frequently to come to an anchor before they altogether got clear of the river. They then proceeded once more without interruption until they reached Plymouth Sound. Here they took in more provisions. On board the _Amity_ also there came a passenger, who announced himself as Master Jonas Ford, the son of the factor of the Irish estates of Mr William Penn. He brought a letter. He was a Quaker, his figure slight, his cheeks smooth. His dress, his language, and manners were equally correct. Yet Wenlock did not feel attracted towards him. Jonas Ford, however, seemed determined to obtain his friendship, and from the first attached himself especially to him. "Hast ever crossed the ocean before, young sir?" said honest Richard Dinan, captain of the _Amity_, addressing Wenlock. "You seem to have a pair of sea legs of your own." "Yea, verily, friend. I served on board a man-of-war, and saw no little service," answered Wenlock. "Then how didst thou quit it? It is an honest calling, to my mind," observed the captain. "Why, by being blown up and left floating alone on the water. Verily I thought that was a sufficient sign to me no longer to engage in carnal warfare." "Oh, ay, I see. You have joined friend Penn. Well, well, each man to his taste. However, I guessed you had served at sea directly I saw you walking the deck." After this, Captain Dinan paid considerable attention to Wenlock,--much more so, indeed, than he did to Jonas Ford. Altogether there were about twenty passengers on board the _Amity_, with a crew of forty men. She also carried guns, to be able to defend herself against Algerine rovers, or West Indian pirates, of whom there were not a few roving those seas at that time. Prince Rupert and his brother had made piracy somewhat fashionable during the days of the Commonwealth, and there were not wanting a few lawless spirits to follow their example. For some time the voyage continued prosperous, though, as the wind was light, the progress of the two emigrant ships was but slow. One day Wenlock had gone forward, when a seaman, whose furrowed countenance, thickly covered with scars and grey locks, showing the hard service he had gone through during a long life, addressed him. "I know your name, Master Christison," he said, "for I served under a man who I think was your father. It was many years ago; but yet I remember his looks and tone of voice, as you remind me of him. He saved my life, and did more than save my life, for he prevented me from becoming a hardened ruffian like many of my companions." On this the old seaman ran on, and gave him many accounts of his father, to which Wenlock listened with deep interest. "Well, sir," said the old man, "whenever you have time to listen to a yarn, if I happen to be below, just send for old Bill Rullock." Wenlock promised the old man that he would not fail to come and talk to him, hoping indeed, as in duty bound, to put the truth before him. The two ships were now about ten days' sail from the American continent. Wenlock was walking the deck with Captain Dinan, most of the other passengers having gone to their cabins, for the sea was somewhat high, and the wind had increased. Dark clouds also were rising in the north-west, and driving rapidly across the sky. "I do not altogether like the look of the weather," observed the captain. "I see Captain Smith is shortening sail; we must do the same:" and he forthwith summoned the crew to perform that operation. Scarcely were the men off the yards, when the wind, as if suddenly let loose, struck the ship with terrific fury, throwing her on her beam ends. Many of the passengers cried out for fear, thinking that she was going down. Among those who exhibited the greatest terror was Jonas Ford, who wrung his hands, bitterly repenting that he had ever come to sea. The captain issued his orders in a clear voice, which the crew readily obeyed, Wenlock giving his assistance. "Cut away the mizen mast," cried the captain. A glittering axe soon descended on the stout mast, while the active crew cleared the shrouds and all the other ropes, the mast falling clear of the ship into the foaming ocean. Still she lay helpless in the trough of the sea. "The mainmast must go," cried the captain. That too was cut away. The ship instantly felt the relief, and now rising to an even keel, she flew before the furious gale. Those on board had been so taken up with their own dangerous condition, that no one thought of looking out for their consort. When, however, the most imminent danger was over, Wenlock cast his eye in the direction in which she had last been seen. In vain he looked out on either side; no sail was visible. Others also now began to make inquiries for the _John Sarah_. Many had friends on board. Too probably, struck by the furious blast, she had gone down. Sad were the forebodings of all as to her fate. Such might have been theirs. Human nature is sadly selfish, and many were rather inclined to congratulate themselves on their escape, than to mourn for the supposed fate of their countrymen. On, on flew the _Amity_ towards the south, far away from the Delaware, from the land to which she was bound. The dark foam-crested seas rose up on every side, hissing and roaring, and threatening to overwhelm her. Still the brave captain kept up his courage, and endeavoured to keep up that of those on board. "We must get jury-masts up," he said, "when the storm abates; and plying to the north, endeavour to regain the ground we have lost." "Verily we had a fierce gale, friend Christison," said Ford, coming up to Wenlock when the weather once more moderated. "Didst not thou fear greatly?" "No," answered Wenlock; "though it seemed to me that the ship might probably go down." "Ah! truly, I felt very brave too," said Ford. "You took an odd way of showing it," answered Wenlock, who had observed the abject fear into which his companion had been thrown. "Ah! yea, I might have somewhat trembled, but that was more for the thought of others than for myself," said Ford. "And now tell me, when dost thou think we shall arrive at our destination?" "That is more than any one on board can say," said Wenlock; "but we must do all that men can do, and leave the rest to Him who rules the sea!" All hands were now engaged in getting the ship to rights. Scarcely however had jury-masts been set up, than signs of another storm appeared in the sky. "I like not the look of the weather," observed the captain. "Christison, your eyes are sharp; is that a sail away to the north-east?" "Yes, verily," answered Wenlock. "Can it be our consort?" "No; she would not appear in that quarter. She is a stranger, and seems to be coming rapidly on towards us," observed Wenlock, after watching her for little time. "A tall ship too, I suspect." Captain Dinan had hoped before this to haul up to the wind, but the increasing gale made this impossible. As, however, he was going out of his course, he only carried as much sail as necessity required. The stranger therefore came quickly up with the _Amity_. The captain now began to eye her very narrowly. "I like not her looks," he observed. "She is a war ship, and yet shows no colours." The captain asked his officers their opinion. They agreed with him. Bill Rullock, who was a man of experience, was called aft. "I have little doubt about it," he observed. "That craft's a pirate, and we must keep clear of her if we would escape having to walk the plank or getting our throats cut." Nearer and nearer drew the stranger. "Rather than surrender we must fight to the last," observed the sturdy captain. "Christison, Ford, which will you all do, gentlemen?" he asked, addressing the passengers. "Verily, I will go below and hide myself," said Ford. "It becometh not one of my creed to engage in mortal combat." "If you order me to work a gun, I will do so," answered Wenlock. "Albeit peace is excellent and blessed, and warfare is accursed, yet I cannot see that it would be my duty to allow others to fight for the defence of my life which I will not defend myself; or, for lack of fighting, to allow myself or those who look to men to protect them,--the women and children on board,--to be destroyed by outlawed ruffians such as are probably those on board yonder ship." CHAPTER FOURTEEN. As soon as the captain of the _Amity_ was convinced of the character of the stranger, he set all the sail the ship would carry, yet hoping to escape from her. Looking to windward however, he saw that they had an enemy to contend with, as much to be dreaded, in their crippled condition, as the pirate ship. His experienced eye told him that another hurricane was about to break. Part of the crew, and most of the passengers also, were standing at the guns, the remainder of the crew being required to work the sails. The courage showed by all on board gave the captain hopes of being able to beat off the enemy. On came the tall ship. As Wenlock watched her, he could not help perceiving that she was of overpowering force. "Stand by to shorten sail," cried the captain. His eye had been fixed on a dark cloud, which came flying like some messenger of destruction across the sky. "You must be smart, lads," cried old Bill Rullock, "if you have no fancy for being sent to Davy Jones's locker before you are many minutes older." The old man set an example by his activity. Nearer and nearer drew the pirate, for such, there was no doubt, was the character of the stranger. A bright flash issued from her bows, and a shot came bounding over the water towards the _Amity_. On this Captain Dinan ordered the English flag to be hoisted. Scarcely had it flown out when another shot followed. Still, neither hit the ship. As the first flash was seen, Jonas Ford was observed to dive below. "Our friend is as good as his word," observed the captain, laughing. "If any others wish to follow his example, let them go at once, for we may have warm work ere long. To my mind, though I am a plain man, a person should so live as not to fear the lightning's flash, nor the foeman's shot, nor the raging ocean either; and then, whether in tempest or battle, he will be able to do his duty like a man, knowing that there is One above who will look after him, and, if He thinks fit, carry him through all dangers." Shot after shot followed. Now one went through the ship's sails; now one passed on one side, now on the other; but none did any material harm. Still, Captain Dinan gave no order to fire in return. Thus for some time the ships continued to sail on, the pirate gradually drawing nearer. At length she yawed and let fly her whole broadside. Several shots struck the _Amity_, two poor fellows being killed, and a third wounded. The faces of many of the passengers, on this grew pale, yet they stood firmly at their quarters. And now, once more, the pirate kept on her coarse. Still Captain Dinan would not fire. "Christison," said the captain, "we have someone who knows better how to fight for us than we do ourselves. See! if the pirate attempts that manoeuvre again, he will pay dearly for it." So eagerly, it seemed, were the pirates watching their expected prize, that they had not observed the rapid approach of the dark cloud. Once more the pirate yawed. At that instant a loud roar was heard, and the hurricane broke over the two ships. The flashes of the guns were seen, but none of the shots struck the _Amity_; all were buried in the ocean. Over went the tall ship, her masts level with the ocean. The crew of the _Amity_, at a signal from their captain, had lowered most of their sails; and now away she flew, leaving the pirate ship apparently on the point of sinking beneath the waves. They were seen leaping and roaring round her; but even had those on board the _Amity_ desired to render their fellow-creatures assistance, they would have had no power to do so. The hurricane increased in fury, and often it seemed as if the _Amity_ herself would go down. Tossed and buffeted by the seas, the water poured in through many a leak. The pumps were manned, and all the passengers were summoned to work them. Some, however, complained of sickness, and retired to their berths. Among them was Jonas Ford. "Nay, though our friend finds it against his conscience to fight, he shall, at all events, labour at the pumps," exclaimed the captain, ordering three of the seamen to fetch him up. "Will you go also, Master Christison? Perchance you can persuade him more easily; but I can take no refusal." After searching for some time, Ford was found concealed in the hold, into which he had crawled. The water, however, coming in, had somewhat frightened him, and he was just creeping out of his concealment. Not unwillingly, Wenlock brought him on deck, and assigned him a place at one of the pumps. There he was compelled to labour. Once he attempted to escape below, but Bill Rullock caught sight of him, and quickly brought him back; and he was kept labouring, uttering moans and groans at his hard fate. All night long the ship ran on. Another day and another night followed, and yet the wind blew furiously as ever, and with difficulty could she be kept afloat. While the gale continued there was no hope of getting at the leaks. Many of the seamen and some of the officers began to look grave. "Depend upon it our time has come," said the second mate to Wenlock. "I have had enough of the world, and have been knocked about in it so roughly, that I care but little." "Our times, we are told, are in God's hands," answered Wenlock, calmly. Wenlock, who had been taking his spell at the pumps, walked aft. "We are in the latitude of the West India Islands," observed the captain. "Any hour we may make land, and a bright look-out must be kept for it." Experienced seamen were aloft straining their eyes ahead and on either bow. At length a voice came from the foretopmast-head, "Land! land!" "Where away?" cried the captain. "On the starboard bow," was the answer. "What does it look like?" "A low land with tall trees," replied the seaman from aloft. Two of the mates went up to look at it. They gave the same description. The captain examined his chart. "Bill Rullock says he has been there," observed the first mate. Bill Rullock was sent for. "Do you know anything of the land ahead?" asked the captain. "I think I do, sir," was the answer; "and that craft which chased us the other day knew it too, I have an idea. To my mind, she also would have been looking in there before long; but if she has gone to the bottom there is no fear of that, and we shall find shelter and wood and water and plenty of turtle, and the means of repairing our ship." "Is there a harbour there, then?" asked the captain. "As good a one as you can desire, sir," said Bill; "and if it please you, I can take the ship in." As the crew were nearly worn out with pumping, and the water, notwithstanding, still gained on the ship, the captain determined to take the _Amity_ into the harbour of which Bill Rullock spoke. The ship was therefore kept away for the island, Bill Rullock taking charge of her as pilot. He at once showed by his calm manner and the steady course he steered that he knew well what he was about. As the ship drew nearer the island, it appeared to be larger and higher than was at first supposed, and covered with cocoa-nut and other trees. Rounding a point, a narrow opening appeared. The ship's head was directed toward it, and, guided by the old seaman, she passed safely through it, though it seemed as if an active man could have leaped on shore from either side. So clear, too, was the water, that the bottom could be seen below the ship's keel. The order to "furl sails" was given, and the ship came to an anchor in a broad lagoon, where she could lie secure from the fiercest hurricanes of those regions. On one side was a sandy beach, where the old sailor assured the captain the ship could be placed on shore with safety, when her damages might be examined. The trees came close down to the water's edge, and among them were seen several huts, and ruins of huts, showing that the spot had at one time been inhabited, but no persons appeared. Hauled up on shore, too, were several boats, one or two in good repair, but the others considerably damaged. Broken anchors, spars, pieces of cable, and other ship's gear lay scattered about, confirming the account given by old Rullock. As there was no time to be lost, the passengers immediately went on shore, and they and the crew set to work to land their goods as well as the cargo, that the ship, being lightened, might be hauled up for repair. The ruined huts were repaired, and others were built, so as to afford shelter to the passengers while this operation was going on. Every one worked with a will, with the exception of two or three, Jonas Ford being one of them. He grumbled greatly at having the voyage thus prolonged, and not ceasing to blame the captain for the ship having failed to reach the Delaware at the time expected. From a slight elevation near the harbour, a view of the whole sea on that side of the island could be obtained. Old Rullock had not been quite easy since their arrival. He had found evident traces of a late visit of persons to the island, and he confided to Wenlock his fears that should the vessel which had chased them have escaped, she might possibly come into that harbour to repair damages. One morning, soon after daybreak, and before the men were called to their work, Rullock came hurrying into the village. Wenlock was the first person he met. "It is as I feared," he said. "I have just made out a tall ship standing towards the island. Come and see her, and then let us ask the captain to decide what he will do. I advise that we should bring the guns down to the mouth of the harbour and defend it to the last. If those are the people I fear, they will give us no quarter; and if we yield, it will be only to have our throats cut, or to be thrown to the sharks." On reaching the look-out place, Wenlock saw the ship of which the old seaman spoke. She was yet a long way off, and, as far as he could judge, was very like the vessel that had chased them. The whole party were quickly astir. The captain determined to follow the old sailor's advice, and even the Quakers among the passengers agreed that they had no resource but to defend themselves, should the stranger prove to be the pirate they dreaded. As she approached the island, she must have discovered the English flag flying from the _Amity's_ masthead; for instantly her own dark symbol was run up, and a shot was fired from her side, as if in defiance. Happily, the wind, which had been light, prevented her from entering the harbour. As she passed by, however, the number of guns seen from her sides showed that she would be a formidable antagonist, and that she could scarcely be prevented, with a favourable breeze, from entering the harbour. The whole of the morning the party were kept in anxious expectation of what would occur, the pirate being seen to tack every now and then to keep her position off the land. At length a breeze from the sea set in, and once more she was seen approaching the harbour. Nearer and nearer she drew. All eyes were kept turned towards the dreaded object. In a brief time they might all be engaged in a deadly struggle, while the fate of the poor women and children was dreadful to contemplate. The captain and several of his officers were collected on the mound, watching the progress of the pirate. "See, sir! see!" exclaimed Wenlock. "What say you to that?" and he pointed towards the sails of a lofty ship which at that instant appeared rounding a distant point of the island. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. The pirate had descried the stranger; for now her yards were seen to be braced up, and instead of standing towards the island, she tacked and stood again out to sea, her pirate flag still flying from her peak. As the stranger drew nearer, she was seen to be a much larger ship. Wenlock at once declared her to be a man-of-war; and this was soon seen to be the case, by the pennants and ensigns she hoisted. And now she was observed to be making more sail, and standing towards the pirate, which was evidently endeavouring to escape. The latter, however, in a short time, either considering escape impossible, or confiding in her own strength, again tacked, and stood boldly towards the man-of-war. Nearer and nearer they drew to each other. It was evident, from the pirate keeping her flag flying, that she intended to fight to the last. She was the first to fire, discharging her whole broadside at the man-of-war. The latter fired not a shot in return, but stood on, gradually shortening sail. Then suddenly luffing up, she crossed the bows of the pirate. As she did so, before the other could keep away, she fired her whole broadside, raking the pirate's decks fore and aft. The latter, again keeping away, fired in return, but little damage seemed to be done. The crew of the _Amity_ set up a loud shout as they saw the success of their friends. And now the combatants, shrouded in smoke, stood away from the land, the rapid sound of their guns showing the desperation with which they were fighting. Those on shore watched them anxiously. Many a prayer was offered up for the success of the royal cruiser. Their own safety, indeed, depended on it. Farther and farther the combatants receded from the shore, till it was difficult to distinguish one from the other. Now they were shrouded with smoke, now the wind blew it away, and they were seen, still standing on, exchanging shots. Now at length they appeared locked in a close embrace. Then a dense mass of smoke was seen to ascend from their midst, followed by flames, and the loud sound of an explosion; but which was the sufferer it was impossible to discover, or whether both were involved in the same ruin. How earnestly, how anxiously they were watched from the shore! Now, at length, once more they were seen returning towards the island; but one was leading, the other apparently being towed astern. Which was the conqueror? was the question. On they came, nearer and nearer. Some declared that the pirate was the leading ship, and seemed ready to _give_ way to despair. "No, friends, no," exclaimed the captain. "I can assure you that yonder tall ship, although her spars and rigging are somewhat shattered by the fight, is the royal cruiser." That he was right was soon made evident. Captain Dinan now ordered the boats to be got ready, and he, with Bill Rullock, accompanied by Wenlock and one of his mates, went out in order to assist in piloting in the king's ship. The latter shortened sail to allow the boat to come alongside. The deck showed the fierce combat in which she had been engaged. The bulwarks were shattered; the decks ploughed up, and stained with blood; and numbers of the crew were going about with their heads and limbs bound up with handkerchiefs, while several bodies lay stretched out on the deck, a flag hastily thrown over them, partly concealing their forms. On one side stood a wretched group, their arms lashed behind them with ropes, and stripped to the waist, covered with smoke and blood. They were some of the survivors, it was evident, of the pirate crew. Captain Dinan, accompanied by Wenlock went aft to speak to the captain. The countenance of the latter, a fine, dignified-looking man, Wenlock at once recognised. He advanced towards him. He started when he saw Wenlock. "Why, my friend!" he exclaimed, "I little expected ever to see you again!" "Nor I you, Sir Richard. I thought you had perished on the fatal day when the _Royal James_ blew up." "No; thanks to you, my life was spared; for after we were parted, I was picked up by an English boat." Sir Richard Haddock informed Wenlock that he had come out as commodore to the American station. His ship was the _Leopard_, of fifty-four guns. "The pirates fought well," he observed; "and as many perished in attempting to blow up the ship, we shall have but few to hand over to the executioner when we arrive in Virginia, whither I am now bound." As both ships, after the action, required a good deal of repair, the commodore accepted Captain Dinan's offer of piloting him into the harbour. It was a trial to Wenlock to find himself once more among his former associates; for he had met several of the officers of the _Leopard_ when serving under Lord Ossory. They, however, treated his opinions with respect. In truth, thanks to the courage and talents exhibited by William Penn, the character of the sect had been raised considerably in the opinion of the public of late; albeit, there were many who were ready to ridicule and persecute them on occasion. Happily, too, there was no time for idleness, as officers and crew were engaged from sunrise to sunset in repairing the damaged ships. One day, old Rullock came up to Wenlock, who had gone alone a little distance from the village. "I do not know what you think of that young gentleman, Master Ford," said Rullock; "but I have an idea that he is a rogue in grain, and a fool into the bargain, as many rogues are. He was so frightened in the hurricane that he does not want to go to sea again. I heard him talking the other day with three or four passengers and several of the crew about a plan he had proposed to remain behind. They have a notion that if they were to set the _Amity_ on fire before we get the cargo on board, the captain would only be too glad to leave those who might wish to stay behind; he going off in the _Leopard_, or the pirate ship. Master Ford thinks, as the chief part of the stores would be left behind, they would have the advantage of them. They have induced three or four silly young women to promise to remain with them. Of course, the plan of burning the ship is a secret. Soon after I heard the precious plan, they invited me to join them; because, knowing that I had been an evil-doer, they thought I should have no scruple about the matter." Wenlock, on hearing this, immediately sought the captain. "It would be very easy to prevent these plans being carried out," he said; "but what to do with Ford and his companions is more difficult." The captain took the matter very coolly. "We will just pick out Master Ford and three or four of the ringleaders, and clap them into limbo, and depend upon it they will not further attempt to carry out their plan," he observed. This was done forthwith by a party of soldiers from the ship of war, for whom Wenlock had applied to Sir Richard Haddock. No further time was now lost in getting the cargo on board. Ford and his companions had been kept in durance vile in a hut by themselves, and a guard placed over them. Sir Richard and Captain Dinan, and some other officers, visited them together. "Now, my friends," said the captain, "you have your choice. If you desire to remain here, you are welcome to do so, but neither stores nor provisions can we afford you. Otherwise, you will return on board the ship, and, when we arrive in Pennsylvania, the matter will be submitted to the proper authorities." As Ford's companions were three of the greatest ruffians among the crew, he, dreading to be left with them, entreated that he might be allowed to return on board. They, however, wished to remain. "No, no!" said the captain. "We did not give you your choice. You are good seamen, and are wanted to work the ship. You were misled by this silly young man, and therefore will return on board with us." The three ships were at length in a condition for sea. The pirates' ship was sent out first, navigated by some of the officers and crew of the _Leopard_. The _Amity_ followed, the king's ship coming last, and the wind being favourable, all three steered a course for Virginia; the _Amity_ afterwards to continue her voyage to the Delaware. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. The good ship _Amity_ was sailing up the magnificent stream of the Delaware. Her progress, however, was not without impediment, as huge masses of ice came floating down, lately broken up by the warm sun of the early spring. "There's your future home, my friends," said the captain, pointing to the left side of the coast; "but it will take us some time before we can reach the spot where our friends have settled. On the right we have West New Jersey, where, owing to Master William Penn, a new free colony was settled some time ago; but that is but a small portion of the territory compared with Pennsylvania. I went out as mate in the _Kent_, commanded by Captain Gregory Marlow. We carried out the first settlers and the commissioners. They were nearly all Quakers, and a very good sort of people they were. I remember, just as we sailed from the Thames, the king coming alongside, and nothing would satisfy him but that he must come on board; whereupon he gave us his blessing. Whether it was of much value or not, it is not for me to say; but whether or not, we reached port in safety. Several other ships followed. The commissioners bought land of the natives, and established friendly relations with them; and if you were to go on shore there now, you would find as prosperous a community as any in the world." The new settlers, on hearing this account, looked with greater interest on the far distant shores of the land to which the captain pointed. On either side tall forests rose up,--a thick barrier to the country beyond. "Ay, friends," continued the captain, "it is a fine land, but you will have many a tall tree to cut down before you can grow wheat and barley out of it; and for those who love work, there is work enough before them, not only for them, but for their children, and children's children after them, and no fear of the country being too thickly peopled." At length, on a point of land an opening in the forest was seen, with numerous log huts and other buildings of more pretensions below the tall trees. It was the town of Newcastle, lately established. However, as the wind was favourable, and the captain was anxious to reach his destination, he declined staying there, but sailed on farther up the river. Each reach of the stream presented some fresh views, greatly by their beauty delighting the new comers. At length, two vessels were seen moored off a town on the west bank, which the captain informed them was the Swedish settlement of Upland. All eyes were directed towards them. As they approached, the captain declared his belief that one of them was the _John Sarah_, and in a short time the _Amity_ came to anchor close to her. She had fortunately, when the hurricane came on, by furling her sails in time, escaped injury, and had thus been able to haul up, and gain the mouth of the Delaware. On proceeding up the stream, however, she and the _Bristol Factor_, the other ship, had been frozen up where they now were. There was a pleasant meeting of friends, and all going on shore, offered up their thanks to Heaven together, for their safe arrival and preservation from so many dangers. The village off which the _Amity_ had brought up had been built by a number of Friends, who had arrived in the country several years before. The site they had chosen was a good one, and many believed that it would be the future capital of the colony. The scene was very wild, albeit highly picturesque. Many of the inhabitants of the new settlement, unable to build houses, had dug caves in the banks of the river, in which they had taken up their abodes, roofing over the front part with pieces of timber and boughs. From early dawn till sunset the woodman's axe was at work felling the tall trees. At night these were piled up, with the branches and lighter wood beneath; huge fires being kindled as the most rapid way of disposing of them. Primitive ploughs were at work between the stumps of the trees, turning up the ground for receiving grain, both of wheat and Indian corn, while the spade was also wielded by those preparing gardens. Many languages were heard spoken, while the costumes of the settlers were still more varied. The dusky forms of the Indians also were to be seen collected round the settlers, with their painted faces, their feathered head-dresses, and costumes of skin ornamented with thread of various colours. Numerous sawpits had been formed, and sawyers were at work preparing planks for the buildings. Already many houses had been run up, with high gables, gaily ornamented with paint and rough carving; for the Swedish settlers had been there already nearly forty years. The somewhat romantic notions entertained by Wenlock and his younger fellow passengers were rather rudely dissipated on their arrival. The work of settling he soon found was a plain matter-of-fact business, requiring constant and persevering labour. Some of the settlers remained at the town, others proceeded farther up the river to a spot near the confluence of the two rivers Schuylkill and Delaware. Wenlock, however, resolved to wait the arrival of Colonel Markham, who had gone out as chief agent and commissioner for his cousin, the governor, some months before. He was now, with his staff, some distance off, surveying the province. Although not a Quaker, he was greatly trusted by William Penn, as a man of dauntless courage, talent, and perseverance. Soon after landing, old Bill Rullock came up to Wenlock. "I have a favour to ask," he said. "I have knocked about at sea all my life till I am weary of it. I heard your addresses and those of others on board, and I have made up my mind to turn Quaker. I want you, therefore, to get my discharge from the captain. I could run from the ship, of course, but that would not be a good way of beginning my new career; so if I cannot leave with a proper discharge, I must go to sea again. If it is God's will that my old carcase should become food for fishes, I must submit to it; but I have truly a great fancy for ending my days in these green woods." Wenlock promised to make interest with Captain Dinan. "I shall be sorry to lose him," answered the captain; "but he deserves a reward for the service he rendered us, and it would be hard to take him off again to sea against his will. Here is his discharge, and his pay up to the present time." The old seaman was highly delighted when Wenlock told him that he was free. "And, now, another favour I have to ask is, that I may stick fast by you. I have still got plenty of work in me, and I should like to serve you as long as I live. There is another person, however, I should not like to serve, and that is Jonas Ford." Ford had behaved so cunningly during the voyage from the West Indies, that he had considerably lessened the suspicions against him. He had assured Captain Dinan that he had no thoughts of committing the crime of which he had been accused; that the words he had uttered, overheard by Rullock, had reference to an entirely different matter. As Rullock, indeed, was the only witness against him, and as even the other accused persons did not criminate him, the captain came to the determination of proceeding no further in the business. He was, therefore, set at liberty, and landed with the other passengers. His companions were also liberated, as they had committed no overt act, and there was no evidence against them. Ford, who had all along protested his innocence, tried to worm his way into the confidence of Wenlock, and always volunteered to accompany him whenever he made any excursions into the interior. Wenlock, in spite of the young man's professions, disliked him more and more. Still he could not altogether get rid of him. With the aid of old Rullock, Wenlock had built a hut for himself in the neighbourhood of Upland, and he purposed awaiting there the arrival of Colonel Markham. Hearing, however, at length, that the colonel was within the distance of five days' march, though he had had but little experience in traversing the American forests, he yet--by noting the appearance of the bark on the trees, by the aid of the sun during the day, and by certain marks which the surveyors had made--believed that he should have no great difficulty in reaching the colonel's camp. Rullock, of course, wished to attend him. "No, my friend," he answered; "you stay at home and take care of the house. I am strong, and well accustomed to exercise; but, depend upon it, you would knock up with the fatigue." The old man was at length obliged to acknowledge that Wenlock was right, and to submit. Two or three of the old settlers advised him to take a guide, pointing out the difficulties of traversing the forest; but he, confident in his own knowledge, persisted in his determination. Staff in hand, with knapsack on his back, he set forth. It did occur to him, perhaps, that he should be more at his ease had he possessed a brace of pistols or a musket; but his profession prohibited their use as a means of defence, and he declined accepting some arms from a friendly Swede, who offered them. The weather was fine, and he had learned the art of camping out. Starting early, he marched on bravely all day, believing himself to be in the right course. Once or twice he stopped to rest, and then again proceeded on. At night, collecting a supply of birch-bark, as he had seen the Indians do, he built himself a wigwam. Abundance of fuel was at hand, and, lighting his fire, he cooked some provisions he had brought with him. After this, commending himself to the care of Heaven, he lay down in his wigwam, and was soon fast asleep. The following day he journeyed on in like manner. Clouds, however, obscured the sky, and more than once he doubted whether he was continuing in the right direction. The third day came, and he pushed onwards, but before he encamped at night, he felt sure that he must have diverged greatly from the right path. Still believing that he might recover it the following day, he lay down to rest. His provisions, however, ran somewhat short; indeed, he had miscalculated the amount he should require. At length the fifth day came: his food was expended, and he had to confess that he had entirely lost his path. The whole day he wandered on, endeavouring to regain it. At last he got into what appeared an Indian path. He followed it up, but in the end found that it only led to a spot where an encampment had once stood--now deserted. He had been suffering greatly from thirst, even more than from hunger. To stay still might seal his fate. Onward, therefore, he pushed. At length, however, from want of food and water, his strength failed him. His sight grew dim, and, fainting, he fell on the ground. How long he had lain there he knew not, when he heard a strange, deep-toned, sonorous voice. Languidly he opened his eyes, and saw standing over him a tall Indian, of dignified appearance and full costume of paint and feathers. "Who are you?" asked Wenlock, dreamily. "I am Taminent, chief sachem of the red men of this country," answered the Indian, who, stooping down as he spoke, raised him in his arms. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. The Indian chief, applying a leathern bottle to Wenlock's mouth, poured some water down his throat. It greatly revived him. "I see white skin want food," said the chief. Saying this, he produced a cake of Indian corn, which Wenlock eagerly devoured. "Now, come; I will take you with me," said Taminent, in more perfect English than Wenlock had expected to hear; and, supporting him in his arms, the chief led him along a path into which they quickly entered. After going some distance, an open space amid the trees appeared, and within it a collection of tall birch-bark wigwams of a conical shape. A number of women were seated in front of the huts, while children were playing about. On one side, the ground had been turned up, evidently for the reception of Indian corn or other seed, while stretched between poles were the skins of animals, the bodies of others being hung up over fires to dry in the smoke. As soon as the chief was seen, the women rose from their seats, and a number of men came out of the tents to welcome him. He introduced Wenlock in a few words, which the latter did not understand. "Come," said the chief, "wigwam ready. You rest;" and leading him to an unoccupied hut, he pointed to the interior, the floor of which was covered with a number of handsomely-woven mats. On one side was a pile of small twigs and leaves. This was spread out, and a mat placed on the top of it. The chief then made signs to Wenlock that he should rest there. He seemed well-pleased when Wenlock threw himself down on the couch. "There; you rest," he said. "No harm come to white skin;" and, covering him with a mat, he retired, drawing a curtain across the entrance of the wigwam. Wenlock slept soundly for some hours, feeling perfectly secure under the protection of the chief. On awaking, he found that it was already dark, but the sounds of voices outside the wigwam showed him that the Indians had not yet retired to rest. On drawing aside the curtain, he saw several fires lighted, over which women were presiding with pots and spits, on which birds and small animals were being cooked. Close to the entrance a warrior was seated on a mat, as if keeping guard. No sooner did he observe Wenlock, than he rose up and ran off, apparently to inform the chief that his guest was awake. Taminent soon after appeared, and invited Wenlock to take his seat on the ground. Immediately several women came up with various dishes of roast and boiled food, with cakes of maize. Pure water, poured from a skin bottle, was their only beverage. Happily the fire-water had not yet been introduced among the red men,--that fearful poison which has destroyed thousands and tens of thousands of their race. While the chief and his guest were seated at their repast, an Indian came up to them, and addressed the former, who, in return, apparently gave some directions. Wenlock observed the Indians employed in making a couple of rough litters, with which a party of them started away. In a short time they returned, bearing between them a couple of persons, who were brought up and placed near the fire. Wenlock at once recognised the features of Ford, while in the other man he discovered one of the seamen of the _Amity_, who had been connected with Ford's plot to burn the ship. They were both in an exhausted state; indeed, it seemed to Wenlock that Ford especially could scarcely recover. He at once suspected that they had been by some means lost in the forest, and were suffering from exhaustion, as he had been. The Indian chief, taking upon himself the office of doctor, poured some water down their throats, and then gave them a small quantity of food. Both somewhat revived. The seaman, indeed, in a short time was able to sit up. To Wenlock's questions, however, as to how he had come into that condition, he would make no reply, except saying, while he pointed to his companion-- "He took me; he will tell you all about it. I came as his servant, and a pretty mess he led me into." Wenlock then begged that Ford might be placed on the couch he had occupied, feeling sure that perfect rest was what he most of all now required. He explained to the chief, also, that a little food at a time was more likely to restore him than a large quantity taken at once. The two men were accordingly carried into the wigwam, while some of the Indians brought in a further supply of leaves and mats, to make a bed for Wenlock. The chief then signified to him that three squaws would sit up and prepare food, that he might give it to his countrymen as he thought fit. Night was drawing on, when the loud barking of dogs announced that some stranger was approaching the camp. "Hallo! I am glad I have found some living men at last," exclaimed a voice which Wenlock thought sounded very like that of old Rullock. "I pray thee, friends, call in your beasts, or maybe they will be taking a mouthful out of my legs, seeing that there is but little covering to them--thanks to the bushes. Hallo! I say, friends, red men!" The Indians, who had lain down in their wigwams, now got up, and hurried forth to meet the newcomer, followed by Wenlock, who had no longer any doubt as to who he was. A torch, lighted at one of the fires, which were not yet extinguished, was carried by one of the Indians, who at the same time, called in the dogs. Its light fell on Wenlock's countenance. The old man started. "Hurrah!" he exclaimed. "Verily, I am truly glad to see thee alive and well, friend Christison. I have a long yarn to spin into thine ear, but it is as well that our red friends shall not hear it. They might not hold the white skins in quite as much respect as they now do." "Thou art right, friend Rullock. Hold thy peace about it now," said Wenlock. "I am glad to see thee, and thou wilt receive a hearty welcome from our red brothers in this encampment. There are two white men also here;" and Wenlock told him the way in which Jonas Ford and his companion had been brought into the camp. "Ah, verily! the scoundrels would only have got their deserts if they had been left in the woods," answered the old sailor, who did his best to speak in Quaker fashion, but did not always succeed. "Hark thee, friend Christison. Those two villains had formed a plot to follow thee; and if they had found thee alone and unprepared, to have put thee to death." "Impossible!" answered Wenlock. "Ford is a weak, cowardly young man; but I do not think that he would be willingly guilty of such a crime." "I tell thee, I overheard them plotting to murder thee!" persisted the old man. "I had thoughts of getting some one as my companion to go after them, but as you had gone, and they were just setting out, I thought I might be too late; so taking my well-tried musket, and trusting that my old legs would carry me as well as their young ones, I set out in their track, hoping to come up with them before they could overtake you." "I thank thee heartily, friend Rullock; but they are fellow-creatures, and I will try to soften Ford's heart by heaping `coals of fire upon his head.' They will see you, and guess what your coming means; but we will say nothing about it, and only for prudence sake keep an eye on their proceedings. When you see them both almost on the point of death, you will feel inclined to have compassion on them." "I shall be inclined to think that a certain person, who is nameless, has been baulked of his prey," answered the old sailor. "However, it's not for me to lay hands on them, villains though they are; but I hope that thou wilt bring them up before. Colonel Markham, or Master Penn when he comes out." "That would not be the best way of heaping coals of fire on their heads," answered Wenlock. "No, no; if they had evil intentions against me, they have been frustrated; and God will look after me in future, as He has done heretofore." The chief, who was among those risen, received the old sailor with great kindness, and ordering some food to be prepared for him, told him that he was to consider himself a brother, and rest assured that he would be treated as such as long as he chose to remain with them. Rullock, having gone through a good deal of fatigue, soon fell asleep after his supper, and left Wenlock the chief charge of attending to the other two white men. By the morning, Ford was considerably better. His companion, who was still stronger, wished to persuade him to return to the settlement, but it was very evident that he would be unable to perform such a journey. "Be at rest, friends," said Wenlock to them. "Whatever might have been the cause of thy coming out into the forest, be not anxious about it. I will treat thee as if thou wert my dearest brother. More, surely, thou canst not desire." "O Christison, I am very different from thee," answered Ford, for a moment some better feeling rising in his bosom. Cowardice, however, and want of confidence in others, made him very quickly add: "I harbour no ill-will against any man. I had been anxious to see something of the country, and finding that thou hadst started, I wished to join thee. Thou canst not suppose that I should ever harbour any other feeling than affection and regard for thee." The day was drawing on, and most of the Indians had gone forth to hunt, or to tend some cultivated ground in another part of the forest, when a messenger arrived, bringing the information to Taminent, that the white chief was coming to his camp. On hearing this, Taminent and the principal men retired to their wigwams, and in a short time came forth dressed in full Indian costume, with feathers in their hair, their cheeks painted, and their dress ornamented with a variety of devices. Wenlock had not seen Colonel Markham before leaving England, but fortunately had with him his letter of introduction. In a short time a fine, dignified-looking man, in military undress, attended by several persons, was seen through an open glade of the forest approaching the encampment. He advanced with free and easy steps, and saluted Taminent, who received him in a dignified manner. As soon as the first ceremonies were over, Wenlock presented his letter. "I am truly glad to see you," said Colonel Markham, "and I trust your patron and my good cousin will soon arrive and take the command of the colony." "It is reported in Upland and the other settlements that his ship is on the way, and will soon be here," said Wenlock. "I am glad to hear it," said the colonel; "and indeed, I am on my way back, hoping to meet him. But, tell me, who is that pale young man and the two seamen I have observed in the camp." "They were endeavouring to make their way through the forest, and lost it, as I did," answered Wenlock. "He speaks truly," said Ford, who crawled up to where the colonel and Wenlock were standing. "I wished to join my friend, that I might, without delay, receive my directions from thee, Colonel Markham," said Ford, "and well-nigh lost my life in the service of my fellow-creatures." "Well; I doubt not, when Governor Penn arrives due attention will be paid to the merits of all men in the colony," said the colonel. "For my own part, I do not interfere in such matters." Colonel Markham having spent the remainder of the day at the camp, and rested there during the night, the Englishmen sleeping as securely as if they were in their own country, the whole party set forth for the settlements. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. Bristol was in those days the chief commercial city of England next to London. It was the centre, too, of a district where large quantities of woollen cloths were manufactured, which were sent forth to foreign lands by the numerous vessels which traded to its port. In a large room belonging to one of the principal merchants in the city, a number of persons were collected. At the head of a long table sat William Penn, while on either side of him were several friends,--Claypole, Moore, Philip Ford, and many others. They were engaged in organising a mercantile company, to which was given the name of the "Free Society of Traders" in Pennsylvania. William Penn, the governor of the new colony, was addressing them. "I have secured, friends, a number of persons skilful in the manufacture of wool, who have agreed to go forth to our new colony from the valley of Stroud. From the banks of the Rhine, also, many persons conversant with the best modes of cultivating the vine have promised to emigrate." "We need not fear, then, for the success of our holy enterprise," observed Philip Ford; "and I am ready to embark all my worldly possessions. I have already sent out my beloved son Jonas, a youth of fair promise, and what thing more precious could I stake on the success of our undertaking." William Penn having made all his arrangements with the new company, giving them very great facilities, returned to London. Here he made preparation for his own departure. It was grievous to him to leave his children and his beloved wife. He hoped, however, in a short time to come back and return with them to the land of his adoption. There was a great stir in the Quaker world, for not only farmers and artisans, but many persons of wealth and education were preparing to take part in the enterprise. Among the first ships which sailed after the departure of the _Amity_, and those which have before been spoken of, was one, the _Concord_, on board which William Mead and his family, with several friends, set sail for the New World. William Penn saw his old friend off, his prayers going with him, and hoping himself to follow in a short time. In the autumn of the year 1683, a large vessel might have been seen floating on the waters of the Thames. She was the _Welcome_. Surrounding her were a number of boats which had brought off passengers, while her decks were loaded with bales and packages of every possible description, which the crew were engaged in stowing below. On the deck, also, had been built up sheds for horses and pens for sheep, as also for goats to afford milk, and pigs and poultry in large quantities for provision. Already nearly a hundred persons were collected on board, besides the crew. The signal was given, and the _Welcome_ got under weigh to proceed down the Thames. Once more she brought up in the Downs, off Deal. The 1st of September broke bright and clear. Her flags were flying out gaily to the breeze, her white canvas hung to the yards, when a large boat, followed by several smaller ones, came off from the shore, and the young and energetic preacher of the gospel, the governor of a vast province, the originator of the grandest scheme of colonisation ever yet formed, ascended the side of the _Welcome_ which was to bear him to the shores of the New World. Prayers ascended from the deck of the proud ship as her anchor was once more lifted, and she proceeded on her voyage to the west. All seemed fair and smiling, and all that forethought and care could arrange had been provided for the passengers. Few who saw William Penn at that moment would have supposed, however, that he was a man of indomitable energy and courage. Downcast and sad, he gazed on the shores of the land he was leaving, which, notwithstanding his general philanthropy, contained those he loved best on earth, where all his tender affections were centred. The Isle of Wight was soon passed. The Land's End faded in the distance, and the stout ship stood across the Atlantic. William Penn soon recovered his energy and spirits, and the captain promised a speedy and prosperous voyage. The governor was walking the deck, talking earnestly with his friend Pearson, a man of large mind and generous heart, when the captain came to them. "I fear, friends," he said, "that one of our passengers is not long for this world. She has been unwell since she came on board at Deal. Her lips are blue, and dark marks cover her countenance." The governor and his friend instantly went below; a young girl of some twelve years old lay on her bed in one of the close cabins. "I fear me much it is the small-pox," said Pearson. "Yet it would be well if we could avoid alarming the other passengers." The news, however, soon spread, and, alas! so did the disease. Before the next day closed in, the young girl had breathed her last, and her body was committed to the sea. By that time signs of the fearful disorder had appeared on four other persons. The governor, Pearson, and others went about the ship, urging the passengers to air and fumigate their cabins, beseeching them also not to lose courage, and fearlessly visiting those who were already attacked. The sun rose, and ere it sunk again into the ocean, death had claimed two other victims. All this time no sign of alarm was perceptible on the countenance of the governor. He set a noble example to his companions, as, indeed, did his friend Pearson. Perseveringly they went about at all hours of the night and day, attending to the sick, speaking words of comfort to them, and pointing to a Saviour who died to save them; and urging them to put their trust in Him, so that they might not fear, even should they be summoned from the world. It was a time to try all. Some who had appeared weak and nervous before, now exhibited courage and confidence in God's protecting mercy; while others, who had seemed bold and fearless, trembled lest they should be overtaken by the fell disease. Young and old, however, were attacked alike. Day after day one of their number was summoned away, and before the shores of America appeared in sight, thirty-one had fallen victims to the disease. With the change of climate its virulence appeared to cease, and when the _Welcome_ sailed up the Delaware, all were convalescent who had escaped its ravages. The tall ship came to an anchor before Newcastle, and numbers of boats came on to welcome the passengers. Loud shouts arose from the shore when it was known that the long-looked-for governor had arrived. He had lived too long in the world not to be well aware of the importance of appearing to advantage among strangers. He, accompanied by Pearson and the principal friends who had been companions in his voyage, landed in the ship's barge, with flags flying and all the party dressed in their best. He himself appeared in a plain though becoming costume, being distinguished among his companions by his tall and graceful figure, and the blue silk scarf which he wore across his shoulders. It was on the 27th of October, a day memorable in the annals of the colony. As he stepped on shore, old and young of his motley colonists, habited in the costumes of their different nations, crowded forth from their quaint old Dutch and Flemish houses to the shore to meet him. Swedes and Germans-- the original settlers--Dutchmen with pipe in mouth, a scattering, albeit, of Scotch everywhere to be found, and English and Welsh in greater numbers. As the party leaving the stately ship reached the land, the crowd on shore opened, and two persons, remarkable for their appearance, with numerous attendants, advanced to the landing-place. One was Colonel Markham, known by his soldier-like bearing, and the handsome uniform of the British army which he still wore. Near him was Wenlock Christison, and Jonas Ford also, who took care to appear among the first in the group. On the other side, a tall figure, his war plumes waving in the breeze, his dress richly ornamented with feathers, his countenance marked with paints of various hue appeared. He was Taminent, the chief of the country, accompanied by a number of his followers of the tribe of Leni-Lenape. With earnest words of congratulation the governor was welcomed to the land of his adoption by the chief, while Colonel Markham briefly described how far he had carried out his employer's wishes. He had selected a site for the governor's residence, on the Delaware, a few miles below the Falls of Fenton, having purchased the land from the chiefs, who claimed it as their own. He had also laid out the grounds and commenced the building, to which he had given the name of Pennsbury. Then turning to the chief, he said: "And our brother will bear witness that happily no dispute has taken place between the white men and the natives, while not a drop of blood of either has been shed." "And while Taminent and his descendants live they will pray the Great Spirit to watch over the white men who have come to their land, and to guard them from all harm," said the chief, taking the governor's hand. CHAPTER NINETEEN. As soon as Wenlock could approach the governor, he inquired for his friends, the Meads. "Have you not seen them?" exclaimed Penn. "Surely the _Concord_, in which they sailed, left England nearly three months ago, and they should have been here for some time already." "The _Concord_ has not arrived," answered Wenlock, and his heart sunk within him. Every inquiry was made, but none of the vessels which had arrived of late had heard of the _Concord_. Wenlock had been hoping that they might have come out, and almost expected to see them on board the _Welcome_. He was now almost in despair. "I grieve for thee, young man," said the governor; "for I know thy love for my old friend's daughter. I grieve also myself at his loss, if lost he is." Wenlock was unable to speak in reply. "The only remedy I can advise for thee, is active employment of body and mind, and the reading of the best of books," added the governor, with a look of compassion at the young man. Wenlock endeavoured, as far as he could, to follow the advice of his friend. The governor now proceeded up the river, touching on his way at Upland. The inhabitants of the place came out to receive him with delight, a tall pine, which had been allowed to stand when its neighbours were cut away, marking the spot where he went on shore. Turning to Pearson, who had so nobly supported him in his arduous labours among the sick daring the voyage: "What wilt thou, friend, that I should call this place?" he asked. "Chester, an' it please thee," answered Pearson. "It is my native city, and the affection I bear for it will never be effaced. Yet I might transfer some slight portion to this town." "Chester, therefore, let it be henceforth called," answered Penn. While the governor was stopping at the house of Mr Wade, Wenlock went to visit old Rullock, and to see his own humble abode. He found a large party of Dutch emigrants in the town, who had arrived the day before. Among them he recognised a face he knew. Yes, he was certain. It was that of Dr Van Erk. "Yes, I am indeed myself!" exclaimed the doctor, shaking Wenlock warmly by the hand. "Not knowing by what tyranny we might next be oppressed at home, I resolved to quit the shores of the Old World, and to seek refuge in the New; and my brother agreeing with me, we have come over with our wives and families. He will carry on mercantile pursuits,--and, by the by, he will be glad, I doubt not, to give you employment,--and I shall follow my own profession. My wife and children will, I am sure, be very glad to see you, but as yet we can show you very little hospitality. But you look somewhat sad, my young friend. Tell me what has occurred?" Wenlock told him the cause of his sadness. "Well, we will give you all the consolation in our power." Wenlock felt much pleased at meeting his old friends, and was amply employed, for some time, in obtaining accommodation for them. Every day vessels were arriving with passengers and cargoes, but not one of them brought any account of the _Concord_. His Dutch friends, however, did their utmost to console Wenlock. He thanked them, but yet found his thoughts more than ever going back to Mary. He would have been well-pleased if Ford had kept out of his way, but that person managed to introduce himself to the Van Erks, and he felt sure he was meditating mischief of some sort. The governor then proposed that he should go on a mission on state affairs to Boston, hoping that the change of life and scene might benefit him. Wenlock having received his instructions, accordingly went on board the _Amity_, which vessel, having been thoroughly repaired, was engaged for the purpose. "But I cannot part from you," exclaimed old Bill Rullock. "I did not think to go to sea again, but if the captain will let me work my passage there and back, I will go along with you." No arguments would induce the old man to give up his purpose, and Wenlock was not sorry to have so faithful a companion. Rounding Cape May, the _Amity_ sailed along the shores of New Jersey, steering to the north, keeping in sight of land till she came off Long Island, forming one side of the magnificent harbour of the New York Bay. Then she stood on, through Massachusetts Bay till the long established city of Boston was reached. Wenlock had expected to meet with kindness and sympathy from the descendants of those who had been driven for conscience' sake to seek a home in the New World. However, even by those to whom he had letters he was received with coldness, and he heard remarks made about Quakers generally, and himself especially, which somewhat tried his temper. His name, too, seemed especially to excite anger among the citizens. At length he was summoned to appear before the governor of the state. "Know you not, young man, that we allow no persons of your persuasion to remain in our state?" exclaimed the governor. "There was one, of your name too, banished not long since; and some who have ventured to return, have of necessity been put to death, as breakers of the law and rebels against the state." "Verily, I knew not that such was the case," answered Wenlock; "and when I have performed my business here, I am ready to take my departure. I have never been here before, and truly I should be glad to hear of one of my name, hoping that he might prove a relative; for at present I know not any one to whom I am kith and kin." "Stand aside, young man, and bring forth the prisoner, with whose trial we will proceed," exclaimed the governor, casting a frowning glance at Wenlock. The governor was proceeding to condemn the prisoner, when a loud voice was heard, exclaiming, "Pronounce not judgment." Wenlock started, and looked towards the speaker. He almost fancied that he saw his father standing before him. "Who are you, who thus dares to interrupt the court?" exclaimed the governor. "I am Wenlock Christison," was the answer. "I come to prevent you from condemning the innocent." "Then thou art my uncle!" exclaimed Wenlock, hurrying towards him. "I know thee by thy likeness to my father." "And, verily, I know thee," exclaimed the old man. "And what is thy name?" "Thine own," answered Wenlock. "Carry them both off to prison. They will hang together well," exclaimed the governor. In spite of Wenlock's protestations that he had been sent in the character of an envoy by the governor of the new state, he and his uncle were committed to prison. The old man, however, seemed but little concerned at this. "We shall be set at liberty ere long, nephew," he said; "and I rejoice greatly to have at length found thee, and more than all, that thou hast embraced the true and perfect way of life." Bill Rullock, on hearing what had occurred, was very indignant, and, almost forgetting that he himself had become a Quaker, was about to attempt forcibly to liberate his friend. The governor kept Wenlock shut up, but seemed doubtful about proceeding with him. His uncle was, however, brought up day after day, refusing to acknowledge himself guilty, warning his persecutors of the punishment which was soon to overtake them. Old Rullock employed himself in making interest with various people in the place, to obtain the liberation of his friend, warning them that though Master William Penn might not take vengeance on them, there was a certain Colonel Markham, who would be influenced by no such scruples. The result was, that not only young Wenlock, but old Christison, was set at liberty. "Nephew, I have wealth," exclaimed his uncle, "and I rejoice to find one who will inherit it. However, of one thing I am resolved, not to spend it among this people. The account thou dost give me of the new colony has made me resolve to go and end my days there; and we will together leave in the vessel that brought thee hither, as soon as she is ready to sail." Although the Friends were no longer persecuted at Boston, as may be supposed, it was not a pleasant city for them to reside in. A considerable number, therefore, set sail on board the _Amity_, which had a prosperous voyage to the Delaware. CHAPTER TWENTY. We left the _Amity_ sailing up the Delaware. During her absence, a number of vessels had arrived both from England and from Dutch and German ports, and it pleasant to those interested in the welfare of the colony to see them land their passengers and cargoes, the former often collected in picturesque spots on the banks, under the shelter of white tents, yellow wigwams, dark brown log huts, and sometime green arbours of boughs. Off Chester a shattered weather-beaten bark was seen at anchor. Here also the _Amity_ came to an anchor, although news was brought on board that the governor had already selected the site of his capital on the point of land at the junction of the Delaware and the Schuylkill. Wenlock turned his eyes towards the shattered vessel, and naturally inquired who she was. "Oh, she is the long lost _Concord_!" was the answer. Wild agitation filled his bosom as he heard these words, but it was succeeded by fear. "What have become of the passengers, then?" he asked. "Some of them died, but others arrived in her. She was cast away on an island, and only with great difficulty was at length got off." "But where are they?" asked Wenlock. "Most of them are at Chester, though some have gone off to the new city," was the answer. Unable to obtain any further information, Wenlock jumped into the first boat returning on shore. He bethought him that he would at once go to his friend, Dr Van Erk, who would be more likely than any one else to give him information. He inquired for his house. Wealth will do much. While others were lodged in huts, the doctor had already secured a comfortable residence for his family. Wenlock hurried towards it, but before he reached it he met the doctor. After they had greeted each other, he told him of whom he was in search. "Come, my young friend, and perhaps we may find them." The doctor took his arm and led him along till they reached a somewhat highly-pointed but very neat cottage. "There, whom do you see there?" he asked, pointing through the window. There were four ladies, two old ones and two young. One of them was Gretchen. She was close to the window, so he saw her first; but beyond her,--yes, there was no doubt about it, there sat Mary Mead. They were engaged in their work, so they did not see him. "Stay," said the doctor, "I forgot. A certain friend of yours has been telling them that you are dead; that he has had news of it; and it might agitate them somewhat, if you were to appear suddenly. I will go in and prepare them." Wenlock stood outside, hid by the porch. He heard first Master Mead's rich voice utter a note of surprise, and then several female voices. He thought he could distinguish Mary's. It was very low, though. Master Mead was the first to come out and welcome him, and in a few seconds he was in the presence of Mary and Gretchen and the two old ladies. "My dear sister, I am so thankful," exclaimed Gretchen, bestowing a kiss on Mary, "that he has been restored to you." Whatever doubt Master Mead had before, as to bestowing his daughter on Wenlock, it was set at rest by the appearance of the elder Wenlock Christison, who very speedily satisfied all prudential scruples, by informing the worthy father of his intentions regarding his nephew. While the party were assembled, _a head was put into the door_. It was quickly withdrawn. "Oh! it is that odious Jonas Ford," said Gretchen. "I am sure he never comes here to speak truth." "Nay; but we should not think harshly of a friend," observed Mead. "I do not think over harshly," answered Gretchen. "If ever there was a sleek hypocrite, that man is one." Time showed that Gretchen was right, although Wenlock escaped the consequences of his machinations. Wenlock, however, could not remain long at Chester, having to proceed up to the new capital, Philadelphia, to give an account of his mission to the governor. He was received in the kindest manner by the governor, who was living in a log hut while his intended residence, some way higher up, was building. "Here, my young friend," he said, pointing to a large sheet of paper spread out on a table, "is the plan of our future capital. See, we shall have two noble rows of houses fronting the two rivers; and, here, a magnificent avenue of one hundred feet in width, which we will call the High Street, uniting them with lines of trees on either side. Then we will have Broad Street, cutting the city in two parts from north to south, with a magnificent square of ten acres in the centre, and in the middle of each quarter there shall be another square, each of eight acres, for the recreation of the people, and we will have many detached buildings covered with trailing plants, green and rural, to remind us of the country towns of England. Already many houses have been put up, and the people show a commendable energy in erecting more, as fast as materials can be procured. To-morrow I have appointed for a meeting with the native chiefs, to hold a solemn conference for the purpose of confirming former treaties, and forming with them a lasting league of peace and friendship. I am glad that thou art come, Christison, as it will be a matter of great interest. Thou hast probably visited the spot with my kinsman, Colonel Markham. It is called Sakimaxing, the meaning of which is, `The place or locality of kings.'" "Yea," answered Wenlock; "I accompanied him on more than one occasion, when he had to make arrangements with Taminent. The natives hold in great respect an ancient elm of vast size which, they say, is already one hundred and fifty-five years old. Under its branches the tribes are wont to meet to smoke the calumet of peace, and to arrange their disputes." "No fitter spot could have been chosen," observed Penn. "We hope, too, that they will ever be ready to smoke with us the calumet of peace." At an early hour the following morning, the governor, with his faithful friend Pearson, and other attendants, men of influence among the settlers, set forth on horseback to a spot where the conference was to take place. It was an open space, close to the banks of the magnificent Delaware. In the centre stood the stately council elm, spreading its branches far and wide over the green turf. Circling round was the primeval forest, with the dark cedar, the tall pine, the shining chestnut, and the bright maple, and many other trees, stretching far away inland. The governor and his companions, leaving their horses, advanced towards the meeting-place. His tall and graceful figure was especially distinguished by the light-blue sash he wore, as a simple mark by which the natives of the forest might recognise him. He had never affected ultra-plainness in dress, preferring rather to simplify the costume which he had hitherto worn. His outer coat was long, covered, as was the custom, with buttons. An ample waistcoat of rich material, with full trousers, slashed at the sides and tied with ribbons, while his shirt had a profusion of handsome ruffles, and a hat of the form worn in his younger days, completed his costume. On one side was Colonel Markham, already well known to the natives, and on the other his faithful friend Pearson; while Wenlock and his other companions came a little way behind them. As they advanced, the Indians were seen to approach, led by Taminent, their chief, all habited in the ancient costume of the forest, with the brightest of feathers, their faces painted in their most gorgeous style. A number of the settlers from various parts had followed the governor, and now formed a circle at a respectful distance. No monarchs of the Old World could have behaved with more dignity than did the Indian chief and the Quaker governor. Taminent having retired and consulted with his councillors, again advanced, placing on his own head a chaplet, in which was fastened a small horn, the symbol of his power. Whenever a chief of the Leni-Lenape placed on his brow this chaplet, the spot was made sacred, and all present inviolable. The chief then seated himself with his councillors on either side, the older warriors ranging themselves in the form of a crescent round them, the younger forming an outer semicircle. The English governor then arose, the handsomest and most graceful of all present, and addressed the natives in their own language. He told them that they had one common Father, who reigns above; and that his desire was that his people, and theirs should be brothers, and that as brothers and friends they should treat each other, and that thus they should help each other against all who would do them harm. And, lastly, that both his people and the Leni-Lenape should tell their children of this league and bond of friendship which had been formed,--that it might grow stronger and stronger, and be kept bright and clean, as long as the waters should run down the creeks and rivers, and the sun and moon and stars endure. He then laid the scroll containing the proposed treaty on the ground, which was accepted by Taminent, and preserved for ages afterwards by the Indians. Thus was this treaty ratified with a "Yea, yea,"--the only treaty, as has been remarked, known in the world, never sworn to, and never broken. Thus was Pennsylvania happily founded without injustice, without bloodshed, without crime; and, blessed by Heaven, continued to flourish, the most happy and prosperous colony ever formed by Britons. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Our tale is ended. A faint outline of the history of a true hero has been traced. From it may be learned in what true heroism consists. William Penn (for he is our real hero), like the Master he served, though in the world, was not of it. He, as all must who desire to be faithful subjects of the Lord Jesus Christ, and not mere nominal Christians, took Him as his example. He had counted the cost, and entered boldly on the warfare. Worldly honours and distinctions were given up, though the highest were within his grasp. Persecution and contempt were willingly accepted; imprisonment endured without murmuring. He trusted to One all-powerful to help in time of need. His firm faith even in this life was rewarded. He was enabled to overcome the world. So will it be with all who like William Penn, know in whom they trust, if they persevere like him without wavering. THE END. 
37311	----	EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS BIOGRAPHY JOHN WOOLMAN'S JOURNAL WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY VIDA D. SCUDDER THE PUBLISHERS OF _EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY_ WILL BE PLEASED TO SEND FREELY TO ALL APPLICANTS A LIST OF THE PUBLISHED AND PROJECTED VOLUMES TO BE COMPRISED UNDER THE FOLLOWING TWELVE HEADINGS: TRAVEL SCIENCE FICTION THEOLOGY & PHILOSOPHY HISTORY CLASSICAL FOR YOUNG PEOPLE ESSAYS ORATORY POETRY & DRAMA BIOGRAPHY ROMANCE IN TWO STYLES OF BINDING, CLOTH, FLAT BACK, COLOURED TOP, AND LEATHER, ROUND CORNERS, GILT TOP. LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS, LTD. NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO. A GOOD BOOK IS THE PRECIOUS LIFE-BLOOD OF A MASTER SPIRIT EMBALMED & TREASURED UPON PURPOSE TO A LIFE BEYOND LIFE--MILTON THE JOURNAL _with other_ WRITINGS _of_ JOHN WOOLMAN LONDON: PUBLISHED by J. M. DENT & SONS LTD AND IN NEW YORK BY E. P. DUTTON & CO _All rights reserved_ INTRODUCTION From the days of Charles Lamb to those of Dr. Eliot of Harvard, the unique charm and worth of the _Journal of John Woolman_ have been signalled by a thinker of distinction here and there, and the book, if not widely known, has quietly found its way to many hearts and been reprinted in sundry editions. The more formal works, however, in which this gentle and audacious eighteenth-century Quaker-preacher spoke out his whole careful mind have been for the most part neglected. These works are sometimes prosy, always indifferent to style in their unflinching quest for "pure wisdom," often concerned with the dead issue of negro slavery. Yet even in this last case they have much value as historic documents; no full knowledge of Woolman's spirit is possible without them; and not to know that spirit in its entirety is a distinct loss. The present edition, while making no claim to critical completeness, presents the main accessible body of Woolman's writings. Here is a well of purest water, "dug deep," to use the Quaker phrase. The mere limpidity of the water will be joy enough for some: others gazing into it may feel that they see down to the proverbial Truth--the very origin of things, the foundations of the moral universe. A studious moderation of utterance is the first quality to make itself felt in Woolman's works. To casual or jaded readers who crave the word-embroidery, the heightened note, of the romanticist in style, the result may seem colourless. Here is a lack of adjectives, an entire absence of emphasis, a systematic habit of under-statement that, in the climax of a paragraph or the crisis of an emotion, seems at times almost ludicrous. Yet to the reader of severer taste, this very absence of emphasis, so quaintly sober, so sensitive in its unfaltering reticence, becomes the choicest grace of Woolman's style. As is the style, so is the man. Woolman "studied to be quiet," and his steady self-discipline was rewarded by a scrupulous yet instinctive control over the finest shades of verity in speech and life. In the youthful trouble of deep religious feeling, when he "went to meetings," as he expressively tell us, "in an awful frame of mind," he spoke a few words one day, under "a strong exercise of spirit." "But not keeping close to the divine opening, I said more than was required of me, and being soon sensible of my error, I was afflicted in mind some weeks, without any light or comfort, even to such a degree that I could not take satisfaction in anything." The mistake was not often repeated; for as he writes in memorable words: "As I was thus humbled and disciplined under the Cross, my understanding became more strengthened to distinguish the pure spirit that inwardly moves upon the heart, and taught me to wait in silence, sometimes for many weeks together, till I felt that rise which prepares the creature to stand like a trumpet through which the Lord speaks to His flock." A fine passage towards the end of the _Journal_ shows that the danger of speaking without this "pure spirit" was ever present to him. "Many love to hear eloquent orations, and if there is not a careful attention to the Gift, men who have once laboured in the pure Gospel ministry, growing weary of suffering and ashamed of appearing weak, may kindle a fire, compass themselves about with sparks, and walk in the light, not of Christ who is under suffering, but of that fire which they going from the Gift have kindled; and that in hearers which has gone from the meek suffering state into the worldly wisdom, may be warmed with this fire and speak highly of these labours. In this journey, a labour hath attended my mind that the ministers amongst us may be preserved in the meek, feeling life of truth." No man could so keenly analyse the snare of fluency and popularity, who had not spent a life on guard. The reserve of his writings is a natural consequence. One searches these pages in vain, often controversial though they be, for a single point in which the note is forced or emotion escapes control. Yet the emotional intensity concealed beneath this equable habit of soul, is evident from the first line to the last. In the fine phrase of the Friends after his death, Woolman "underwent many deep baptisms;" how deep, the _Journal_ reveals. He was a man of impassioned tenderness. Even as a child he saw "that as the mind is moved by an inward principle to love God as an invisible, incomprehensible Being, so by the same principle it is moved to love Him in all his manifestations in the visible world. That as by his breath the flame of life has kindled in all sensible creatures, to say that we love God as unseen and at the same time exercise cruelty toward the least creature moving by his life, or by life derived from Him, is a contradiction in itself." Woolman did not only say these things, he felt them. He is among the great lovers of the world. His tenderness for animals was always keen, from the days in which, as he has told us, he suffered childish remorse from having killed a robin, to his last voyage, when in the midst of personal suffering, he noted pityingly the dull and pining appearance of the "dunghill fowls" on board. "I believe," he writes, "where the love of God is verily perfected, a care will be felt that we do not lessen that sweetness of life in the animal creation which the great Creator intends for them under our government." He who so sympathised with the robin and the cock was filled with a yearning compassion for the sorrows of humanity. Of him as of Shelley it might well be said, "He was as a nerve o'er which do creep the else unfelt oppressions of the earth." We read of his appetite failing through the agitation of his mind over human pain and his relations to it. In his last illness he broke forth in words that might have been uttered by S. Catherine of Siena: "O Lord my God! The amazing horrors of darkness were gathered around me and covered me all over, and I saw no way to go forth. I felt the misery of my fellow-beings separated from the divine harmony, and it was heavier than I could bear; I was crushed down under it." All great lovers are great sufferers: Woolman was no exception to the rule. If he knew deep sorrow he knew deep joy also, as all must do who like him "live under the Cross and simply follow the operations of Truth." More is unuttered than uttered in the _Journal_, yet through its silences we may read an inner experience akin to that of Bunyan or Pascal. Like these great protagonists of the Spirit, he knew a peace given "not as the world giveth." For peace can be where ease is not. Decorous son of an unillumined century, John Woolman is of the company of the Mystics. He is of those led by the Shepherd of Souls beside the still waters. He has suggested his own secret: "Some glances of real beauty may be seen in their faces who dwell in true meekness. There is a harmony in the sound of that voice to which Divine love gives utterance, and some appearance of right order in their temper and conduct whose passions are regulated. Yet all these do not fully show forth that inward life to those who have not felt it; but this white stone and new name are known rightly only to such as have them." "Pure" is the central word of the _Journal_, and the beauty of pure contemplative quietude is the final impression conveyed by this record so full of anguish over the sorrows of humanity and of unflinching witness against wickedness, borne at the expense of the crucifixion of the natural man. * * * * * A chief value of Woolman's works consists in his serene application of his mystical intuitions to the affairs of this world. He who "dwelt deep in an inward stillness" studied his age with a penetrating sagacity that allowed no evasions. The man so carefully on his guard against extravagance was a reformer who pushed his demands, as some would think, almost beyond the border of sanity. No temper was ever more opposed to fanaticism: yet many readers may question whether he escaped the doom of the fanatic. And the most pertinent reason for a re-issue of his works at this juncture is, that in our own day so many hearts are troubled like his own. A generation seeking guidance on the path of social duty will find here a precursor of Ruskin and Tolstoi, a man whose thought, despite the quaintness of his diction, has a quite extraordinary modernness, and whose searchings of conscience are none of them familiar. The main contemporary issue that agitated Woolman was of course the slave-trade, and he was long regarded all but exclusively as a herald of the anti-slavery movement. But the Fabian Society did well to suggest, in reprinting one of his tracts, the broader scope of his thinking. It will be evident from this edition that his horror of chattel slavery was one incident only in that general attitude toward civilisation which drew from him the bitter cry: "Under a sense of deep revolt and an overflowing stream of unrighteousness, my life has often been a life of mourning." The central evil which he opposed was, in brief, the exploitation of labour: the ideal which he sought was a society in which no man should need to profit by the degradation of his fellow-men. For economic analysis of the modern type one naturally looks in vain; moral analysis of social relations has, however, rarely been carried farther. These little essays "On Labour," "On the Right Use of the Lord's Outward Gifts," "On Loving our Neighbour," these "Considerations on the True Harmony of Mankind," this "Word of Remembrance and Caution to the Rich," reveal through their quaint formalities of phrase a searching spirit not to be outdone to-day. Woolman felt "a concern in the spring of pure love, that all who have plenty of outward substance may example others in the right use of things, may carefully look into the condition of poor people, and beware of exacting of them in regard to their wages." He was solicitous, as many have been since his day, over the perplexities of those who seek to combine a due care for their own families with consideration for the wage-earner, "in a fruitful land where the wages bear so small a proportion to the necessaries of life." "There are few if any," he says truly, "could behold their fellow-creatures lie long in distress and forbear to help them when they could do it without any inconvenience; but customs, requiring much labour to support them, do often lie heavy upon the poor, while they who live in these customs are so entangled in a multitude of unnecessary concerns that they think but little of the hardships the poor people go through." To lessen these "concerns," thus to emancipate the labourer from a part of the crushing burden of production, became his central thought. "In beholding that unnecessary toil which many go through in supporting outward greatness, and procuring delicacies; in beholding how the true calmness of life is changed into hurry, and that many, by eagerly pursuing outward treasure, are in danger of withering as to the inward state of the mind; in meditating on the works of this spirit, and the desolations it makes among the professors of Christianity, I may thankfully acknowledge that I often feel pure love beget longings in my mind for the exaltation of the peaceable Kingdom of Christ, and an engagement to labour according to the Gift bestowed upon me for promoting an humble, plain, temperate way of living." The Simple Life is then Woolman's plea, and the necessity for social sacrifice the burden of his teaching. This plea he presents with no vagueness or Wagnerian sentimentality, but with an alarming precision of outline. No man ever described better the insensible growth of worldly convention into that custom which "lies upon us with a weight heavy as frost and deep almost as life." Noting the gradual lapse of the Friends from their earlier standards of unworldliness, he says: "These things, though done in calmness without any show of disorder, do yet deprave the mind in like manner and with as great certainty as prevailing cold congeals water." And again, "Though the change from day to night is by a motion so gradual as scarcely to be perceived, yet when night is come we behold it very different from the day; and thus as people become wise in their own eyes and prudent in their own sight, customs rise up from the spirit of this world and spread, by little and little, till a departure from the simplicity that is in Christ becomes as distinguishable as light from darkness to such who are crucified to the world." So the generations as they pass slip further and further from "pure wisdom," for "the customs of their parents, and their neighbours, working upon their minds, and they from thence conceiving ideas of things and modes of conduct, the entrance into their hearts becomes in a great measure shut up against the gentle movings of Uncreated Purity." Woolman is too wise to feel resentment against those so hardened; rather he says, "Compassion hath filled my heart toward my fellow-creatures involved in customs, grown up in the wisdom of this world, which is foolishness with God." To his own spirit, we may well apply the description in the little essay on "Merchandising," of the growing sensitiveness among the faithful friends of Christ, who "inwardly breathe that His Kingdom may come on earth" and "learn to be very attentive to the means He may appoint for promoting pure righteousness." His ideal is "that state in which Christ is the Light of our life," so that "our labours stand in the true harmony of society." "In this state," he writes, "a care is felt for a reformation in general, that our own posterity, with the rest of mankind in succeeding ages, may not be entangled by oppressive customs, transmitted to them through our hands." When we consider the deepening desire in our own day to lessen for the next generation that intolerable burden of social compunction which rests upon ourselves, may we perhaps dare to hope that this blessed "state," in which John Woolman himself constantly abode, is becoming common? The definite issues suggested in these pages are often surprisingly modern. Now the fine old Quaker is perturbed over the question of tainted money: "Have the gifts and possessions received by me from others been conveyed in a way free from all unrighteousness so far as I have seen?" Now he notes the evils of over-work: "I have observed that too much labour not only makes the understanding dull, but so intrudes upon the harmony of the body that, after ceasing from our toil, we have another to pass through before we can enjoy the sweetness of rest," and proceeds to plead with energy for mercy and moderation in the standard of toil exacted from the poor. "The condition of many who dwell in cities," had "affected him with brotherly sympathy." Again we find him touching on the problem of dangerous trades, or analysing with the puzzle of the pioneer the ancient fallacy that the production of luxuries relieves economic distress--a fallacy to which he gives in quaint phrase a sound refutal. In the fifth chapter of the "Word of Remembrance," the interested reader will find a remarkable and very beautiful prophecy of the central principle of the settlement movement. And so we might go on. In the twelfth century Woolman's solution would probably have been found in withdrawal from the evil world to the purity of desert or convent. Not so in the eighteenth. He remained among his brethren, bearing on his heart the burden of the common guilt: he was one of the first people to perceive that the moral sense must control not only our obvious but also our hidden relations with our fellows. And his experience may be said to mark the exact point where the individualism of the Puritan age broke down, unable to stand the strain of the growing sense of social solidarity. The intense but often naïvely self-centred conception of the religious life common to a Bunyan and an Edwardes had proved inadequate, and a new demand for an extension of Christianity to the remotest reaches of practical life, till human society be transformed in its depth and its breadth by a supernatural power, was consciously born. Yet if Woolman's problem be social, his solution is individualistic. It is found in a resolute endeavour to clear his own life of any dependence on evil. Among the many experiments on the same lines, none more thorough-going is recorded; he pushed consistency to a farther point than Tolstoi or Thoreau. It is the story of this experiment that he tells us in the _Journal_, with a rare sincerity. See him as a lad, starting out peaceably at his trade of tailor, easily reaching commercial success--for Woolman possessed practical ability,--but "perceiving merchandise to be attended with much cumber," and deciding accordingly not to develop his business. Watch from this time the interaction of two co-operating forces, a craving for personal purity, and a horror of profiting by human pain,--and note that while the first impulse never waned, the second became more and more constraining. The record of his various "concerns" is delightfully human and appealing. He hated to be morally fussy, and the necessity of violating good breeding at the call of conscience caused him acute distress, for he had an ingrained instinct of good manners. Yet though "the exercise was heavy," he bravely took his elders to task on occasion: refused to accept free hospitality from slave-holders, forcing money on them for his entertainment; and, what is still harder, laboured with his friends. "Thou who travels in the work of the ministry, and art made very welcome by thy friends, it is good for thee to dwell deep that thou mayest feel and understand the spirits of people.... I have seen that in the midst of kindness and smooth conduct, to speak close and home to them who entertain us on points that relate to their outward interest, is hard labour, and sometimes when I have felt Truth lead toward it I have found myself disqualified by a superficial friendship.... To see the failings of our friends and think hard of them without opening that which we ought to open, and still carry a face of friendship, this tends to undermine the foundation of true unity." A man, sensitive, humble, and well-bred as Woolman evidently was, who can write thus, is pretty sure to know "deep exercises that are mortifying to the creaturely will." Some of his concerns, as those relating to the payment of taxes and the entertainment of soldiers, were common to the Friends; others are apparently inventions of his own. As time went on they increased and multiplied, all practically springing from the common root, the desire to avoid the oppression of the poor. Greed and the wish for ease came to seem a root of all evil. Travelling among the Indians, he felt the intimate relation of their misfortunes to the hunger of the English race for luxury and land. The use of dyes harmful to the worker forced him to wear undyed garments, even though to his meek distress a passing fashion of white hats made him run the danger of being confounded with the children of this world. A concern came upon him to go on foot in his preaching journeys: at first apparently that he might, like his Master, appear in the form of a servant; later, that he might have no complicity in the miseries suffered by the little post-boys employed in the chaises. Nothing is clearer to the reader of the _Journal_ than the rapid increase of this holy or foolish sensitiveness. Seeking not to trade with oppressors, he refuses to gratify his palate with sugars prepared by the slave labour: under inward pressure to visit the West Indies, he has anxious scruples about taking passage on a ship owned by the West India Company, but decides that he may do so if he pays a sum sufficiently larger than that demanded to compensate the labour involved on another basis than that of slavery. At last--and here the crisis of his experience draws near--he feels himself inwardly bound to go to England; and decides that it is his duty to travel in the steerage, because forsooth the adornments of the cabin have cost vain and degrading labour. The horrors of a steerage passage in those days are well known to us from other sources; and among our visions of the martyrs of Truth we may well preserve the picture of John Woolman, his patient Quaker face upturned at midnight through the hatch, panting for a breath of air. Through the studied quiet of the narrative, the shrinking of the flesh can plainly be felt. The whole story at this point palpitates with a solemn pain and an exceeding peace. As usual, the sufferings of others form the larger part of his pain: he is wracked with sympathy for the sailors, and moved to a grieved indignant study of their temptations and afflictions which is good reading still to-day. Arrived in England, his experience deepens. As usual, he writes without emphasis: but his distress and tenderness are in every line. In a passage that reads as if penned by Engels or Rowntree, he makes careful pitying note of the scale of wages and cost of living, and cries out sharply, "Oh, may the wealthy consider the poor! May those who have plenty lay these things to heart!" We perceive that he is realising with increasing perplexity the extraordinary intricacy with which "the spirit of oppression" is entwined with the most innocent and necessary pursuits. "Silence as to every motion proceeding from the love of money and an humble waiting upon God to know his will concerning us appear necessary: 'He alone is able' so to direct us in our outward employments that pure universal love may shine forth in our proceedings." In "bowedness of spirit" he proceeds northward, and it is evident that the body is growing weaker as he makes his silent laborious way on foot, bearing from town to town the message of his Lord. He is offered to drink when thirsty, in silver vessels, and declines, "telling his case with weeping." Disgusted, "being but weakly," with "the scent arising from that filth which more or less infects the air of all closely settled towns," he feels distress both in body and mind with that which is impure, and a longing "that people might come in to cleanness of spirit, cleanness of person, and cleanness about their houses and garments:" noting at the same time, with his accustomed sagacity, that "some who are great carry delicacy to a great height themselves, and yet real cleanliness is not generally promoted." So continues his travail of soul, recorded in these pathetic and illumined pages, and before long the fatal disorder, small-pox, seizes upon him. He dies among strangers after lying patiently through his illness in the spirit of prayer, still saying characteristically to the young apothecary Friend with whom he had "found a freedom to confer," "that if anything should be proposed as to medicine that did not come through defiled channels or oppressive hands, he should be willing to consider and take it so far as he found freedom." Almost his last words, when already he could hardly be understood, are charged with his steady social compunction. Dear John Woolman! Pure and high spirit, incapable of evasion, noteworthy no less for restraint and gentleness than for the resolute determination to translate the undimmed vision of the Perfect Right into terms of our daily existence! Whither would his "concerns" have carried him, had not the Angel of Small-Pox ended his wistful and unrelenting quest? He died in 1772, having lived his life before the industrial revolution, in days which we are wont to envy as simpler and less beset by social problems than our own. Certainly they were days in which the network of human relations was far less intricate than now. Yet the process in which he was engaged reached out to limits beyond our power to scan, and his experience is in one point of view an heroic _reductio ad absurdum_. No more instructive attempt was ever made to attain personal purity while neither withdrawing from the world nor transforming it. To-day the number is on the increase of persons who suffer under the sense of social guilt. All who know such suffering and are inclined to think the conversion of individuals adequate as an ultimate remedy, will do well to ponder these pages. For the conclusion is forced on us that Woolman was in an _impasse_: and while we love and reverence the heavenly sturdiness of soul possessed by this eighteenth-century saint, we must recognise with amusement touched by tenderness the hopelessness of his efforts to attain personal purity, the ridiculous extremes of isolation into which such a conscientious effort, if logically carried out, would lead us. The definite inference from Woolman's life and thought will be for most modern people the conviction of the hopelessness of the attempt to achieve, by individual means and private effort, a satisfying social righteousness in an unchanged world. After all, Woolman's trouble and sorrow and tumult of spirit, so suggestive, so helpful to modern souls, were transitory. At the heart of his "endless agitation" subsisted a "central peace." His was the grace to know that "deep humility is a strong bulwark," and to "look less at the effects of the labour than at the pure motion and reality of the concern." The gentleness with which he delivered his fiery message was more than a manner due to Quaker training, or even than a result of resolute self-discipline: it was the index of an inward stillness in which his soul dwelt undisturbed. Let us hope that the days may come when the "concern" about profiting by the painful or degrading labour of others will have an interest as exclusively historic as the "concern" about holding slaves has already attained. Tremulously it may be, yet soberly and joyously, many clear-minded and practical people are beginning to hope for such a day. When it comes, the immediate message of Woolman will be less cogent, but he will still continue to be read by those who care for the revelations of a beautiful soul. These pages offer more than light on the path of social duty; they offer fellowship with a spirit that "dwelt deep," and attained an abiding loveliness because responsive through all turmoil of spirit and all outward suffering, to the "gentle movings of Uncreated Purity." "That purity of life," wrote he, "which proceeds from faithfulness in following the Spirit of Truth, this habitation has often been opened before me as a place of retirement for the children of the light, where we may stand separated from that which disordereth and confuseth the affairs of society." Such a "place of retirement for the Children of the Light," this book affords. VIDA D. SCUDDER. BIBLIOGRAPHY Some Considerations on the Keeping of Negroes, recommended to the Professors of Christianity of every Denomination, Part I., 1754; Part II., 1762; many later issues of both parts; Considerations on Pure Wisdom and Human Policy, on Labour, Schools, and the Right Use of the Lord's Outward Gifts, 1768, and numerous later reprints; Considerations on the True Harmony of Mankind, and how it is to be Maintained, 1770, and later reprints; an Epistle to the Quarterly and Monthly Meetings of Friends, 1772; Remarks on Sundry Subjects, 1773, and later reprints; Serious Considerations on Various Subjects of Importance (containing the four above works, and some expressions of John Woolman in his last illness), 1773; A First Book for Children, 1774 (?); A Journal of the Life, Gospel, Labours, and Christian Experiences of John Woolman, 1774, and many later editions; with Introduction by John Greenleaf Whittier, 1871; with Introduction by A. Smellie, and Appreciation by J. G. Whittier (Books of the Heart), 1898; new century edition, with bibliography, etc., 1900; with foreword by Rev. R. J. Campbell, 1903; A Word of Remembrance and Caution to the Rich, 1793; later editions, published by Fabian Society, 1898, 1908. LETTERS: Edited by J. Kendall (Letters on Religious Subjects, vol. ii.), 1820; by J. and I. Comly (_Friends' Miscellany_, vol. i.), 1834; in _Journal_, and in _Friends' Review_, vols. v.-xxviii. WORKS: 1774; 5th edition, 1818. LIFE: Saint John Woolman (_Eclectic Review_), 1861; David Duncan, paper read at Manchester Friends' Institute, 1871; Dora Greenwell, 1871; W. Garrett Horder, A Quaker Saint (_The Young Man_), 1874; reprinted in Quaker Worthies, 1896; T. Green, 1885, with Introduction by H. C. G. Moule, 1897; Sketch of the Life of John Woolman (Booklet Series, No. 6), 1896; in Present Day Papers, vol. iii., 1900; a poem by Bernard Barton, "A Tribute to the Memory of John Woolman," appeared in vol. iii. of _The Friend_, and references to Woolman are found in Lamb, and in H. Crabb Robinson's Diary. CONTENTS ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER 3 THE TESTIMONY OF FRIENDS IN YORKSHIRE 5 A TESTIMONY OF THE MONTHLY-MEETING OF FRIENDS 9 A JOURNAL OF THE LIFE AND TRAVELS OF JOHN WOOLMAN 17 THE LAST EPISTLE AND OTHER WRITINGS 159 CONSIDERATIONS ON THE TRUE HARMONY OF MANKIND 177 AN EPISTLE TO THE QUARTERLY AND MONTHLY-MEETINGS OF FRIENDS 203 REMARKS ON SUNDRY SUBJECTS 219 SOME EXPRESSIONS OF JOHN WOOLMAN IN HIS LAST ILLNESS 245 THE JOURNAL ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER The manuscript JOURNAL of our late Friend JOHN WOOLMAN, was ended in _England_; where he also finished all his Labours. It appears, by a Letter which he sent, in his last Illness, to a Friend in _London_, that he did not intend the whole should be printed, and that he desired the said Friend to revise what he had written in this Nation, and leave out such Parts as he should think proper. It was, notwithstanding, sent entire, without any Alteration, to _America_; where it was soon after printed, together with several Tracts which had been published in his Life-time. But, as some Passages in the Journal contain Observations which appear to have been intended as private Memorandums only, and others relate to Circumstances which happened in his native Country, not expedient to be preserved on Record in this Nation, it is apprehended that the following ABRIDGEMENT of it will be acceptable to Friends, and may be of general Service; and, as many weighty Arguments and pertinent Advices, relative to Slavery and the Oppression of the Negroes in the Plantations, are contained in the Journal, it was therefore apprehended that two small Tracts on that Subject might be omitted in this Abridgement. THE TESTIMONY OF FRIENDS IN YORKSHIRE _At their Quarterly-meeting held at York, the 24th and 25th of the third Month 1773, concerning_ JOHN WOOLMAN _Of_ Mount-Holly, _in the Province of New-Jersey, in_ America; _who departed this Life at the House of our Friend_, THOMAS PRIESTMAN, _in the Suburbs of this City, the 7th of the tenth month 1772, and was interred in the Burying-ground of Friends, the 9th of the same, aged about fifty-two Years_ This our valuable Friend, having been under a religious Engagement for some Time to visit Friends in this Nation, and more especially us in the northern Parts, undertook the same in full Concurrence and near Sympathy with his Friends and Brethren at home, as appeared by Certificates from the monthly and quarterly Meetings to which he belonged, and from the Spring-meeting of Ministers and Elders, held at _Philadelphia_ for _Pennsylvania_ and _New-Jersey_. He arrived in the City of _London_ the beginning of the last Yearly-meeting, and, after attending that Meeting, travelled northward, visiting the Quarterly-meetings of _Hertfordshire_, _Buckinghamshire_, _Northamptonshire_, _Oxfordshire_, and _Worcestershire_, and divers particular Meetings in his Way. He visited many Meetings on the West Side of this County; also some in _Lancashire_ and _Westmorland_; from whence he came to our Quarterly-meeting in the last ninth Month; and though much out of Health, yet was enabled to attend all the Sittings of that Meeting except the last. His Disorder, then, which proved the Small-pox, increased speedily upon him, and was very afflicting; under which he was supported in much Meekness, Patience, and Christian Fortitude. To those who attended him in his Illness his Mind appeared to be centered in divine Love; under the precious Influence whereof, we believe, he finished his Course, and entered into the Mansions of everlasting Rest. In the early Part of his Illness he requested a Friend to write, and he broke forth thus: "O Lord, my God! the amazing Horrors of Darkness were gathered around me and covered me all over, and I saw no Way to go forth: I felt the Misery of my Fellow-creatures separated from the divine Harmony, and it was heavier than I could bear, and I was crushed down under it: I lifted up my Hand, and stretched out my Arm, but there was none to help me: I looked round about, and was amazed: In the Depths of Misery, O Lord! I remembered that thou art omnipotent; that I had called thee Father; and I felt that I loved thee, and I was made quiet in thy Will, and I waited for Deliverance from thee; thou hadst Pity upon me when no Man could help me: I saw that Meekness under suffering was shewed to us in the most affecting Example of thy Son, and thou wast teaching me to follow him, and I said, Thy Will, O Father, be done." Many more of his weighty Expressions might have been inserted here, but it was deemed unnecessary, they being already published in Print. He was a Man endued with a large natural Capacity; and, being obedient to the Manifestations of divine Grace, having in Patience and Humility endured many deep Baptisms, he became thereby sanctified and fitted for the Lord's Work, and was truly serviceable in his Church: Dwelling in awful Fear and Watchfulness, he was careful, in his public Appearances, to feel the putting forth of the divine Hand, so that the Spring of the Gospel-ministry often flowed through him with great Sweetness and Purity, as a refreshing Stream to the weary Travellers toward the City of God: Skilful in dividing the Word, he was furnished by Him, in whom are hid all the Treasures of Wisdom and Knowledge, to communicate freely to the several States of the People where his Lot was cast. His Conduct at other Times was seasoned with the like watchful Circumspection and Attention to the Guidance of divine Wisdom, which rendered his whole Conversation uniformly edifying. He was fully perswaded that as the Life of Christ comes to reign in the Earth, all Abuse and unnecessary Oppression, both of the human and brute Creation, will come to an End; but, under the Sense of a deep Revolt and overflowing Stream of Unrighteousness, his Life has been often a Life of mourning. He was deeply concerned on account of that inhuman and iniquitous Practice of making Slaves of the People of _Africa_, or holding them in that State; and, on that Account, we understand he hath not only written some Books, but travelled much on the Continent of _America_, in order to make the Negro-masters (especially those in Profession with us) sensible of the evil of such a Practice; and though, in his Journey to _England_, he was far removed from the outward Sight of their Sufferings, yet his deep Exercise of Mind remained, as appears by a short Treatise he wrote in this Journey, and his frequent Concern to open the miserable State of this deeply-injured People. His Testimony in the last Meeting he attended was on this Subject; wherein he remarked, that as we, as a Society, when under outward Sufferings, had often found it our Concern to lay them before those in Authority, and thereby, in the Lord's Time, had obtained Relief, so he recommended this oppressed Part of the Creation to our Notice, that we may, as way may open, represent their Sufferings, in an Individual, if not a Society Capacity, to those in Authority. Deeply sensible that the Desire to gratify People's Inclinations in Luxury and Superfluities is the principal Ground of Oppression, and the Occasion of many unnecessary Wants, he believed it to be his Duty to be a Pattern of great Self-denial with Respect to the Things of this Life, and earnestly to labour with Friends in the Meekness of Wisdom, to impress on their Minds the great Importance of our Testimony in these Things, recommending to the Guidance of the blessed Truth in this and all other Concerns, and cautioning such as are experienced therein against contenting themselves with acting up to the Standard of others, but to be careful to make the Standard of Truth, manifested to them, the Measure of their Obedience; for, said he, "that Purity of Life which proceeds from Faithfulness in following the Spirit of Truth, that State where our Minds are devoted to serve God, and all our Wants are bounded by his Wisdom,--this Habitation has often been opened before me, as a Place of retirement for the Children of the Light, where they may stand separated from that which disordereth and confuseth the Affairs of Society, and where we may have a Testimony of our Innocence in the Hearts of those who behold us." We conclude with fervent Desires that we, as a People, may thus, by our Example, promote the Lord's Work in the Earth; and, our Hearts being prepared, may unite in Prayer to the great Lord of the Harvest, that as, in his infinite Wisdom, he hath greatly stripped the Church, by removing of late divers faithful Ministers and Elders, he may be pleased to send forth many more faithful Labourers into his Harvest. _Signed in, by Order, and on Behalf of, said Meeting_: THOMAS BENNETT, JOHN STORR, JOSEPH EGLIN, THOMAS PERKINSON, JOSEPH WRIGHT, SAMUEL BRISCOE, JOHN TURNER, JOSHUA ROBINSON, THOMAS PRIESTMAN, and divers other Friends. A TESTIMONY OF THE MONTHLY-MEETING OF FRIENDS _Held in_ Burlington, _the first Day of the eighth Month, in the Year of our Lord 1774, concerning our esteemed Friend,_ JOHN WOOLMAN, DECEASED He was born in _Northampton_, in the County of _Burlington_, and Province of _West-New-Jersey_, in the eighth Month, 1720, of religious Parents, who instructed him very early in the Principles of the _Christian_ Religion, as professed by the People called _Quakers_, which he esteemed a Blessing to him, even in his young Years, tending to preserve him from the Infection of wicked Children; but, through the Workings of the Enemy, and Levity incident to Youth, he frequently deviated from those parental Precepts, by which he laid a renewed Foundation for Repentance, that was finally succeeded by a godly Sorrow not to be repented of, and so became acquainted with that sanctifying Power which qualifies for true Gospel Ministry, into which he was called about the twenty-second year of his Age; and, by a faithful Use of the Talents committed to him, he experienced an Increase, until he arrived at the State of a Father, capable of dividing the Word aright to the different States he ministered unto; dispensing Milk to Babes, and Meat to those of riper Years. Thus he found the Efficacy of that Power to arise, which, in his own Expressions, "prepares the Creature to stand like a Trumpet through which the Lord speaks to his People."--He was a loving Husband, a tender Father, and very humane to every Part of the Creation under his Care. His Concern for the Poor and those in Affliction was evident by his Visits to them; whom he frequently relieved by his Assistance and Charity. He was for many Years deeply exercised on Account of the poor enslaved _Africans_, whose Cause, as he sometimes mentioned, lay almost continually upon him, and to obtain Liberty to those Captives, he laboured both in public and private; and was favoured to see his Endeavours crowned with considerable Success. He was particularly desirous that Friends should not be instrumental to lay Burthens on this oppressed People, but remember the Days of suffering from which they had been providentially delivered; that, if Times of Trouble should return, no Injustice dealt to those in Slavery might rise in Judgment against us, but, being clear, we might on such Occasions address the Almighty with a degree of Confidence, for his Interposition and Relief; being particularly careful, as to himself, not to countenance Slavery even by the Use of those Conveniences of Life which were furnished by their Labour. He was desirous to have his own, and the Minds of others, redeemed from the Pleasures and immoderate Profits of this World, and to fix them on those Joys which fade not away; his principal Care being after a Life of Purity, endeavouring to avoid not only the grosser Pollutions, but those also which, appearing in a more refined Dress, are not sufficiently guarded against by some well-disposed People. In the latter Part of his Life he was remarkable for the Plainness and Simplicity of his Dress, and, as much as possible, avoided the Use of Plate, costly Furniture, and feasting; thereby endeavouring to become an Example of Temperance and Self-denial, which he believed himself called unto, and was favoured with Peace therein, although it carried the Appearance of great Austerity in the View of some. He was very moderate in his Charges in the Way of Business, and in his Desires after Gain; and, though a Man of Industry, avoided, and strove much to lead others out of extreme Labour and Anxiousness after perishable Things; being desirous that the Strength of our Bodies might not be spent in procuring Things unprofitable, and that we might use Moderation and Kindness to the brute Animals under our Care, to prize the Use of them as a great Favour, and by no Means abuse them; that the Gifts of Providence should be thankfully received and applied to the Uses they were designed for. He several Times opened a School at _Mount-Holly_, for the Instruction of poor Friends Children and others, being concerned for their Help and Improvement therein: His Love and Care for the rising Youth among us were truly great, recommending to Parents and those who have the Charge of them, to chuse conscientious and pious Tutors, saying, "It is a lovely Sight to behold innocent Children," and that "to labour for their Help against that which would mar the Beauty of their Minds, is a Debt we owe them." His Ministry was sound, very deep and penetrating, sometimes pointing out the dangerous Situation which Indulgence and Custom lead into; frequently exhorting others, especially the Youth, not to be discouraged at the Difficulties which occur, but press after Purity. He often expressed an earnest Engagement that _pure Wisdom_ should be attended to, which would lead into Lowliness of Mind and Resignation to the divine Will, in which State small Possessions here would be sufficient. In transacting the Affairs of Discipline, his Judgment was sound and clear, and he was very useful in treating with those who had done amiss; he visited such in a private Way in that Plainness which Truth dictates, shewing great Tenderness and _Christian_ Forbearance. He was a constant Attender of our Yearly-meeting, in which he was a good Example, and particularly useful; assisting in the Business thereof with great Weight and Attention. He several Times visited most of the Meetings of Friends in this and the neighbouring Provinces, with the Concurrence of the Monthly-meeting to which he belonged, and, we have Reason to believe, had good Service therein, generally or always expressing, at his Return, how it had fared with him, and the Evidence of Peace in his Mind for thus performing his Duty. He was often concerned with other Friends in the important Service of visiting Families, which he was enabled to go through to Satisfaction. In the Minutes of the Meeting of Ministers and Elders for this Quarter, at the Foot of a List of the Members of that Meeting, made about five Years before his Death, we find in his Hand-writing the following Observations and Reflections. "As looking over the Minutes, made by Persons who have put off this Body, hath sometimes revived in me a Thought how Ages pass away; so this List may probably revive a like Thought in some, when I and the rest of the Persons above-named are centered in another State of Being.--The Lord, who was the Guide of my Youth, hath in tender Mercies helped me hitherto; he hath healed me of Wounds, he hath helped me out of grievous Entanglements; he remains to be the Strength of my Life; to whom I desire to devote myself in Time and in Eternity."--_Signed_, John Woolman. In the twelfth Month, 1771, he acquainted this Meeting that he found his Mind drawn towards a religious Visit to Friends in some Parts of _England_, particularly in _Yorkshire_. In the first Month, 1772, he obtained our Certificate, which was approved and endorsed by our Quarterly-meeting, and by the Half-year's-meeting of Ministers and Elders at _Philadelphia_. He embarked on his Voyage in the fifth, and arrived in _London_ in the sixth, Month following, at the Time of their annual Meeting in that City. During his short Visit to Friends in that Kingdom, we are informed that his Services were acceptable and edifying. In his last Illness he uttered many lively and comfortable Expressions, being "perfectly resigned, having no Will either to live or die," as appears by the Testimony of Friends at _York_ in _Great-Britain_, in the Suburbs whereof, at the House of our Friend, _Thomas Priestman_, he died of the Small-pox, on the seventh Day of the tenth Month, 1772, and was buried in Friends Burying-ground in that City, on the ninth of the same, after a large and solid Meeting held on the Occasion at their great Meeting-house, aged near fifty-two Years; a Minister upwards of thirty Years, during which Time he belonged to _Mount-Holly_ Particular-meeting, which he diligently attended when at Home and in Health of Body, and his Labours of Love, and pious Care for the Prosperity of Friends in the blessed Truth, we hope may not be forgotten, but that his good Works may be remembered to Edification. _Signed in, and by Order of, the said Meeting, by_ SAMUEL ALLINSON, _Clerk_. Read and approved at our Quarterly-meeting, held at _Burlington_ the 29th of the eighth Month, 1774. _Signed, by Order of said Meeting_, DANIEL SMITH, _Clerk_. A JOURNAL OF THE LIFE, GOSPEL-LABOURS, AND CHRISTIAN EXPERIENCES, OF THAT FAITHFUL MINISTER OF JESUS CHRIST, JOHN WOOLMAN; Late of MOUNT-HOLLY, in the Province of NEW-JERSEY. ISAIAH xxxii. 17. "The Work of Righteousness shall be Peace; and the Effect of Righteousness, Quietness and Assurance for ever." LONDON: Printed and sold by JAMES PHILLIPS, in George-Yard, Lombard-Street. M.DCC.LXXV. A JOURNAL OF THE LIFE AND TRAVELS OF JOHN WOOLMAN, IN THE SERVICE OF THE GOSPEL CHAPTER I _His Birth and Parentage, with some Account of the Operations of divine Grace on his Mind in his Youth_--_His first Appearance in the Ministry_--_And his Considerations, while young, on the keeping of Slaves_ I have often felt a Motion of Love to leave some Hints in Writing of my Experience of the Goodness of God; and now, in the thirty-sixth Year of my Age, I begin this Work. I was born in _Northampton_, in _Burlington_ County, _West-Jersey_, in the Year 1720; and before I was seven Years old I began to be acquainted with the Operations of divine Love. Through the Care of my Parents, I was taught to read nearly as soon as I was capable of it; and, as I went from School one seventh Day, I remember, while my Companions went to play by the Way, I went forward out of Sight, and, sitting down, I read the 22d Chapter of the _Revelations_: "He shewed me a pure River of Water of Life, clear as Chrystal, proceeding out of the Throne of God and of the Lamb, _etc._" and, in reading it, my Mind was drawn to seek after that pure Habitation, which, I then believed, God had prepared for his Servants. The Place where I sat, and the Sweetness that attended my Mind, remain fresh in my Memory. This, and the like gracious Visitations, had that Effect upon me, that when Boys used ill Language it troubled me; and, through the continued Mercies of God, I was preserved from it. The pious Instructions of my Parents were often fresh in my Mind when I happened to be among wicked Children, and were of Use to me. My Parents, having a large Family of Children, used frequently, on first Days after Meeting, to put us to read in the holy Scriptures, or some religious Books, one after another, the rest sitting by without much Conversation; which, I have since often thought, was a good Practice. From what I had read and heard, I believed there had been, in past Ages, People who walked in Uprightness before God, in a Degree exceeding any that I knew, or heard of, now living: And the Apprehension of there being less Steadiness and Firmness, amongst People in this Age than in past Ages, often troubled me while I was a Child. A Thing remarkable in my Childhood was, that once, going to a Neighbour's House, I saw, on the Way, a _Robin_ sitting on her Nest, and as I came near she went off, but, having young ones, flew about, and with many Cries expressed her Concern for them; I stood and threw Stones at her, till, one striking her, she fell down dead: At first I was pleased with the Exploit, but after a few Minutes was seized with Horror, as having, in a sportive Way, killed an innocent Creature while she was careful for her Young: I beheld her lying dead, and thought these young ones, for which she was so careful, must now perish for want of their Dam to nourish them; and, after some painful Considerations on the Subject, I climbed up the Tree, took all the young Birds, and killed them; supposing that better than to leave them to pine away and die miserably: And believed, in this Case, that Scripture-proverb was fulfilled, "The tender Mercies of the Wicked are cruel." I then went on my Errand, but, for some Hours, could think of little else but the Cruelties I had committed, and was much troubled. Thus he, whose tender Mercies are over all his Works, hath placed a Principle in the human Mind, which incites to exercise Goodness towards every living Creature; and this being singly attended to, People become tender hearted and sympathising; but being frequently and totally rejected, the Mind becomes shut up in a contrary Disposition. About the twelfth Year of my Age, my Father being abroad, my Mother reproved me for some Misconduct, to which I made an undutiful Reply; and, the next first Day, as I was with my Father returning from Meeting, he told me he understood I had behaved amiss to my Mother, and advised me to be more careful in future. I knew myself blameable, and in Shame and Confusion remained silent. Being thus awakened to a Sense of my Wickedness, I felt Remorse in my Mind, and, getting home, I retired and prayed to the Lord to forgive me; and do not remember that I ever, after that, spoke unhandsomely to either of my Parents, however foolish in some other Things. Having attained the Age of sixteen Years, I began to love wanton Company; and though I was preserved from prophane Language, or scandalous Conduct, still I perceived a Plant in me which produced much wild Grapes; yet my merciful Father forsook me not utterly, but, at Times, through his Grace, I was brought seriously to consider my Ways; and the Sight of my Backslidings affected me with Sorrow; but, for want of rightly attending to the Reproofs of Instruction, Vanity was added to Vanity, and Repentance to Repentance: Upon the whole, my Mind was more and more alienated from the Truth, and I hastened toward Destruction. While I meditate on the Gulph towards which I travelled, and reflect on my youthful Disobedience, for these Things I weep, mine Eyes run down with Water. Advancing in Age, the Number of my Acquaintances increased, and thereby my Way grew more difficult; though I had found Comfort in reading the holy Scriptures, and thinking on heavenly Things, I was now estranged therefrom: I knew I was going from the Flock of Christ, and had no Resolution to return; hence serious Reflections were uneasy to me, and youthful Vanities and Diversions my greatest Pleasure. Running in this Road I found many like myself; and we associated in that which is the reverse of true Friendship. But in this swift Race it pleased God to visit me with Sickness, so that I doubted of recovering; and then did Darkness, Horror, and Amazement, with full Force, seize me, even when my Pain and Distress of Body was very great. I thought it would have been better for me never to have had a Being, than to see the Day which I now saw. I was filled with Confusion; and in great Affliction, both of Mind and Body, I lay and bewailed myself. I had not Confidence to lift up my Cries to God, whom I had thus offended; but, in a deep Sense of my great Folly, I was humbled before him; and, at length, that Word which is as a Fire and a Hammer, broke and dissolved my rebellious Heart, and then my Cries were put up in Contrition; and in the multitude of his Mercies I found inward Relief, and felt a close Engagement, that, if he was pleased to restore my Health, I might walk humbly before him. After my Recovery, this Exercise remained with me a considerable Time; but, by Degrees, giving Way to youthful Vanities, they gained Strength, and, getting with wanton young People, I lost Ground. The Lord had been very gracious, and spoke Peace to me in the Time of my Distress; and I now most ungratefully turned again to Folly; on which Account, at Times, I felt sharp Reproof. I was not so hardy as to commit Things scandalous; but to exceed in Vanity, and promote Mirth, was my chief Study. Still I retained a Love for pious People, and their Company brought an Awe upon me. My dear Parents, several Times, admonished me in the Fear of the Lord, and their Admonition entered into my Heart, and had a good Effect for a Season; but, not getting deep enough to pray rightly, the Tempter, when he came, found Entrance. I remember once, having spent a Part of the Day in Wantonness, as I went to Bed at Night, there lay in a Window, near my Bed, a Bible, which I opened, and first cast my Eye on this Text, "We lie down in our Shame, and our Confusion covers us:" This I knew to be my Case; and, meeting with so unexpected a Reproof, I was somewhat affected with it, and went to Bed under Remorse of Conscience; which I soon cast off again. Thus Time passed on: My Heart was replenished with Mirth and Wantonness, and pleasing Scenes of Vanity were presented to my Imagination, till I attained the Age of eighteen Years; near which Time I felt the Judgments of God, in my Soul, like a consuming Fire; and, looking over my past Life, the Prospect was moving.--I was often sad, and longed to be delivered from those Vanities; then again, my Heart was strongly inclined to them, and there was in me a sore Conflict: At Times I turned to Folly, and then again, Sorrow and Confusion took hold of me. In a while, I resolved totally to leave off some of my Vanities; but there was a secret Reserve, in my Heart, of the more refined Part of them, and I was not low enough to find true Peace. Thus, for some Months, I had great Troubles; there remaining in me an unsubjected Will, which rendered my Labours fruitless, till at length, through the merciful Continuance of heavenly Visitations, I was made to bow down in Spirit before the Lord. I remember one Evening I had spent some Time in reading a pious Author; and walking out alone, I humbly prayed to the Lord for his Help, that I might be delivered from all those Vanities which so ensnared me. Thus, being brought low, he helped me; and, as I learned to bear the Cross, I felt Refreshment to come from his Presence; but, not keeping in that Strength which gave Victory, I lost Ground again; the Sense of which greatly affected me; and I sought Desarts and lonely Places, and there, with Tears, did confess my Sins to God, and humbly craved Help of him. And I may say with Reverence, he was near to me in my Troubles, and in those Times of Humiliation opened my Ear to Discipline. I was now led to look seriously at the Means by which I was drawn from the pure Truth, and learned this, that, if I would live in the Life which the faithful Servants of God lived in, I must not go into Company as heretofore in my own Will; but all the Cravings of Sense must be governed by a divine Principle. In Times of Sorrow and Abasement these Instructions were sealed upon me, and I felt the Power of Christ prevail over selfish Desires, so that I was preserved in a good degree of Steadiness; and, being young, and believing at that Time that a single Life was best for me, I was strengthened to keep from such Company as had often been a Snare to me. I kept steadily to Meetings; spent First-day Afternoons chiefly in reading the Scriptures and other good Books; and was early convinced in Mind, that true Religion consisted in an inward Life, wherein the Heart doth love and reverence God the Creator, and learns to exercise true Justice and Goodness, not only toward all Men, but also toward the brute Creatures.--That as the Mind was moved, by an inward Principle, to love God as an invisible incomprehensible Being, by the same Principle it was moved to love him in all his Manifestations in the visible World.--That, as by his Breath the Flame of Life was kindled in all animal sensible Creatures, to say we love God, and, at the same Time exercise Cruelty toward the least Creature, is a Contradiction in itself. I found no Narrowness respecting Sects and Opinions; but believed, that sincere upright-hearted People, in every Society, who truly love God, were accepted of him. As I lived under the Cross, and simply followed the Openings of Truth, my Mind, from Day to Day, was more enlightened; my former Acquaintance were left to judge of me as they would, for I found it safest for me to live in private, and keep these Things sealed up in my own Breast. While I silently ponder on that Change wrought in me, I find no Language equal to it, nor any Means to convey to another a clear Idea of it. I looked on the Works of God in this visible Creation, and an Awfulness covered me; my Heart was tender and often contrite, and universal Love to my Fellow-creatures increased in me: This will be understood by such as have trodden the same Path. Some Glances of real Beauty may be seen in their Faces, who dwell in true Meekness. There is a Harmony in the Sound of that Voice to which divine Love gives Utterance, and some Appearance of right Order in their Temper and Conduct, whose Passions are regulated; yet all these do not fully shew forth that inward Life to such as have not felt it: But this white Stone and new Name is known rightly to such only as have it. Though I had been thus strengthened to bear the Cross, I still found myself in great Danger, having many Weaknesses attending me, and strong Temptations to wrestle with; in the feeling whereof I frequently withdrew into private Places, and often with Tears besought the Lord to help me, whose gracious Ear was open to my Cry. All this Time I lived with my Parents, and wrought on the Plantation; and, having had Schooling pretty well for a Planter, I used to improve it in Winter Evenings, and other leisure Times; and, being now in the twenty-first Year of my Age, a Man, in much Business at shop-keeping and baking, asked me, if I would hire with him to tend Shop and keep Books. I acquainted my Father with the Proposal; and, after some Deliberation, it was agreed for me to go. At Home I had lived retired; and now, having a Prospect of being much in the Way of Company, I felt frequent and fervent Cries in my Heart to God, the Father of Mercies, that he would preserve me from all Corruption; that in this more publick Employment, I might serve him, my gracious Redeemer, in that Humility and Self-denial, with which I had been, in a small Degree, exercised in a more private Life. The Man, who employed me, furnished a Shop in _Mount-Holly_, about five Miles from my Father's House, and six from his own; and there I lived alone, and tended his Shop. Shortly after my Settlement here I was visited by several young People, my former Acquaintance, who knew not but Vanities would be as agreeable to me now as ever; and, at these Times, I cried to the Lord in secret, for Wisdom and Strength; for I felt myself encompassed with Difficulties, and had fresh Occasion to bewail the Follies of Time past, in contracting a Familiarity with libertine People; and, as I had now left my Father's House outwardly, I found my heavenly Father to be merciful to me beyond what I can express. By Day I was much amongst People, and had many Trials to go through; but, in the Evenings, I was mostly alone, and may with Thankfulness acknowledge, that, in those Times, the Spirit of Supplication was often poured upon me; under which I was frequently exercised, and felt my Strength renewed. In a few Months after I came here, my Master bought several _Scotchmen_, Servants, from on-board a Vessel, and brought them to _Mount-Holly_ to sell; one of which was taken sick, and died. In the latter Part of his Sickness, he, being delirious, used to curse and swear most sorrowfully; and, the next Night after his Burial, I was left to sleep alone in the same Chamber where he died; I perceived in me a Timorousness; I knew, however, I had not injured the Man, but assisted in taking Care of him according to my Capacity; and was not free to ask any one, on that Occasion, to sleep with me: Nature was feeble; but every Trial was a fresh Incitement to give myself up wholly to the Service of God, for I found no Helper like him in Times of Trouble. After a While, my former Acquaintance gave over expecting me as one of their Company; and I began to be known to some whose Conversation was helpful to me: And now, as I had experienced the Love of God, through Jesus Christ, to redeem me from many Pollutions, and to be a Succour to me through a Sea of Conflicts, with which no Person was fully acquainted; and as my Heart was often enlarged in this heavenly Principle, I felt a tender Compassion for the Youth, who remained entangled in Snares, like those which had entangled me from one Time to another: This Love and Tenderness increased; and my Mind was more strongly engaged for the Good of my Fellow-creatures. I went to Meetings in an awful Frame of Mind, and endeavoured to be inwardly acquainted with the Language of the true Shepherd; and, one Day, being under a strong Exercise of Spirit, I stood up, and said some Words in a Meeting; but, not keeping close to the divine Opening, I said more than was required of me; and being soon sensible of my Error, I was afflicted in Mind some Weeks, without any Light or Comfort, even to that Degree that I could not take Satisfaction in any Thing: I remembered God, and was troubled, and, in the Depth of my Distress, he had Pity upon me, and sent the Comforter: I then felt Forgiveness for my Offence, and my Mind became calm and quiet, being truly thankful to my gracious Redeemer for his Mercies; and, after this, feeling the Spring of divine Love opened, and a Concern to speak, I said a few Words in a Meeting, in which I found Peace; this, I believe, was about six Weeks from the first Time: And, as I was thus humbled and disciplined under the Cross, my Understanding became more strengthened to distinguish the pure Spirit which inwardly moves upon the Heart, and taught me to wait in Silence sometimes many Weeks together, until I felt that rise which prepares the Creature. From an inward purifying, and stedfast abiding under it, springs a lively operative Desire for the Good of others: All the Faithful are not called to the public Ministry; but whoever are, are called to minister of that which they have tasted and handled spiritually. The outward Modes of Worship are various; but, wherever any are true Ministers of Jesus Christ, it is from the Operation of his Spirit upon their Hearts, first purifying them, and thus giving them a just Sense of the Conditions of others. This Truth was clearly fixed in my Mind; and I was taught to watch the pure Opening, and to take Heed, lest, while I was standing to speak, my own Will should get uppermost, and cause me to utter Words from worldly Wisdom, and depart from the Channel of the true Gospel-Ministry. In the Management of my outward Affairs, I may say, with Thankfulness, I found Truth to be my Support; and I was respected in my Master's Family, who came to live in _Mount-Holly_ within two Years after my going there. About the twenty-third Year of my Age, I had many fresh and heavenly Openings, in respect to the Care and Providence of the Almighty over his Creatures in general, and over Man as the most noble amongst those which are visible. And being clearly convinced in my Judgment, that to place my whole Trust in God was best for me, I felt renewed Engagements, that in all Things I might act on an inward Principle of Virtue, and pursue worldly Business no farther, than as Truth opened my Way therein. About the Time called _Christmas_, I observed many People from the Country, and Dwellers in Town, who, resorting to Public-Houses, spent their Time in drinking and vain Sports, tending to corrupt one another; on which Account I was much troubled. At one House, in particular, there was much Disorder; and I believed it was a Duty incumbent on me to go and speak to the Master of that House. I considered I was young, and that several elderly Friends in town had Opportunity to see these Things; but though I would gladly have been excused, yet I could not feel my Mind clear. The Exercise was heavy; and as I was reading what the Almighty said to _Ezekiel_, respecting his Duty as a Watchman, the Matter was set home more clearly; and then, with Prayers and Tears, I besought the Lord for his Assistance, who, in Loving-kindness, gave me a resigned Heart: Then, at a suitable Opportunity, I went to the Public-house, and, seeing the Man amongst much Company, I went to him, and told him, I wanted to speak with him; so we went aside, and there, in the Fear of the Almighty, I expressed to him what rested on my Mind; which he took kindly, and afterward shewed more Regard to me than before. In a few Years afterwards he died, middle-aged; and I often thought that, had I neglected my Duty in that Case, it would have given me great Trouble; and I was humbly thankful to my gracious Father, who had supported me herein. My Employer having a Negro Woman, sold her, and desired me to write a Bill of Sale, the Man being waiting who bought her: The Thing was sudden; and, though the Thoughts of writing an Instrument of Slavery for one of my Fellow-creatures felt uneasy, yet I remembered I was hired by the Year, that it was my Master who directed me to do it, and that it was an elderly Man, a Member of our Society, who bought her; so, through Weakness, I gave way, and wrote; but, at the executing it, I was so afflicted in my Mind, that I said, before my Master and the Friend, that I believed Slave-keeping to be a Practice inconsistent with the _Christian_ Religion: This in some Degree abated my Uneasiness; yet, as often as I reflected seriously upon it, I thought I should have been clearer, if I had desired to have been excused from it, as a Thing against my Conscience; for such it was. And, some Time after this, a young Man, of our Society, spoke to me to write a Conveyance of a Slave to him, he having lately taken a Negro into his House: I told him I was not easy to write it; for, though many of our Meeting and in other Places kept Slaves, I still believed the Practice was not right, and desired to be excused from the writing. I spoke to him in Good-will; and he told me that keeping Slaves was not altogether agreeable to his Mind; but that the Slave being a Gift to his Wife, he had accepted of her. CHAPTER II _His first Journey, on a religious Visit, into_ East-Jersey, _in Company with_ ABRAHAM FARRINGTON--_His Thoughts on merchandizing, and his learning a Trade_--_His second Journey, with_ ISAAC ANDREWS, _into_ Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, _and_ North Carolina--_His third Journey, with_ PETER ANDREWS, _through Part of_ West _and_ East-Jersey--_Some Account of his Sister_ ELIZABETH, _and her Death_--_His fourth Journey, with_ PETER ANDREWS, _through_ New-York _and_ Long-Island, _to_ New-England--_And his fifth Journey, with_ JOHN SYKES, _to the eastern Shore of_ Maryland, _and the lower Counties on_ Delaware My esteemed Friend, _Abraham Farrington_, being about to make a Visit to Friends on the eastern Side of this Province, and having no Companion, he proposed to me to go with him; and, after a Conference with some elderly Friends, I agreed to go: We set out the fifth Day of the ninth Month, in the Year 1743; had an Evening-meeting at a Tavern in _Brunswick_, a Town in which none of our Society dwelt; the Room was full, and the People quiet. Thence to _Amboy_, and had an Evening-meeting in the Court-house; to which many People came, amongst whom were several Members of the Assembly, they being in Town on public Affairs of the Province: In both these Meetings my ancient Companion was enlarged to preach, in the Love of the Gospel. Thence we went to _Woodbridge_, _Raway_, and _Plainfield_; and had six or seven Meetings in Places where Meetings of Friends are not usually held, being made up chiefly of _Presbyterians_; and my beloved Companion was frequently strengthened to publish the Word of Life amongst them: As for me, I was often silent; and, when I spake, it was with much Care, that I might speak only what Truth opened: And I learned some profitable Lessons.--We were out about two Weeks. Near this Time, being on some outward Business in which several Families were concerned, and which was attended with Difficulties, some Things relating thereto not being clearly stated, nor rightly understood by all, there arose some Heat in the Minds of the Parties, and one valuable Friend got off his Watch; I had a great Regard for him, and felt a strong Inclination, after Matters were settled, to speak to him concerning his Conduct in that case: But I being a Youth, and he far advanced in Age and Experience, my Way appeared difficult; but, after some Days Deliberation, and inward seeking to the Lord for Assistance, I was made subject; so that I expressed what lay upon me in a Way which became my Youth and his Years: And, though it was a hard Task to me, it was well taken, and, I believe, useful to us both. Having now been several Years with my Employer, and he doing less at Merchandize than heretofore, I was thoughtful of some other Way of Business; perceiving Merchandize to be attended with much Cumber, in the Way of trading in these Parts. My mind, through the Power of Truth, was in a good degree weaned from the Desire of outward Greatness, and I was learning to be content with real Conveniences, that were not costly; so that a Way of Life, free from much Entanglement, appeared best for me, though the Income might be small. I had several Offers of Business that appeared profitable, but did not see my Way clear to accept of them; as believing the Business proposed would be attended with more outward Care than was required of me to engage in. I saw that a humble Man, with the blessing of the Lord, might live on a little; and that where the Heart was set on Greatness, Success in Business did not satisfy the craving; but that commonly, with an Increase of Wealth, the Desire of Wealth increased. There was a Care on my Mind so to pass my Time, that nothing might hinder me from the most steady Attention to the Voice of the true Shepherd. My Employer, though now a Retailer of Goods, was by Trade a Taylor, and kept a Servant-man at that Business; and I began to think about learning the Trade, expecting that, if I should settle, I might, by this Trade and a little retailing of Goods, get a Living in a plain Way, without the Load of great Business: I mentioned it to my Employer, and we soon agreed on Terms; and then, when I had Leisure from the Affairs of Merchandize, I worked with his Man. I believed the Hand of Providence pointed out this Business for me; and was taught to be content with it, though I felt, at Times, a Disposition that would have sought for something greater: But, through the Revelation of Jesus Christ, I had seen the Happiness of Humility, and there was an earnest Desire in me to enter deep into it; and, at Times, this Desire arose to a Degree of fervent Supplication, wherein my Soul was so environed with heavenly Light and Consolation, that Things were made easy to me which had been otherwise. After some Time, my Employer's Wife died; she was a virtuous Woman, and generally beloved of her Neighbours; and, soon after this, he left shop-keeping, and we parted. I then wrought at my Trade, as a Taylor; carefully attended Meetings for Worship and Discipline; and found an Enlargement of Gospel-love in my Mind, and therein a Concern to visit Friends in some of the Back-settlements of _Pennsylvania_ and _Virginia_; and, being thoughtful about a Companion, I expressed it to my beloved Friend, ISAAC ANDREWS, who then told me that he had Drawings to the same Places; also to go through _Maryland_, _Virginia_, and _Carolina_. After considerable Time past, and several Conferences with him, I felt easy to accompany him throughout, if Way opened for it. I opened the Case in our Monthly-meeting; and, Friends expressing their Unity therewith, we obtained Certificates to travel as Companions; his from _Haddonfield_, and mine from _Burlington_. We left our Province on the twelfth Day of the third Month, in the Year 1746, and had several Meetings in the upper Part of _Chester_ County, and near _Lancaster_; in some of which, the Love of Christ prevailed, uniting us together in his Service. Then we crossed the River _Susquehannah_, and had several Meetings in a new Settlement, called the _Red-Lands_; the oldest of which, as I was informed, did not exceed ten Years. It is the poorer Sort of People that commonly begin to improve remote Desarts: With a small Stock they have Houses to build, Lands to clear and fence, Corn to raise, Clothes to provide, and Children to educate; that Friends, who visit such, may well sympathise with them in their Hardships in the Wilderness; and though the best Entertainment such can give may seem coarse to some who are used to Cities, or old settled Places, it becomes the Disciples of Christ to be content with it. Our Hearts were sometimes enlarged in the Love of our heavenly Father amongst these People; and the sweet Influence of his Spirit supported us through some Difficulties: To him be the Praise! We passed on to _Monoquacy_, _Fairfax_, _Hopewell_, and _Shanando_, and had Meetings; some of which were comfortable and edifying. From _Shanando_ we set off in the Afternoon for the old Settlements of Friends in _Virginia_; and, the first Night, we, with our Pilot, lodged in the Woods, our Horses feeding near us; but he being poorly provided with a Horse, and we young and having good Horses, were free the next Day to part with him; and did so. In two Days after, we reached to our Friend _John Cheagle's_, in _Virginia_; so we took the Meetings in our Way through _Virginia_; were, in some Degree, baptized into a feeling Sense of the Conditions of the People; and our Exercise in general was more painful in these old Settlements, than it had been amongst the back Inhabitants: But, through the Goodness of our heavenly Father, the Well of living Waters was, at Times, opened to our Encouragement and the Refreshment of the sincere-hearted. We went on to _Perquimons_, in _North-Carolina_, had several Meetings, which were large, and found some Openness in those Parts, and a hopeful Appearance amongst the young People. So we turned again to _Virginia_, and attended most of the Meetings which we had not been at before, labouring amongst Friends in the Love of Jesus Christ, as Ability was given; and thence went to the Mountains, up _James-River_, to a new Settlement, and had several Meetings amongst the People, some of whom had lately joined in Membership with our Society. In our journeying to and fro, we found some honest-hearted Friends, who appeared to be concerned for the Cause of Truth among a backsliding People. From _Virginia_, we crossed over the River _Patowmac_, at Hoe's Ferry, and made a general Visit to the Meetings of Friends on the Western Shore of _Maryland_; and were at their Quarterly-meeting. We had some hard Labour amongst them, endeavouring to discharge our Duty honestly as Way opened, in the Love of Truth: And thence taking sundry Meetings in our Way, we passed homeward; where, through the Favour of divine Providence we reached the sixteenth Day of the sixth Month, in the Year 1746; and I may say that, through the Assistance of the Holy Spirit, my Companion and I travelled in Harmony, and parted in the Nearness of true brotherly Love. Two Things were remarkable to me in this Journey; first, in Regard to my Entertainment, when I ate, drank, and lodged at free-cost, with People who lived in Ease on the hard Labour of their Slaves, I felt uneasy; and, as my Mind was inward to the Lord, I found, from Place to Place, this Uneasiness return upon me, at Times, through the whole Visit. Where the Masters bore a good Share of the Burthen, and lived frugally, so that their Servants were well provided for, and their Labour moderate, I felt more easy; but where they lived in a costly Way, and laid heavy Burthens on their Slaves, my Exercise was often great, and I frequently had Conversation with them, in private, concerning it. Secondly; this Trade of importing Slaves from their native Country being much encouraged amongst them, and the white People and their Children so generally living without much Labour, was frequently the Subject of my serious Thoughts: And I saw in these southern Provinces so many Vices and Corruptions, increased by this Trade and this Way of Life, that it appeared to me as a Gloom over the Land; and though now many willingly run into it, yet, in future, the Consequence will be grievous to Posterity: I express it as it hath appeared to me, not at once nor twice, but as a Matter fixed on my Mind. Soon after my Return Home, I felt an increasing Concern for Friends on our Sea-coast; and, on the eighth Day of the eighth Month, in the Year 1746, with the Unity of Friends, and in Company with my beloved Friend and Neighbour, PETER ANDREWS, Brother to my Companion before-mentioned, we set forward, and visited Meetings generally about _Salem_, _Cape May_, _Great_ and _Little Egg-Harbour_; and had Meetings at _Barnagat_, _Mannahocking_, and _Mane-Squan_, and so to the Yearly-meeting at _Shrewsbury_. Through the Goodness of the Lord Way was opened, and the Strength of divine Love was sometimes felt in our Assemblies, to the Comfort and Help of those who were rightly concerned before him. We were out twenty-two Days, and rode, by Computation, three hundred and forty Miles. At _Shrewsbury_ Yearly-meeting, we met with our dear Friends MICHAEL LIGHTFOOT and ABRAHAM FARRINGTON, who had good Service there. The Winter following my eldest Sister, ELIZABETH WOOLMAN, jun. died of the Small-pox, aged thirty-one Years. She was, from her Youth, of a thoughtful Disposition; and very compassionate to her Acquaintance in their Sickness or Distress, being ready to help as far as she could. She was dutiful to her Parents; one Instance whereof follows:--It happened that she, and two of her Sisters, being then near the Estate of young Women, had an Inclination, one First-day after Meeting, to go on a Visit to some other young Women at some Distance off; whose Company, I believe, would have done them no Good. They expressed their Desire to our Parents; who were dissatisfied with the Proposal, and stopped them. The same Day, as my Sisters and I were together, and they talking about their Disappointment, _Elizabeth_ expressed her Contentment under it; signifying, she believed it might be for their Good. A few Years after she attained to mature-Age, through the gracious Visitations of God's Love, she was strengthened to live a self-denying exemplary Life, giving herself much to Reading and Meditation. The following Letter may shew, in some Degree, her Disposition. HADDONFIELD, _1st Day, 11th Month_, 1743. Beloved Brother, JOHN WOOLMAN,--In that Love which desires the Welfare of all Men, I write unto thee: I received thine, dated second Day of the tenth Month last, with which I was comforted. My Spirit is bowed with Thankfulness that I should be remembered, who am unworthy; but the Lord is full of Mercy, and his Goodness is extended to the meanest of his Creation; therefore, in his infinite Love, he hath pitied, and spared, and shewed Mercy, that I have not been cut off nor quite lost; but, at Times, I am refreshed and comforted as with the Glimpse of his Presence, which is more to the immortal Part, than all which this World can afford: So, with Desires for thy Preservation with my own, I remain Thy affectionate Sister, ELIZ. WOOLMAN, jun. In the fore Part of her Illness she was in great Sadness and Dejection of Mind, of which she told one of her intimate Friends, and said, When I was a young Girl I was wanton and airy, but I thought I had thoroughly repented of it; and added, I have of late had great Satisfaction in Meetings. Though she was thus disconsolate, still she retained a Hope, which was as an Anchor to her: And sometime after, the same Friend came again to see her, to whom she mentioned her former Expressions, and said, It is otherwise now, for the Lord hath rewarded me seven fold; and I am unable to express the Greatness of his Love manifested to me. Her Disorder appearing dangerous, and our Mother being sorrowful, she took Notice of it, and said, Dear Mother, weep not for me; I go to my God: And, many Times, with an audible Voice, uttered Praise to her Redeemer. A Friend, coming some Miles to see her the Morning before she died, asked her, how she did? She answered, I have had a hard Night, but shall not have another such, for I shall die, and it will be well with my Soul; and accordingly died the next Evening. The following Ejaculations were found amongst her Writings; written, I believe, at four Times: I. Oh! that my Head were as Waters, and mine Eyes as a Fountain of Tears, that I might weep Day and Night, until acquainted with my God. II. O Lord, that I may enjoy thy Presence! or else my Time is lost, and my Life a Snare to my Soul. III. O Lord, that I may receive Bread from thy Table, and that thy Grace may abound in me! IV. O Lord, that I may be acquainted with thy Presence, that I may be seasoned with thy Salt, that thy Grace may abound in me! Of late I found Drawings in my Mind to visit Friends in _New-England_, and, having an Opportunity of joining in Company with my beloved Friend, PETER ANDREWS, we, having obtained Certificates from our Monthly-meeting, set forward on the sixteenth Day of the third Month, in the Year 1747, and reached the Yearly-meeting at _Long-Island_; at which were our Friends SAMUEL NOTTINGHAM, from _England_, JOHN GRIFFITH, JANE HOSKINS, and ELIZBETH HUDSON, from _Pennsylvania_, and JACOB ANDREWS, from _Chesterfield_. Several of whom were favoured in their publick Exercise; and, through the Goodness of the Lord, we had some edifying Meetings. After this, my Companion and I visited Friends on _Long-Island_; and, through the Mercies of God we were helped in the Work. Besides going to the settled Meetings of Friends, we were at a general Meeting at _Setawket_, chiefly made up of other Societies; and had a Meeting at _Oyster-Bay_ in a Dwelling-house, at which were many People: At the first of which there was not much said by way of Testimony; but it was I believe, a good Meeting: At the latter, through the springing up of living Waters, it was a Day to be thankfully remembered. Having visited the Island, we went over to the Main, taking Meetings in our Way, to _Oblong_, _Nine Partners_, and _New-Milford_.--In these back Settlements we met with several People, who, through the immediate Workings of the Spirit of Christ in their Minds, were drawn from the Vanities of the World, to an inward Acquaintance with him: They were educated in the Way of the _Presbyterians_. A considerable Number of the Youth, Members of that Society, used to spend their Time often together in merriment; but some of the principal young Men of that Company being visited by the powerful Workings of the Spirit of Christ, and thereby led humbly to take up his Cross, could no longer join in those Vanities; and, as these stood stedfast to that inward Convincement, they were made a Blessing to some of their former Companions; so that, through the Power of Truth, several were brought into a close Exercise concerning the eternal Well-being of their Souls. These young People continued for a Time to frequent their publick Worship; and, besides that, had Meetings of their own; which Meetings were a while allowed by their Preacher, who, sometimes, met with them: But, in Time, their Judgment, in Matters of Religion, disagreeing with some of the Articles of the _Presbyterians_, their Meetings were disapproved by that Society; and such of them as stood firm to their Duty, as it was inwardly manifested, had many Difficulties to go through. And their Meetings were in a while dropped; some of them returning to the _Presbyterians_; and others of them, after a Time, joined our religious Society. I had Conversation with some of the latter, to my Help and Edification; and believe several of them are acquainted with the Nature of that Worship, which is performed in Spirit and in Truth. From hence, accompanied by AMOS POWEL, a Friend from _Long-Island_, we rode through _Connecticut_, chiefly inhabited by _Presbyterians_, who were generally civil to us; and, after three Days riding, we came amongst Friends in the Colony of _Rhode-Island_. We visited Friends in and about _Newport_, and _Dartmouth_, and generally in those Parts; and then to _Boston_; and proceeded eastward as far as _Dover_; and then returned to _Newport_; and, not far from thence, we met our Friend, THOMAS GAWTHROP, from _England_, who was then on a Visit to these Provinces. From _Newport_ we sailed to _Nantucket_; were there near a Week; and from thence came over to _Dartmouth_: And having finished our Visit in these Parts, we crossed the _Sound_ from _New-London_ to _Long-Island_; and, taking some Meetings on the Island, proceeded homeward; where we reached the thirteenth Day of the seventh Month, in the Year 1747, having rode about fifteen hundred Miles, and sailed about one hundred and fifty. In this Journey, I may say, in general, we were sometimes in much Weakness, and laboured under Discouragements; and at other Times, through the renewed Manifestations of divine Love, we had seasons of Refreshment, wherein the Power of Truth prevailed. We were taught, by renewed Experience, to labour for an inward Stillness; at no Time to seek for Words, but to live in the Spirit of Truth, and utter that to the People which Truth opened in us. My beloved Companion and I belonged to one Meeting, came forth in the Ministry near the same Time, and were inwardly united in the Work; he was about thirteen Years older than I, bore the heaviest Burthen, and was an Instrument of the greatest Use. Finding a Concern to visit Friends in the lower Counties on _Delaware_, and on the eastern Shore of _Maryland_, and having an Opportunity to join with my well-beloved ancient Friend, JOHN SYKES, we obtained Certificates, and set off the seventh Day of the eighth Month, in the Year 1748; were at the Meetings of Friends in the lower Counties, attended the Yearly-meeting at _Little-Creek_, and made a Visit to the chief of the Meetings on the eastern Shore; and so Home by Way of _Nottingham_: Were abroad about six Weeks, and rode, by Computation, about five hundred and fifty Miles. Our Exercise, at Times, was heavy; but, through the Goodness of the Lord, we were often refreshed; and I may say, by Experience, _He is a strong Hold in the Day of Trouble_. Though our Society, in these Parts, appeared to me to be in a declining Condition; yet, I believe, the Lord hath a People amongst them, who labour to serve him uprightly, but have many Difficulties to encounter. CHAPTER III _His Marriage_--_The Death of his Father_--_His Journies into the upper Part of_ New-Jersey, _and afterwards into_ Pennsylvania--_Considerations on keeping Slaves, and his Visits to the Families of Friends at several Times and Places_--_An Epistle from the General Meeting_--_His Journey to_ Long-Island--_Considerations on Trading, and on the Use of spirituous Liquors and costly Apparel_--_And his Letter to a Friend_ About this Time, believing it good for me to settle, and thinking seriously about a Companion, my Heart was turned to the Lord with Desires that he would give me Wisdom to proceed therein agreeable to his Will; and he was pleased to give me a well-inclined Damsel, SARAH ELLIS; to whom I was married the eighteenth Day of the eighth Month, in the Year 1749. In the fall of the Year 1750 died my Father, SAMUEL WOOLMAN, with a Fever, aged about sixty Years. In his Life-time he manifested much Care for us his Children, that in our Youth we might learn to fear the Lord; often endeavouring to imprint in our Minds the true Principles of Virtue, and particularly to cherish in us a Spirit of Tenderness, not only towards poor People, but also towards all Creatures of which we had the Command. After my Return from _Carolina_, in the Year 1746, I made some Observations on keeping Slaves, which some Time before his Decease I shewed him; and he perused the Manuscript, proposed a few Alterations, and appeared well satisfied that I found a Concern on that Account: And in his last Sickness, as I was watching with him one Night, he being so far spent that there was no Expectation of his Recovery, but having the perfect Use of his Understanding, he asked me concerning the Manuscript, whether I expected soon to proceed to take the Advice of Friends in publishing it? And, after some Conversation thereon, said, I have all along been deeply affected with the Oppression of the poor Negroes; and now, at last, my Concern for them is as great as ever. By his Direction I had wrote his Will in a Time of Health, and that Night he desired me to read it to him, which I did; and he said it was agreeable to his Mind. He then made mention of his End, which he believed was near; and signified, that, though he was sensible of many Imperfections in the Course of his Life, yet his Experience of the Power of Truth, and of the Love and Goodness of God from Time to Time, even till now, was such, that he had no Doubt but that, in leaving this Life, he should enter into one more happy. The next Day his Sister _Elizabeth_ came to see him, and told him of the Decease of their Sister _Ann_, who died a few Days before: He then said, I reckon Sister _Ann_ was free to leave this World: _Elizabeth_ said, she was. He then said, I also am free to leave it; and, being in great Weakness of Body, said, I hope I shall shortly go to Rest. He continued in a weighty Frame of Mind, and was sensible till near the last. On the second Day of the ninth Month, in the Year 1751, feeling Drawings in my Mind to visit Friends at the _Great-Meadows_, in the upper Part of _West-Jersey_, with the Unity of our Monthly-meeting, I went there; and had some searching laborious Exercise amongst Friends in those Parts, and found inward Peace therein. In the ninth Month of the Year 1753, in Company with my well-esteemed Friend JOHN SYKES, and with the Unity of Friends, we travelled about two Weeks, visiting Friends in _Bucks-County_. We laboured in the Love of the Gospel, according to the Measure received; and, through the Mercies of him, who is Strength to the Poor who trust in him, we found Satisfaction in our Visit: And, in the next Winter, Way opening to visit Friends Families within the Compass of our Monthly-meeting, partly by the Labours of two Friends from _Pennsylvania_, I joined in some Part of the Work; having had a Desire some Time that it might go forward amongst us. About this Time, a Person at some Distance lying sick, his Brother came to me to write his Will: I knew he had Slaves; and, asking his Brother, was told he intended to leave them as Slaves to his Children. As Writing is a profitable Employ, and as offending sober People was disagreeable to my Inclination, I was straitened in my Mind; but, as I looked to the Lord, he inclined my Heart to his Testimony: And I told the Man, that I believed the Practice of continuing Slavery to this People was not right; and had a Scruple in my Mind against doing Writings of that Kind; that, though many in our Society kept them as Slaves, still I was not easy to be concerned in it; and desired to be excused from going to write the Will. I spake to him in the Fear of the Lord; and he made no Reply to what I said, but went away: He, also, had some Concerns in the Practice; and I thought he was displeased with me. In this Case I had a fresh Confirmation, that acting contrary to present outward Interest, from a Motive of divine Love, and in Regard to Truth and Righteousness, opens the Way to a Treasure better than Silver, and to a Friendship exceeding the Friendship of Men. The Manuscript before-mentioned having lain by me several Years, the Publication of it rested weightily upon me; and this Year I offered it to the Revisal of Friends, who, having examined and made some small Alterations in it, directed a Number of Copies thereof to be published, and dispersed amongst Friends. In the Year 1754, I found my Mind drawn to join in a Visit to Friends Families belonging to _Chesterfield_ Monthly-meeting; and having the Approbation of our own, I went to their Monthly-meeting in order to confer with Friends, and see if Way opened for it: I had Conference with some of their Members, the Proposal having been opened before in their Meeting, and one Friend agreed to join with me as a Companion for a Beginning; but, when Meeting was ended, I felt great Distress of Mind, and doubted what Way to take, or whether to go Home and wait for greater Clearness: I kept my Distress secret; and, going with a Friend to his House, my Desires were to the great Shepherd for his heavenly Instruction; and in the Morning I felt easy to proceed on the Visit, being very low in my Mind: And as mine Eye was turned to the Lord, waiting in Families in deep Reverence before him, he was pleased graciously to afford Help; so that we had many comfortable Opportunities, and it appeared as a fresh Visitation to some young People. I spent several Weeks this Winter in the Service, Part of which Time was employed near Home. And again, in the following Winter, I was several Weeks in the same Service; some Part of the Time at _Shrewsbury_, in Company with my beloved Friend, _John Sykes_; and have Cause humbly to acknowledge, that, through the Goodness of the Lord, our Hearts were, at Times, enlarged in his Love; and Strength was given to go through the Trials which, in the Course of our Visit, attended us. From a Disagreement between the Powers of _England_ and _France_, it was now a Time of Trouble on this Continent; and an Epistle to Friends went forth from our General Spring-meeting, which I thought good to give a Place in this Journal. An EPISTLE from our General Spring-meeting of Ministers and Elders for _Pennsylvania_ and _New-Jersey_, held at _Philadelphia_, from the 29th of the third Month, to the first of the fourth Month, inclusive, 1755. To Friends on the Continent of _America_. Dear Friends,--In an humble Sense of divine Goodness, and the gracious Continuation of God's Love to his People, we tenderly salute you; and are at this Time therein engaged in Mind, that all of us who profess the Truth, as held forth and published by our worthy Predecessors in this latter Age of the World, may keep near to that Life which is the Light of Men, and be strengthened to hold fast the Profession of our Faith without wavering, that our Trust may not be in Man but in the Lord alone, who ruleth in the Army of Heaven, and in the Kingdoms of Men, before whom the Earth is _as the Dust of the Balance, and her Inhabitants as Grasshoppers_. Isa. xl. 22. We (being convinced that the gracious Design of the Almighty in sending his Son into the World, was to repair the Breach made by Disobedience, to finish Sin and Transgression, that his Kingdom might come, and his Will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven) have found it to be our Duty to cease from those national Contests productive of Misery and Bloodshed, and submit our Cause to him, the Most High, whose tender Love to his Children exceeds the most warm Affections of natural Parents, and who hath promised to his Seed throughout the Earth, as to one Individual, "I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee." _Heb._ xiii. 5. And as we, through the gracious Dealings of the Lord our God, have had Experience of that Work which is carried on, "not by _earthly_ Might, nor by Power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord of Hosts:" _Zech._ iv. 6. By which Operation, that spiritual Kingdom is set up, which is to subdue and break in pieces all Kingdoms that oppose it, and shall stand for ever; in a deep Sense thereof, and of the Safety, Stability, and Peace, there is in it, we are desirous that all who profess the Truth, may be inwardly acquainted with it, and thereby be qualified to conduct ourselves in all Parts of our Life as becomes our peaceable Profession: And we trust, as there is a faithful Continuance to depend wholly upon the Almighty Arm, from one Generation to another, the peaceable Kingdom will gradually be extended "from Sea to Sea, and from the River to the Ends of the Earth." _Zech._ ix. 10. to the Completion of those Prophecies already begun, that "Nation shall not lift up a Sword against Nation, nor learn War any more." _Isa._ ii. 4. _Micah_ iv. 3. And, dearly beloved Friends, seeing we have these Promises, and believe that God is beginning to fulfil them, let us constantly endeavour to have our Minds sufficiently disintangled from the surfeiting Cares of this Life, and redeemed from the Love of the World, that no earthly Possessions nor Enjoyments may bias our Judgments, or turn us from that Resignation, and entire Trust in God, to which his Blessing is most surely annexed; then may we say, "Our Redeemer is mighty, he will plead our Cause for us." _Jer._ 1. 34. And if, for the farther promoting his most gracious Purposes in the Earth, he should give us to taste of that bitter Cup which his faithful Ones have often partaken of; O! that we may be rightly prepared to receive it. And now, dear Friends, with Respect to the Commotions and Stirrings of the Powers of the Earth at this Time near us, we are desirous that none of us may be moved thereat; "but repose ourselves in the Munition of that Rock that all these Shakings shall not move, even in the Knowledge and Feeling of the eternal Power of God, keeping us subjectly given up to his heavenly Will, and feel it daily to mortify that which remains in any of us which is of this World; for the worldly Part, in any, is the changeable Part, and that is up and down, full and empty, joyful and sorrowful, as Things go well or ill in this World; for as the Truth is but one, and many are made Partakers of its Spirit, so the World is but one, and many are made Partakers of the Spirit of it; and so many as do partake of it, so many will be straitened and perplexed with it: But they who are single to the Truth, waiting daily to feel the Life and Virtue of it in their Hearts, these shall rejoice in the midst of Adversity," and have to experience, with the Prophet, that "Although the Fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall Fruit be in the Vines; the Labour of the Olive shall fail, and the Fields shall yield no Meat; the Flock shall be cut off from the Fold, and there shall be no Herd in the Stalls; yet will _they_ rejoice in the Lord, and joy in the God of _their_ Salvation." _Hab._ iii. 17, 18. If, contrary to this, we profess the Truth, and, not living under the Power and Influence of it, are producing Fruits disagreeable to the Purity thereof, and trust to the Strength of Man to support ourselves, therein our Confidence will be vain. For he, who removed the Hedge from his Vineyard, and gave it to be trodden under Foot, by reason of the wild Grapes it produced, (_Isa._ v. 5.) remains unchangeable; And if, for the Chastisement of Wickedness, and the farther promoting his own Glory, he doth arise, even to shake terribly the Earth, who then may oppose him, and prosper! We remain, in the Love of the Gospel, your Friends and Brethren. Signed by fourteen Friends. Scrupling to do Writings, relative to keeping Slaves, having been a Means of sundry small Trials to me, in which I have so evidently felt my own Will set aside, I think it good to mention a few of them.--Tradesmen and Retailers of Goods, who depend on their Business for a Living, are naturally inclined to keep the Good-will of their Customers; nor is it a pleasant Thing for young Men to be under any Necessity to question the Judgment or Honesty of elderly Men, and more especially of such as have a fair Reputation. Deep-rooted Customs, though wrong, are not easily altered; but it is the Duty of every one to be firm in that which they certainly know is right for them. A charitable benevolent Man, well acquainted with a Negro, may, I believe, under some Circumstances, keep him in his Family as a Servant, from no other Motives than the Negro's Good; but Man, as Man, knows not what shall be after him, nor hath Assurance that his Children will attain to that Perfection in Wisdom and Goodness necessary rightly to exercise such Power: It is clear to me, that I ought not to be the Scribe where Wills are drawn, in which some Children are made absolute Masters over others during Life. About this Time, an ancient Man, of good Esteem in the Neighbourhood, came to my House to get his Will written; he had young Negroes; and I asked him privately, how he purposed to dispose of them? He told me: I then said, I cannot write thy Will without breaking my own Peace; and respectfully gave him my Reasons for it: He signified that he had a Choice that I should have written it; but as I could not, consistent with my Conscience, he did not desire it: And so he got it written by some other Person. And, a few Years after, there being great Alterations in his Family, he came again to get me to write his Will: His Negroes were yet young; and his Son, to whom he intended to give them, was, since he first spoke to me, from a Libertine, become a sober young Man; and he supposed, that I would have been free, on that Account, to write it. We had much friendly Talk on the Subject, and then deferred it: A few Days after, he came again, and directed their Freedom; and then I wrote his Will. Near the Time the last-mentioned Friend first spoke to me, a Neighbour received a bad Bruise in his Body, and sent for me to bleed him; which being done, he desired me to write his Will: I took Notes; and, amongst other Things, he told me to which of his Children he gave his young Negro: I considered the Pain and Distress he was in, and knew not how it would end; so I wrote his Will, save only that Part concerning his Slave, and carrying it to his Bed side, read it to him; and then told him, in a friendly Way, that I could not write any Instruments by which my Fellow-creatures were made Slaves, without bringing Trouble on my own Mind: I let him know that I charged nothing for what I had done; and desired to be excused from doing the other Part in the Way he proposed: We then had a serious Conference on the Subject; at length he agreeing to set her free, I finished his Will. Having found Drawings in my Mind to visit Friends on _Long-Island_, after obtaining a Certificate from our Monthly-meeting, I set off on the twelfth Day of the fifth Month, in the Year 1756. When I reached the Island, I lodged the first Night at the House of my dear Friend, RICHARD HALLET; the next Day, being the first of the Week, I was at the Meeting in _New-town_; in which we experienced the renewed Manifestations of the Love of Jesus Christ, to the Comfort of the honest-hearted. I went that Night to _Flushing_; and the next Day, in Company with my beloved Friend, MATTHEW FRANKLIN, we crossed the Ferry at _White-stone_; were at three Meetings on the Main, and then returned to the Island; where I spent the Remainder of the Week in visiting Meetings. The Lord, I believe, hath a People in those Parts, who are honestly inclined to serve him; but many, I fear, are too much clogged with the Things of this Life, and do not come forward bearing the Cross in such Faithfulness as he calls for. My Mind was deeply engaged in this Visit, both in publick and private; and, at several Places, observing that they had Slaves, I found myself under a Necessity in a friendly Way, to labour with them on that Subject; expressing, as Way opened, the Inconsistency of that Practice with the Purity of the _Christian_ Religion, and the ill Effects of it manifested amongst us. The Latter-end of the Week, their Yearly-meeting began; at which were our Friends JOHN SCARBOROUGH, JANE HOSKINS, and SUSANNA BROWN, from _Pennsylvania_: The publick Meetings were large, and measurably favoured with divine Goodness. The Exercise of my Mind, at this Meeting, was chiefly on Account of those who were considered as the foremost Rank in the Society; and, in a Meeting of Ministers and Elders, Way opened, that I expressed in some Measure what lay upon me; and, at a Time when Friends were met for transacting the Affairs of the Church, having set a while silent, I felt a Weight on my Mind, and stood up; and, through the gracious Regard of our heavenly Father, Strength was given fully to clear myself of a Burthen, which, for some Days, had been increasing upon me. Through the humbling Dispensations of divine Providence, Men are sometimes fitted for his Service. The Messages of the Prophet Jeremiah, were so disagreeable to the People, and so reverse to the Spirit they lived in, that he became the Object of their Reproach; and, in the Weakness of Nature, thought of desisting from his prophetic Office; but, saith he, "His Word was in my Heart as a burning Fire shut up in my Bones; and I was weary with forbearing, and could not stay." I saw at this Time, that if I was honest in declaring that which Truth opened in me, I could not please all Men; and laboured to be content in the Way of my Duty, however disagreeable to my own Inclination. After this I went homeward, taking _Woodbridge_, and _Plainfield_ in my Way; in both which Meetings, the pure Influence of divine Love was manifested; in an humbling Sense whereof I went Home, having been out about twenty-four Days, and rode about three hundred and sixteen Miles. While I was out on this Journey, my Heart was much affected with a Sense of the State of the Churches in our southern Provinces; and, believing the Lord was calling me to some farther Labour amongst them, I was bowed in Reverence before him, with fervent Desires that I might find Strength to resign myself up to his heavenly Will. Until this Year, 1756, I continued to retail Goods, besides following my Trade as a Taylor; about which Time, I grew uneasy on Account of my Business growing too cumbersome: I had begun with selling Trimmings for Garments, and from thence proceeded to sell Cloths and Linens; and, at length, having got a considerable Shop of Goods, my Trade increased every Year, and the Road to large Business appeared open; but I felt a Stop in my Mind. Through the Mercies of the Almighty, I had, in a good degree, learned to be content with a plain Way of Living: I had but a small Family; and, on serious Consideration, I believed Truth did not require me to engage in much cumbering Affairs: It had been my general Practice to buy and sell Things really useful: Things that served chiefly to please the vain Mind in People, I was not easy to trade in; seldom did it; and, whenever I did, I found it weaken me as a _Christian_. The Increase of Business became my Burthen; for, though my natural Inclination was toward Merchandize, yet I believed Truth required me to live more free from outward Cumbers: and there was now a Strife in my Mind between the two; and in this Exercise my Prayers were put up to the Lord, who graciously heard me, and gave me a Heart resigned to his holy Will: Then I lessened my outward Business; and, as I had Opportunity, told my Customers of my Intention, that they might consider what Shop to turn to: And, in a while, wholly laid down Merchandize, following my Trade, as a Taylor, myself only, having no Apprentice. I also had a Nursery of Appletrees; in which I employed some of my Time in hoeing, grafting, trimming, and inoculating. In Merchandize it is the Custom, where I lived, to sell chiefly on Credit, and poor People often get in Debt; and when Payment is expected, not having wherewith to pay, their Creditors often sue for it at Law. Having often observed Occurrences of this Kind, I found it good for me to advise poor People to take such Goods as were most useful and not costly. In the Time of Trading, I had an Opportunity of seeing, that the too liberal Use of spirituous Liquors, and the Custom of wearing too costly Apparel, led some People into great Inconveniences; and these two Things appear to be often connected; for, by not attending to that Use of Things which is consistent with universal Righteousness, there is an Increase of Labour which extends beyond what our heavenly Father intends for us: And by great Labour, and often by much Sweating, there is, even among such as are not Drunkards, a craving of some Liquors to revive the Spirits; that, partly by the luxurious Drinking of some, and partly by the Drinking of others (led to it through immoderate Labour), very great Quantities of Rum are every Year expended in our Colonies; the greater Part of which we should have no Need of, did we steadily attend to pure Wisdom. Where Men take Pleasure in feeling their Minds elevated with Strong-drink, and so indulge their Appetite as to disorder their Understandings, neglect their Duty as Members in a Family or Civil Society, and cast off all Regard to Religion, their Case is much to be pitied; and where such, whose Lives are for the most Part regular, and whose Examples have a strong Influence on the Minds of others, adhere to some Customs which powerfully draw to the Use of more Strong-liquor than pure Wisdom allows; this also, as it hinders the spreading of the Spirit of Meekness, and strengthens the Hands of the more excessive Drinkers, is a Case to be lamented. As every Degree of Luxury hath some Connection with Evil, those who profess to be Disciples of Christ, and are looked upon as Leaders of the People, should have that Mind in them which was also in Christ, and so stand separate from every wrong Way, as a Means of Help to the Weaker. As I have sometimes been much spent in the Heat, and taken Spirits to revive me, I have found, by Experience, that in such Circumstances the Mind is not so calm, nor so fitly disposed for divine Meditation, as when all such Extremes are avoided; and I have felt an increasing Care to attend to that holy Spirit which sets Bounds to our Desires, and leads those, who faithfully follow it, to apply all the Gifts of divine Providence to the Purposes for which they were intended. Did such, as have the Care of great Estates, attend with Singleness of Heart to this heavenly Instructor, which so opens and enlarges the Mind, that Men love their Neighbours as themselves, they would have Wisdom given them to manage, without finding Occasion to employ some People in the Luxuries of Life, or to make it necessary for others to labour too hard; but, for want of steadily regarding this Principle of divine Love, a selfish Spirit takes Place in the Minds of People, which is attended with Darkness and manifold Confusion in the World. Though trading in Things useful is an honest Employ; yet, through the great Number of Superfluities which are bought and sold, and through the Corruption of the Times, they, who apply to merchandize for a Living, have great Need to be well experienced in that Precept which the Prophet JEREMIAH laid down for his Scribe: "Seekest thou great Things for thyself? seek them not." In the Winter, this Year, I was engaged with Friends in visiting Families; and, through the Goodness of the Lord, we had oftentimes Experience of his Heart-tendering Presence amongst us. A Copy of a Letter written to a Friend. In this thy late Affliction I have found a deep Fellow-feeling with thee; and had a secret Hope throughout, that it might please the Father of Mercies to raise thee up, and sanctify thy Troubles to thee; that thou, being more fully acquainted with that Way which the World esteems foolish, mayst feel the Clothing of divine Fortitude, and be strengthened to resist that Spirit which leads from the Simplicity of the everlasting Truth. We may see ourselves crippled and halting, and, from a strong Bias to Things pleasant and easy, find an Impossibility to advance forward; but Things impossible with Men are possible with God; and, our Wills being made subject to his, all Temptations are surmountable. This Work of subjecting the Will is compared to the Mineral in the Furnace; "He refines them as Silver is refined.--He shall sit as a Refiner and Purifier of Silver." By these Comparisons we are instructed in the Necessity of the Operation of the Hand of God upon us, to prepare our Hearts truly to adore him, and manifest that Adoration, by inwardly turning away from that Spirit, in all its Workings, which is not of him. To forward this Work, the all-wise God is sometimes pleased, through outward Distress, to bring us near the Gates of Death; that, Life being painful and afflicting, and the Prospect of Eternity open before us, all earthly Bonds may be loosened, and the Mind prepared for that deep and sacred Instruction, which otherwise would not be received. If Parents love their Children and delight in their Happiness, then he, who is perfect Goodness, in sending abroad mortal Contagions, doth assuredly direct their Use: Are the Righteous removed by it? Their Change is happy: Are the Wicked taken away in their Wickedness? The Almighty is clear: Do we pass through with Anguish and great Bitterness, and yet recover, he intends that we should be purged from Dross, and our Ears opened to Discipline. And now that, on thy Part, after thy sore Affliction and Doubts of Recovery, thou art again restored, forget not him who hath helped thee; but in humble Gratitude hold fast his Instructions, thereby to shun those By-paths which lead from the firm Foundation. I am sensible of that Variety of Company, to which one in thy Business must be exposed: I have painfully felt the Force of Conversation proceeding from Men deeply rooted in an earthly Mind, and can sympathize with others in such Conflicts, in that much Weakness still attends me. I find that to be a Fool as to worldly Wisdom, and commit my Cause to God, not fearing to offend Men, who take Offence at the Simplicity of Truth, is the only Way to remain unmoved at the Sentiments of others. The Fear of Man brings a Snare; by halting in our Duty, and giving back in the Time of Trial, our Hands grow weaker, our Spirits get mingled with the People, our Ears grow dull as to hearing the Language of the true Shepherd; that when we look at the Way of the Righteous, it seems as though it was not for us to follow them. There is a Love clothes my Mind, while I write, which is superior to all Expressions; and I find my Heart open to encourage a holy Emulation, to advance forward in _Christian_ Firmness. Deep Humility is a strong Bulwark; and, as we enter into it, we find Safety: The Foolishness of God is wiser than Man, and the Weakness of God is stronger than Man. Being unclothed of our own Wisdom, and knowing the Abasement of the Creature, therein we find that Power to arise, which gives Health and Vigour to us. CHAPTER IV _His Journey to_ Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, _and_ North-Carolina: _Considerations on the State of Friends there; and the Exercise he was under in travelling among those so generally concerned in keeping Slaves: With some Observations in Conversation, at several Times, on this Subject_--_His Epistle to Friends at_ New-Garden _and_ Cane-Creek--_His Thoughts on the Neglect of a religious Care in the Education of the Negroes_ Feeling an Exercise in Relation to a Visit to the southern Provinces, I acquainted our Monthly-meeting therewith, and obtained their Certificate: Expecting to go alone, one of my Brothers, who lived in _Philadelphia_, having some Business in _North-Carolina_, proposed going with me Part of the Way; but, as he had a View of some outward Affairs, to accept of him as a Companion seemed some Difficulty with me, whereupon I had Conversation with him at sundry Times; and, at length, feeling easy in my Mind, I had Conversation with several elderly Friends of _Philadelphia_ on the Subject; and he obtaining a Certificate suitable to the Occasion, we set off in the fifth Month of the Year 1757; and, coming to _Nottingham_ Week-day Meeting, lodged at JOHN CHURCHMAN'S; and here I met with our Friend BENJAMIN BUFFINGTON, from _New-England_, who was returning from a Visit to the southern Provinces. Thence we crossed the River _Susquehannah_, and lodged at WILLIAM COX'S in _Maryland_; and, soon after I entered this Province, a deep and painful Exercise came upon me, which I often had some Feeling of since my Mind was drawn towards these Parts, and with which I had acquainted my Brother before we agreed to join as Companions. As the People in this and the southern Provinces live much on the Labour of Slaves, many of whom are used hardly, my Concern was, that I might attend with Singleness of Heart to the Voice of the true Shepherd, and be so supported as to remain unmoved at the Faces of Men. The Prospect of so weighty a Work brought me very low; and such were the Conflicts of my Soul, that I had a near Sympathy with the Prophet, in the Time of his Weakness, when he said, "If thou deal thus with me, kill me, I pray thee, if I have found Favour in thy Sight," Numb. xi. 15. But I soon saw that this proceeded from the Want of a full Resignation to the divine Will. Many were the Afflictions which attended me; and in great Abasement, with many Tears, my Cries were to the Almighty, for his gracious and Fatherly Assistance; and then, after a Time of deep Trial, I was favoured to understand the State mentioned by the Psalmist, more clearly than ever I had before; to wit: "My Soul is even as a weaned Child." Psalm cxxxi. 2. Being thus helped to sink down into Resignation, I felt a Deliverance from that Tempest in which I had been sorely exercised, and in Calmness of Mind went forward, trusting that the Lord Jesus Christ, as I faithfully attended to him, would be a Counsellor to me in all Difficulties. The seventh Day of the fifth Month, in the Year 1757, I lodged at a Friend's House; and the next Day, being the first of the Week, was at _Potapsco_ Meeting; then crossed _Patuxent_ River, and lodged at a Public-house. On the ninth breakfasted at a Friend's House; who, afterward, putting us a little on our Way, I had Conversation with him, in the Fear of the Lord, concerning his Slaves; in which my Heart was tender, and I used much Plainness of Speech with him, which he appeared to take kindly. We pursued our Journey without appointing Meetings, being pressed in Mind to be at the Yearly-meeting in _Virginia_; and, in my travelling on the Road, I often felt a Cry rise from the Center of my Mind, thus: O Lord, I am a Stranger on the Earth, hide not thy Face from me. On the eleventh Day of the fifth Month, we crossed the Rivers _Patowmack_ and _Rapahannock_, and lodged at _Port-Royal_; and on the Way we happening in Company with a Colonel of the Militia, who appeared to be a thoughtful Man, I took Occasion to remark on the Difference in general betwixt a People used to labour moderately for their Living, training up their Children in Frugality and Business, and those who live on the Labour of Slaves; the former, in my View, being the most happy Life: With which he concurred, and mentioned the Trouble arising from the untoward, slothful, Disposition of the Negroes; adding, that one of our Labourers would do as much in a Day as two of their Slaves. I replied, that free Men, whose Minds were properly on their Business, found a Satisfaction in improving, cultivating, and providing for their Families; but Negroes, labouring to support others who claim them as their Property, and expecting nothing but Slavery during Life, had not the like Inducement to be industrious. After some farther Conversation, I said, that Men having Power too often misapplied it; that though we made Slaves of the Negroes, and the _Turks_ made Slaves of the _Christians_, I believed that Liberty was the natural Right of all Men equally: Which he did not deny; but said, the Lives of the Negroes were so wretched in their own Country, that many of them lived better here than there: I only said, there are great odds, in regard to us, on what Principle we act; and so the Conversation on that Subject ended: And I may here add, that another Person, some Time afterward, mentioned the Wretchedness of the Negroes, occasioned by their intestine Wars, as an Argument in Favour of our fetching them away for Slaves: To which I then replied, if Compassion on the _Africans_, in Regard to their domestic Troubles, were the real Motive of our purchasing them, that Spirit of Tenderness, being attended to, would incite us to use them kindly; that, as Strangers brought out of Affliction, their Lives might be happy among us; and as they are human Creatures, whose Souls are as precious as ours, and who may receive the same Help and Comfort from the holy Scriptures as we do, we could not omit suitable Endeavours to instruct them therein: But while we manifest, by our Conduct, that our Views in purchasing them are to advance ourselves; and while our buying Captives taken in War animates those Parties to push on that War, and increase Desolation amongst them, to say they live unhappy in _Africa_, is far from being an Argument in our Favour: And I farther said, the present Circumstances of these Provinces to me appear difficult; that the Slaves look like a burthensome Stone to such who burthen themselves with them; and that if the white People retain a Resolution to prefer their outward Prospects of Gain to all other Considerations, and do not act conscientiously toward them as fellow Creatures, I believe that Burthen will grow heavier and heavier, till Times change in a Way disagreeable to us: At which the Person appeared very serious, and owned, that, in considering their Condition, and the Manner of their Treatment in these Provinces, he had sometimes thought it might be just in the Almighty so to order it. Having thus travelled through _Maryland_, we came amongst Friends at _Cedar-Creek_ in _Virginia_, on the 12th Day of the fifth Month; and the next Day rode, in Company with several Friends, a Day's Journey to _Camp-Creek_. As I was riding along in the Morning, my Mind was deeply affected in a Sense I had of the Want of divine Aid to support me in the various Difficulties which attended me; and, in an uncommon Distress of Mind, I cried in secret to the Most High, O Lord, be merciful, I beseech thee, to thy poor afflicted Creature. After some Time, I felt inward Relief; and, soon after, a Friend in Company began to talk in Support of the Slave-Trade, and said, the Negroes were understood to be the Offspring of _Cain_, their Blackness being the Mark God set upon him after he murdered _Abel_ his Brother; that it was the Design of Providence they should be Slaves, as a Condition proper to the Race of so wicked a Man as _Cain_ was: Then another spake in Support of what had been said. To all which, I replied in Substance as follows: That _Noah_ and his Family were all who survived the Flood, according to Scripture; and, as _Noah_ was of _Seth's_ Race, the Family of _Cain_ was wholly destroyed. One of them said, that after the Flood _Ham_ went to the Land of _Nod_, and took a Wife; that _Nod_ was a Land far distant, inhabited by _Cain's_ Race, and that the Flood did not reach it; and as _Ham_ was sentenced to be a Servant of Servants to his Brethren, these two Families, being thus joined, were undoubtedly fit only for Slaves. I replied, the Flood was a Judgment upon the World for its Abominations; and it was granted, that _Cain's_ Stock was the most wicked, and therefore unreasonable to suppose they were spared: As to _Ham's_ going to the Land of _Nod_ for a Wife, no Time being fixed, _Nod_ might be inhabited by some of _Noah's_ Family, before _Ham_ married a second Time; moreover the Text saith, "That all Flesh died that moved upon the Earth." _Gen._ vii. 21. I farther reminded them, how the Prophets repeatedly declare, "That the Son shall not suffer for the Iniquity of the Father; but every one be answerable for his own Sins." I was troubled to perceive the Darkness of their Imaginations; and in some Pressure of Spirit said, the Love of Ease and Gain is the Motive in general for keeping Slaves, and Men are wont to take hold of weak Arguments to support a Cause which is unreasonable; and added, I have no Interest on either Side, save only the Interest which I desire to have in the Truth: And as I believe Liberty is their Right, and see they are not only deprived of it, but treated in other Respects with Inhumanity in many Places, I believe he, who is a Refuge for the Oppressed, will, in his own Time, plead their Cause; and happy will it be for such as walk in Uprightness before him: And thus our Conversation ended. On the fourteenth Day of the fifth Month I was at _Camp-Creek_ Monthly-meeting, and then rode to the Mountains up _James-River_, and had a Meeting at a Friend's House; in both which I felt Sorrow of Heart, and my Tears were poured out before the Lord, who was pleased to afford a Degree of Strength, by which Way was opened to clear my Mind amongst Friends in those Places. From thence I went to _Fort-Creek_, and so to _Cedar-Creek_ again; at which Place I had a Meeting; here I found a tender Seed: And as I was preserved in the Ministry to keep low with the Truth, the same Truth in their Hearts answered it, that it was a Time of mutual Refreshment from the Presence of the Lord. I lodged at JAMES STANDLEY'S, Father of WILLIAM STANDLEY, one of the young Men who suffered Imprisonment at _Winchester_, last Summer, on Account of their Testimony against Fighting; and I had some satisfactory Conversation with him concerning it. Hence I went to the _Swamp_ Meeting, and to _Wayanoke_ Meeting; and then crossed _James-River_, and lodged near _Burleigh_. From the Time of my entering _Maryland_ I had been much under Sorrow, which so increased upon me, that my Mind was almost overwhelmed; and I may say with the Psalmist, "In my Distress I called upon the Lord, and cried to my God;" who, in infinite Goodness, looked upon my Affliction, and in my private Retirement sent the Comforter for my Relief: For which I humbly bless his holy Name. The Sense I had of the State of the Churches brought a Weight of Distress upon me: The Gold to me appeared dim, and the fine Gold changed; and though this is the Case too generally, yet the Sense of it in these Parts hath, in a particular Manner, borne heavy upon me. It appeared to me, that, through the prevailing of the Spirit of this World, the Minds of many were brought to an inward Desolation; and, instead of the Spirit of Meekness, Gentleness, and heavenly Wisdom, which are the necessary Companions of the true Sheep of Christ, a Spirit of Fierceness, and the Love of Dominion, too generally prevailed. From small Beginnings in Errors, great Buildings, by degrees, are raised; and from one Age to another are more and more strengthened by the general Concurrence of the People; and, as Men obtain Reputation by their Profession of the Truth, their Virtues are mentioned as Arguments in Favour of general Error, and those of less Note, to justify themselves, say, such and such good Men did the like. By what other Steps could the People of _Judah_ arise to that Height in Wickedness, as to give just Ground for the Prophet _Isaiah_ to declare, in the Name of the Lord, "that none calleth for Justice, nor any pleadeth for Truth." _Isaiah_ lix. 4. Or for the Almighty to call upon the great City of _Jerusalem_, just before the _Babylonish_ Captivity: "If ye can find a Man, if there be any who executeth Judgment, that seeketh the Truth, and I will pardon it." _Jer._ v. 1. The Prospect of a Road lying open to the same Degeneracy, in some Parts of this newly-settled Land of _America_, in Respect to our Conduct toward the Negroes, deeply bowed my Mind in this Journey; and, though, to briefly relate how these People are treated is no agreeable Work; yet, after often reading over the Notes I made as I travelled, I find my Mind engaged to preserve them. Many of the white People in those Provinces take little or no Care of Negro Marriages; and, when Negroes marry after their own Way, some make so little Account of those Marriages, that, with Views of outward Interest, they often part Men from their Wives by selling them far asunder; which is common when Estates are sold by Executors at Vendue. Many, whose Labour is heavy, being followed, at their Business in the Field, by a Man with a Whip, hired for that Purpose, have, in common, little else allowed but one Peck of _Indian_ Corn and some Salt for one Week, with a few Potatoes; the Potatoes they commonly raise by their Labour on the first Day of the Week. The Correction, ensuing on their Disobedience to Overseers, or Slothfulness in Business, is often very severe, and sometimes desperate. The Men and Women have many Times scarce Clothes enough to hide their Nakedness, and Boys and Girls, ten and twelve Years old, are often quite naked amongst their Master's Children: Some of our Society, and some of the Society called New-Lights, use some Endeavours to instruct those they have in reading; but, in common, this is not only neglected, but disapproved. These are the People by whose Labour the other Inhabitants are in a great Measure supported, and many of them in the Luxuries of Life: These are the People who have made no Agreement to serve us, and who have not forfeited their Liberty that we know of: These are Souls for whom Christ died, and, for our Conduct toward them, we must answer before him who is no Respecter of Persons. They who know the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom he hath sent, and are thus acquainted with the merciful, benevolent Gospel Spirit, will therein perceive that the Indignation of God is kindled against Oppression and Cruelty; and, in beholding the great Distress of so numerous a People, will find Cause for Mourning. From my Lodging I went to _Burleigh_ Meeting, where I felt my Mind drawn into a quiet resigned State; and, after long Silence, I felt an Engagement to stand up; and, through the powerful Operation of divine Love, we were favoured with an edifying Meeting. The next Meeting we had was at _Black-Water_; and so to the Yearly-meeting at the western Branch: When Business began, some Queries were considered, by some of their Members, to be now produced; and, if approved, to be answered hereafter by their respective Monthly-meetings. They were the _Pennsylvania_ Queries, which had been examined by a Committee of _Virginia_ Yearly-meeting appointed the last Year, who made some Alterations in them; one of which Alterations was made in Favour of a Custom which troubled me. The Query was, "Are there any concerned in the Importation of Negroes, or buying them after imported?" Which they altered thus: "Are there any concerned in the Importation of Negroes, or buying them to trade in?" As one Query admitted with Unanimity was, "Are any concerned in buying or vending Goods unlawfully imported, or prize Goods?" I found my Mind engaged to say, that as we professed the Truth, and were there assembled to support the Testimony of it, it was necessary for us to dwell deep, and act in that Wisdom which is pure, or otherwise we could not prosper. I then mentioned their Alteration; and, referring to the last-mentioned Query, added, as purchasing any Merchandize, taken by the Sword, was always allowed to be inconsistent with our Principles; Negroes being Captives of War, or taken by Stealth, those Circumstances make it inconsistent with our Testimony to buy them; and their being our Fellow-creatures, who are sold as Slaves, adds greatly to the Iniquity. Friends appeared attentive to what was said; some expressed a Care and Concern about their Negroes; none made any Objection, by Way of Reply to what I said; but the Query was admitted as they had altered it. As some of their Members have heretofore traded in Negroes, as in other Merchandize, this Query being admitted, will be one Step farther than they have hitherto gone: And I did not see it my Duty to press for an Alteration; but felt easy to leave it all to him, who alone is able to turn the Hearts of the Mighty, and make Way for the spreading of Truth on the Earth, by Means agreeable to his infinite Wisdom. But, in Regard to those they already had, I felt my Mind engaged to labour with them; and said, that, as we believe the Scriptures were given forth by holy Men, as they were moved by the Holy Ghost, and many of us know by Experience that they are often helpful and comfortable, and believe ourselves bound in Duty to teach our Children to read them, I believe, that, if we were divested of all selfish Views, the same good Spirit, that gave them forth, would engage us to teach the Negroes to read, that they might have the Benefit of them: Some, amongst them, at this Time, manifested a Concern in Regard to taking more Care in the Education of their Negroes. On the twenty-ninth Day of the fifth Month, at the House where I lodged, was a Meeting of Ministers and Elders, at the ninth Hour in the Morning; at which Time I found an Engagement to speak freely and plainly to them concerning their Slaves; mentioning, how they, as the first Rank in the Society, whose Conduct in that Case was much noticed by others, were under the stronger Obligations to look carefully to themselves: Expressing how needful it was for them, in that Situation, to be thoroughly divested of all selfish Views; that living in the pure Truth, and acting conscientiously toward those People in their Education and otherwise, they might be instrumental in helping forward a Work so necessary, and so much neglected amongst them. At the twelfth Hour the Meeting of Worship began, which was a solid Meeting. On the thirtieth Day, about the tenth Hour, Friends met to finish their Business, and then the meeting for Worship ensued, which to me was a laborious Time; but, through the Goodness of the Lord, Truth, I believe, gained some Ground; and it was a strengthening Opportunity to the Honest-hearted. About this Time I wrote an Epistle to Friends in the Back-settlements of _North-Carolina_, as follows: To Friends at their Monthly-meeting at _New-Garden_ and _Cane-Creek_, in _North-Carolina_. Dear Friends,--It having pleased the Lord to draw me forth on a Visit to some Parts of _Virginia_ and _Carolina_, you have often been in my Mind; and though my Way is not clear to come in Person to visit you, yet I feel it in my Heart to communicate a few Things, as they arise in the Love of Truth. First, my dear Friends, dwell in Humility, and take Heed that no Views of outward Gain get too deep hold of you, that so your Eyes being single to the Lord, you may be preserved in the Way of Safety. Where People let loose their Minds after the Love of outward Things, and are more engaged in pursuing the Profits, and seeking the Friendships, of this World, than to be inwardly acquainted with the Way of true Peace; such walk in a vain Shadow, while the true Comfort of Life is wanting: Their Examples are often hurtful to others; and their Treasures, thus collected, do many Times prove dangerous Snares to their Children. But where People are sincerely devoted to follow Christ, and dwell under the Influence of his holy Spirit, their Stability and Firmness, through a divine Blessing, is at Times like Dew on the tender Plants round about them, and the Weightiness of their Spirits secretly works on the Minds of others; and in this Condition, through the spreading Influence of divine Love, they feel a Care over the Flock; and Way is opened for maintaining good Order in the Society: And though we meet with Opposition from another Spirit, yet, as there is a dwelling in Meekness, feeling our Spirits subject, and moving only in the gentle peaceable Wisdom, the inward Reward of Quietness will be greater than all our Difficulties. Where the pure Life is kept to, and Meetings of Discipline are held in the Authority of it, we find by Experience that they are comfortable, and tend to the Health of the Body. While I write, the Youth come fresh in my Way:--Dear young People, choose God for your Portion; love his Truth, and be not ashamed of it: Choose for your Company such as serve him in Uprightness; and shun, as most dangerous, the Conversation of those whose Lives are of an ill Savour; for, by frequenting such Company, some hopeful young People have come to great Loss, and have been drawn from less Evils to greater, to their utter Ruin. In the Bloom of Youth no Ornament is so lovely as that of Virtue, nor any Enjoyments equal to those which we partake of, in fully resigning ourselves to the divine Will: These Enjoyments add Sweetness to all other Comforts, and give true Satisfaction in Company and Conversation, where People are mutually acquainted with it; and, as your Minds are thus seasoned with the Truth, you will find Strength to abide stedfast to the Testimony of it, and be prepared for Services in the Church. And now, dear Friends and Brethren, as you are improving a Wilderness, and may be numbered amongst the first Planters in one Part of a Province, I beseech you, in the Love of Jesus Christ, to wisely consider the Force of your Examples, and think how much your Successors may be thereby affected: It is a Help in a Country, yea, and a great Favour and a Blessing, when Customs, first settled, are agreeable to sound Wisdom; so, when they are otherwise, the Effect of them is grievous; and Children feel themselves encompassed with Difficulties prepared for them by their Predecessors. As moderate Care and Exercise, under the Direction of true Wisdom, are useful both to Mind and Body; so by this Means in general, the real Wants of Life are easily supplied: Our gracious Father having so proportioned one to the other, that keeping in the true Medium we may pass on quietly. Where Slaves are purchased to do our Labour, numerous Difficulties attend it. To rational Creatures Bondage is uneasy, and frequently occasions Sourness and Discontent in them; which affects the Family, and such as claim the Mastery over them: And thus People and their Children are many Times encompassed with Vexations, which arise from their applying to wrong Methods to get a Living. I have been informed that there is a large Number of Friends in your Parts, who have no Slaves; and in tender and most affectionate Love, I beseech you to keep clear from purchasing any. Look, my dear Friends, to divine Providence; and follow in Simplicity that Exercise of Body, that Plainness and Frugality, which true Wisdom leads to; so will you be preserved from those Dangers which attend such as are aiming at outward Ease and Greatness. Treasures, though small, attained on a true Principle of Virtue, are sweet in the Possession, and, while we walk in the Light of the Lord, there is true Comfort and Satisfaction. Here, neither the Murmurs of an oppressed People, nor an uneasy Conscience, nor anxious Thoughts about the Events of Things, hinder the Enjoyment of it. When we look toward the End of Life, and think on the Division of our Substance among our Successors; if we know that it was collected in the Fear of the Lord, in Honesty, in Equity, and in Uprightness of Heart before him, we may consider it as his Gift to us; and with a single Eye to his Blessing, bestow it on those we leave behind us. Such is the Happiness of the plain Ways of true Virtue. "The Work of Righteousness shall be Peace; and the Effect of Righteousness, Quietness and Assurance for ever." Isa. xxxii. 17. Dwell here, my dear Friends; and then, in remote and solitary Desarts, you may find true Peace and Satisfaction. If the Lord be our God, in Truth and Reality, there is Safety for us; for he is a Stronghold in the Day of Trouble, and knoweth them that trust in him. ISLE OF WIGHT COUNTY, IN VIRGINIA, _29th of the 5th Month, 1757_. From the Yearly-meeting in _Virginia_, I went to _Carolina_; and, on the first Day of the sixth Month, was at _Wells_ Monthly-meeting, where the Spring of the Gospel Ministry was opened, and the Love of Jesus Christ experienced amongst us: To his Name be the Praise! Here my Brother joined with some Friends from _New-Garden_, who were going homeward; and I went next to _Simond's_ Creek Monthly-meeting, where I was silent during the Meeting for Worship: When Business came on, my Mind was exercised concerning the poor Slaves; but did not feel my Way clear to speak: In this Condition I was bowed in Spirit before the Lord; and with Tears and inward Supplication besought him so to open my Understanding, that I might know his Will concerning me; and, at length, my mind was settled in Silence: Near the End of their Business, a Member of their Meeting expressed a Concern, that had some Time lain upon him, on Account of Friends so much neglecting their Duty in the Education of their Slaves; and proposed having Meetings sometimes appointed for them on a Week-day, to be only attended by some Friends to be named in their Monthly-meetings: Many present appeared to unite with the Proposal: One said, he had often wondered that they, being our Fellow-creatures, and capable of religious Understanding, had been so exceedingly neglected: Another expressed the like Concern, and appeared zealous, that Friends, in future, might more closely consider it: At length a Minute was made; and the farther Consideration of it referred to their next Monthly-meeting. The Friend who made this Proposal had Negroes: He told me, that he was at _New-Garden_, about two hundred and fifty Miles from Home, and came back alone; and that in this solitary Journey, this Exercise, in Regard to the Education of their Negroes, was, from Time to Time, renewed in his Mind. A Friend of some Note in _Virginia_, who had Slaves, told me, that he being far from Home on a lonesome Journey, had many serious Thoughts about them; and that his Mind was so impressed therewith, that he believed that he saw a Time coming, when divine Providence would alter the Circumstances of these People, respecting their Condition as Slaves. From hence I went to _Newbegun Creek_, and sat a considerable Time in much Weakness; then I felt Truth open the Way to speak a little in much Plainness and Simplicity, till, at length, through the Increase of divine Love amongst us, we had a seasoning Opportunity. From thence to the Head of _Little-River_, on a First-day, where was a crowded Meeting; and, I believe, it was, through divine Goodness, made profitable to some. Thence to the _Old-Neck_; where I was led into a careful searching out the secret Workings of the Mystery of Iniquity, which, under a Cover of Religion, exalts itself against that pure Spirit, which leads in the Way of Meekness and Self-denial. From thence to _Pineywoods_: This was the last Meeting I was at in _Carolina_, and was large; and, my Heart being deeply engaged, I was drawn forth into a fervent Labour amongst them. From hence I went back into _Virginia_, and had a Meeting near JAMES COWPLAND'S; it was a Time of inward Suffering; but, through the Goodness of the Lord, I was made content: Then to another Meeting; where, through the Renewings of pure Love, we had a very comfortable Season. Travelling up and down of late, I have had renewed Evidences, that to be faithful to the Lord, and content with his Will concerning me, is a most necessary and useful Lesson for me to be learning; looking less at the Effects of my Labour, than at the pure Motion and Reality of the Concern, as it arises from heavenly Love. In the Lord Jehovah is everlasting Strength; and as the Mind, by a humble Resignation, is united to him; and we utter Words from an inward Knowledge that they arise from the heavenly Spring, though our Way may be difficult, and require close Attention to keep in it; and though the Manner in which we may be led may tend to our own Abasement; yet, if we continue in Patience and Meekness, heavenly Peace is the Reward of our Labours. From thence I went to _Curles_ Meeting; which, though small, was reviving to the Honest-hearted. Thence to _Black-Creek_ and _Caroline_ Meetings; from whence, accompanied by WILLIAM STANDLEY, before-mentioned, we rode to _Goose-Creek_, being much through the Woods, and about one hundred Miles.--We lodged the first Night at a Publick-house; the second, in the Woods; and, the next Day, we reached a Friend's House, at _Goose-Creek_. In the Woods we lay under some Disadvantage, having no Fire-works nor Bells for our Horses; but we stopped a little before Night, and let them feed on the wild Grass which was in plenty; in the mean Time cutting with our Knives a Store against Night, and then tying them, and gathering some Bushes under an Oak, we lay down; but, the Musquettoes being plenty, and the Ground damp, I slept but little: Thus, lying in the Wilderness, and looking at the Stars, I was led to contemplate on the Condition of our first Parents, when they were sent forth from the Garden; but the Almighty, though they had been disobedient, continued to be a Father to them, and shewed them what tended to their Felicity, as intelligent Creatures, and was acceptable to him. To provide Things relative to our outward Living, in the Way of true Wisdom, is good; and the Gift of improving in Things useful is a good Gift, and comes from the Father of Lights. Many have had this Gift; and, from Age to Age, there have been Improvements of this Kind made in the World: But some, not keeping to the pure Gift, have, in the creaturely Cunning and Self-Exaltation, sought out many Inventions; which Inventions of Men are distinct from that Uprightness in which Man was created; as the first Motion to them was evil, so the Effects have been and are evil. At this Day, it is as necessary for us constantly to attend on the heavenly Gift, to be qualified to use rightly the good Things in this Life amidst great Improvements, as it was for our first Parents, when they were without any Improvements, without any Friend or Father but God only. I was at a Meeting at _Goose-Creek_; and next at a Monthly-meeting at _Fairfax_; where, through the gracious Dealing of the Almighty with us, his Power prevailed over many Hearts. Thence to _Manoquacy_ and _Pipe-Creek_, in _Maryland_; at both which Places I had Cause humbly to adore him, who supported me through many Exercises, and by whose Help I was enabled to reach the true Witness in the Hearts of others: There were some hopeful young People in those Parts. Thence I had Meetings at _John Everit's_ in _Monalen_, and at _Huntingdon_; and I was made humbly thankful to the Lord, who opened my Heart amongst the People in these new Settlements, so that it was a Time of Encouragement to the Honest-minded. At _Monalen_, a Friend gave me some Account of a religious Society among the _Dutch_, called _Mennonists_; and, amongst other Things, related a Passage in Substance as follows:--One of the _Mennonists_ having Acquaintance with a Man of another Society at a considerable Distance, and being with his Waggon on Business near the House of his said Acquaintance, and Night coming on, he had Thoughts of putting up with him; but passing by his Fields, and observing the distressed Appearance of his Slaves, he kindled a Fire in the Woods hard by, and lay there that Night: His said Acquaintance hearing where he lodged, and afterward meeting the _Mennonist_, told him of it; adding, he should have been heartily welcome at his House; and, from their Acquaintance in former Time, wondered at his Conduct in that Case. The _Mennonist_ replied, Ever since I lodged by thy Field, I have wanted an Opportunity to speak with thee: The Matter was; I intended to have come to thy House for Entertainment, but, seeing thy Slaves at their Work, and observing the Manner of their Dress, I had no liking to come to partake with thee: Then admonished him to use them with more Humanity; and added, As I lay by the Fire that Night, I thought that, as I was a Man of Substance, thou wouldst have received me freely; but, if I had been as poor as one of thy Slaves, and had no Power to help myself, I should have received from thy Hand no kinder Usage than they. Hence I was at three Meetings in my Way; and so I went Home, under a humbling Sense of the gracious Dealings of the Lord with me, in preserving me through many Trials and Afflictions in my Journey. I was out about two Months, and travelled about eleven hundred and fifty Miles. CHAPTER V _The draughting of the Militia in_ New-Jersey _to serve in the Army; with some Observations on the State of the Members of our Society at that Time_--_His Visit to Friends in_ Pennsylvania, _accompanied by_ BENJAMIN JONES--_Proceedings at the Monthly, Quarterly, and Yearly-Meetings, in_ Philadelphia, _respecting those who keep Slaves_ On the ninth Day of the eighth Month, in the Year 1757, at Night, Orders came to the military Officers in our County (_Burlington_), directing them to draught the Militia, and prepare a Number of Men to go off as Soldiers, to the Relief of the _English_ at _Fort-William-Henry_, in _New-York_ Government: A few Days after which there was a general Review of the Militia at _Mount-Holly_, and a Number of Men chosen and sent off under some Officers. Shortly after, there came Orders to draught three Times as many, to hold themselves in Readiness to march when fresh Orders came: And, on the 17th Day of the eighth Month, there was a Meeting of the military Officers at _Mount-Holly_, who agreed on a Draught; and Orders were sent to the Men, so chosen, to meet their respective Captains at set Times and Places; those in our Township to meet at _Mount-Holly_; amongst whom was a considerable Number of our Society. My Mind being affected herewith, I had fresh Opportunity to see and consider the Advantage of living in the real Substance of Religion, where Practice doth harmonize with Principle. Amongst the Officers are Men of Understanding, who have some Regard to Sincerity where they see it; and in the Execution of their Office, when they have Men to deal with whom they believe to be upright-hearted, to put them to Trouble, on account of Scruples of Conscience, is a painful Task, and likely to be avoided as much as easily may be: But where Men profess to be so meek and heavenly-minded, and to have their Trust so firmly settled in God, that they cannot join in Wars, and yet, by their Spirit and Conduct in common Life, manifest a contrary Disposition, their Difficulties are great at such a Time. Officers, in great Anxiety, endeavouring to get Troops to answer the Demands of their Superiors, seeing Men, who are insincere, pretend Scruple of Conscience in Hopes of being excused from a dangerous Employment, such are likely to be roughly handled. In this Time of Commotion some of our young Men left the Parts, and tarried abroad till it was over; some came, and proposed to go as Soldiers; others appeared to have a real tender Scruple in their Minds against joining in Wars, and were much humbled under the Apprehension of a Trial so near: I had Conversation with several of them to my Satisfaction. At the set Time when the Captain came to Town, some of those last-mentioned went and told him in Substance as follows:--That they could not bear Arms for Conscience-sake; nor could they hire any to go in their Places, being resigned as to the Event of it: At length the Captain acquainted them all, that they might return Home for the present, and, required them to provide themselves as Soldiers, and to be in Readiness to march when called upon. This was such a Time as I had not seen before; and yet I may say, with Thankfulness to the Lord, that I believed this Trial was intended for our Good; and I was favoured with Resignation to him. The _French_ Army, taking the Fort they were besieging, destroyed it and went away: The Company of Men first draughted, after some Days march, had Orders to return Home; and those on the second Draught were no more called upon on that Occasion. On the fourth Day of the fourth Month, in the Year 1758, Orders came to some Officers in _Mount-Holly_, to prepare Quarters, a short Time, for about one hundred Soldiers: And an Officer and two other Men, all Inhabitants of our Town, came to my House; and the Officer told me, that he came to speak with me, to provide Lodging and Entertainment for two Soldiers, there being six Shillings a Week per Man allowed as Pay for it. The Case being new and unexpected, I made no Answer suddenly; but sat a Time silent, my Mind being inward: I was fully convinced, that the Proceedings in Wars are inconsistent with the Purity of the _Christian_ Religion: And to be hired to entertain Men, who were then under Pay as Soldiers, was a Difficulty with me. I expected they had legal Authority for what they did; and, after a short Time, I said to the Officer, If the Men are sent here for Entertainment, I believe I shall not refuse to admit them into my House; but the Nature of the Case is such, that I expect I cannot keep them on Hire: One of the Men intimated, that he thought I might do it consistent with my religious Principles; To which I made no Reply; as believing Silence at that Time best for me. Though they spake of two, there came only one, who tarried at my House about two Weeks, and behaved himself civilly; and when the Officer came to pay me, I told him I could not take Pay for it, having admitted him into my House in a passive Obedience to Authority. I was on Horseback when he spake to me: And, as I turned from him, he said, he was obliged to me: To which I said nothing; but, thinking on the Expression, I grew uneasy; and afterwards, being near where he lived, I went and told him on what Grounds I refused taking Pay for keeping the Soldier. Near the Beginning of the Year 1758, I went one Evening, in Company with a Friend, to visit a sick Person; and, before our Return, we were told of a Woman living near, who, of late, had several Days been disconsolate, occasioned by a Dream; wherein Death, and the Judgments of the Almighty after Death, were represented to her Mind in a moving Manner: Her Sadness on that Account, being worn off, the Friend, with whom I was in Company, went to see her, and had some religious Conversation with her and her Husband: With this Visit they were somewhat affected; and the Man, with many Tears, expressed his Satisfaction; and, in a short Time after, the poor Man being on the River in a Storm of Wind, he, with one more, was drowned. In the eighth Month of the Year 1758, having had Drawings in my Mind to be at the Quarterly-meeting in _Chester_ County, and at some Meetings in the County of _Philadelphia_, I went first to said Quarterly-meeting, which was large, and several weighty Matters came under Consideration and Debate; and the Lord was pleased to qualify some of his Servants with Strength and Firmness to bear the Burthen of the Day: Though I said but little, my Mind was deeply exercised; and, under a Sense of God's Love, in the Anointing and fitting some young Men for his Work, I was comforted, and my Heart was tendered before him. From hence I went to the Youth's Meeting at _Darby_, where my beloved Friend and Brother, BENJAMIN JONES, met me, by an Appointment before I left Home, to join in the Visit: And we were at _Radnor_, _Merion_, _Richland_, _North-Wales_, _Plymouth_, and _Abington_ Meetings; and had Cause to bow in Reverence before the Lord, our gracious God, by whose Help Way was opened for us from day to day. I was out about two Weeks, and rode about two hundred Miles. The Monthly-meeting of _Philadelphia_ having been under a Concern on Account of some Friends who this Summer (1758) had bought Negro Slaves, the said Meeting moved it to their Quarterly-meeting, to have the Minute reconsidered in the Yearly-meeting, which was made last on that Subject: And the said Quarterly-meeting appointed a Committee to consider it, and report to their next; which Committee having met once and adjourned, I going to _Philadelphia_ to meet a Committee of the Yearly-meeting, was in Town the Evening on which the Quarterly-meeting's Committee met the second Time; and, finding an Inclination to sit with them, was, with some others, admitted; and Friends had a weighty Conference on the Subject: And, soon after their next Quarterly-meeting, I heard that the Case was coming to our Yearly-meeting; which brought a weighty Exercise upon me, and under a Sense of my own Infirmities, and the great Danger I felt of turning aside from perfect Purity, my Mind was often drawn to retire alone, and put up my Prayers to the Lord, that he would be graciously pleased to strengthen me; that, setting aside all Views of Self-interest, and the Friendship of this World, I might stand fully resigned to his holy Will. In this Yearly-meeting, several weighty Matters were considered; and, toward the last, that in Relation to dealing with Persons who purchase Slaves. During the several Sittings of the said Meeting, my Mind was frequently covered with inward Prayer, and I could say with _David_, that _Tears were my Meat Day and Night_. The Case of Slave-keeping lay heavy upon me; nor did I find any Engagement to speak directly to any other Matter before the Meeting. Now, when this Case was opened, several faithful Friends spake weightily thereto, with which I was comforted; and, feeling a Concern to cast in my Mite, I said in Substance as follows: "In the Difficulties attending us in this Life, nothing is more precious than the Mind of Truth inwardly manifested; and it is my earnest Desire that, in this weighty Matter we may be so truly humbled as to be favoured with a clear Understanding of the Mind of Truth, and follow it; this would be of more Advantage to the Society, than any Medium not in the Clearness of divine Wisdom. The Case is difficult to some who have them; but if such set aside all Self-interest, and come to be weaned from the Desire of getting Estates, or even from holding them together, when Truth requires the Contrary, I believe Way will open that they will know how to steer through those Difficulties." Many Friends appeared to be deeply bowed under the Weight of the Work; and manifested much Firmness in their Love to the Cause of Truth and universal Righteousness on the Earth: And, though none did openly justify the Practice of Slave-keeping in general, yet some appeared concerned, lest the Meeting should go into such Measures as might give Uneasiness to many Brethren; alledging, that if Friends patiently continued under the Exercise, the Lord, in Time to come might open a Way for the Deliverance of these People: And, I finding an Engagement to speak, said, "My Mind is often led to consider the Purity of the divine Being, and the Justice of his Judgments; and herein my Soul is covered with Awfulness: I cannot omit to hint of some Cases, where People have not been treated with the Purity of Justice, and the Event hath been lamentable: Many Slaves on this Continent are oppressed, and their Cries have reached the Ears of the Most High. Such are the Purity and Certainty of his Judgments, that he cannot be partial in our Favour. In infinite Love and Goodness, he hath opened our Understandings, from one Time to another, concerning our Duty towards this People; and it is not a Time for Delay. Should we now be sensible of what he requires of us, and, through a Respect to the private Interest of some Persons, or through a Regard to some Friendships which do not stand on an immutable Foundation, neglect to do our Duty in Firmness and Constancy, still waiting for some extraordinary Means to bring about their Deliverance, it may be by terrible Things in Righteousness God may answer us in this Matter." Many faithful Brethren laboured with great Firmness; and the Love of Truth, in a good Degree, prevailed. Several Friends, who had Negroes, expressed their Desire that a Rule might be made, to deal with such Friends as Offenders who bought Slaves in future: To this it was answered, that the Root of this Evil would never be effectually struck at, until a thorough Search was made into the Circumstances of such Friends as kept Negroes, with respect to the Righteousness of their Motives in keeping them, that impartial Justice might be administered throughout. Several Friends expressed their Desire, that a Visit might be made to such Friends as kept Slaves; and many Friends said, that they believed Liberty was the Negroes Right: To which, at length, no Opposition was made publickly. A Minute was made more full on that Subject than any heretofore; and the Names of several Friends entered, who were free to join in a Visit to such as kept Slaves. CHAPTER VI _His visiting the Quarterly-meetings in_ Chester _County; and afterwards joining with_ DANIEL STANTON _and_ JOHN SCARBOROUGH _in a Visit to such as kept Slaves there_--_Some Observations on the Conduct such should maintain as are concerned to speak in Meetings for Discipline_--_Several more Visits to such as kept Slaves; and to Friends near_ Salem--_Some Account of the Yearly-meeting in the Year 1759; and of the increasing Concern, in divers Provinces, to labour against buying and keeping Slaves_--_The Yearly-meeting Epistle_ On the eleventh Day of the eleventh Month, in the Year 1758, I set out for _Concord_; the Quarterly-meeting, heretofore held there, was now, by reason of a great Increase of Members, divided into two by the Agreement of Friends, at our last Yearly-meeting. Here I met with our beloved Friends, SAMUEL SPAVOLD and MARY KIRBY, from _England_, and with JOSEPH WHITE, from _Bucks_ County, who had taken Leave of his Family in order to go on a religious Visit to Friends in _England_; and, through divine Goodness, we were favoured with a strengthening Opportunity together. After this Meeting I joined with my Friends, DANIEL STANTON and JOHN SCARBOROUGH, in visiting Friends who had Slaves; and at Night we had a Family-meeting at WILLIAM TRIMBLE'S, many young People being there; and it was a precious reviving Opportunity. Next Morning we had a comfortable Sitting with a sick Neighbour; and thence to the Burial of the Corpse of a Friend at _Uwchland_ Meeting, at which were many People, and it was a Time of divine Favour; after which, we visited some who had Slaves; and, at Night, had a Family-meeting at a Friend's House, where the Channel of Gospel-love was opened, and my Mind was comforted after a hard Day's Labour. The next Day we were at _Goshen_ Monthly-meeting; and thence, on the eighteenth Day of the eleventh Month, in the Year 1758, attended the Quarterly-meeting at _London-Grove_, it being the first held at that Place. Here we met again with all the before-mentioned Friends, and had some edifying Meetings: And, near the Conclusion of the Meeting for Business, Friends were incited to Constancy in supporting the Testimony of Truth, and reminded of the Necessity which the Disciples of Christ are under to attend principally to his Business, as he is pleased to open it to us: And to be particularly careful to have our Minds redeemed from the Love of Wealth; to have our outward Affairs in as little Room as may be; that no temporal Concerns may entangle our Affections, or hinder us from diligently following the Dictates of Truth, in labouring to promote the pure Spirit of Meekness and Heavenly-mindedness amongst the Children of Men in these Days of Calamity and Distress, wherein God is visiting our Land with his just Judgments. Each of these Quarterly-meetings was large, and sat near eight Hours. Here I had Occasion to consider, that it was a weighty Thing to speak much in large Meetings for Business: First, except our Minds are rightly prepared, and we clearly understand the Case we speak to, instead of forwarding, we hinder, Business, and make more Labour for those on whom the Burthen of the Work is laid. If selfish Views, or a partial Spirit, have any Room in our Minds, we are unfit for the Lord's Work; if we have a clear Prospect of the Business, and proper Weight on our Minds to speak, it behoves us to avoid useless Apologies and Repetitions: Where People are gathered from far, and adjourning a Meeting of Business is attended with great Difficulty, it behoves all to be cautious how they detain a Meeting; especially when they have sat six or seven Hours, and have a great Distance to ride Home. After this Meeting I rode Home. In the Beginning of the twelfth Month of the Year 1758 I joined in Company with my Friends, JOHN SYKES and DANIEL STANTON, in visiting such as had Slaves: Some, whose Hearts were rightly exercised about them, appeared to be glad of our Visit; but in some Places our Way was more difficult; and I often saw the Necessity of keeping down to that Root from whence our Concern proceeded; and have Cause, in reverent Thankfulness, humbly to bow down before the Lord, who was near to me, and preserved my Mind in Calmness under some sharp Conflicts, and begat a Spirit of Sympathy and Tenderness in me toward some who were grievously entangled by the Spirit of this World. In the first Month of the Year 1759, having found my Mind drawn to visit some of the more active Members, in our Society at _Philadelphia_, who had Slaves, I met my Friend JOHN CHURCHMAN there, by an Agreement: And we continued about a Week in the City. We visited some that were sick, and some Widows and their Families; and the other Part of our Time was mostly employed in visiting such as had Slaves.--It was a Time of deep Exercise, looking often to the Lord for his Assistance; who, in unspeakable Kindness, favoured us with the Influence of that Spirit, which crucifies to the Greatness and Splendour of this World, and enabled us to go through some heavy Labours, in which we found Peace. On the twenty-fourth Day of the third Month of this Year, I was at our general Spring-meeting at _Philadelphia_: After which, I again joined with JOHN CHURCHMAN on a Visit to some more who had Slaves in _Philadelphia_; and, with Thankfulness to our heavenly Father, I may say, that divine Love and a true sympathising Tenderness of Heart prevailed at Times in this Service. Having, at Times, perceived a Shyness in some Friends, of considerable Note, towards me, I found an Engagement in Gospel Love to pay a Visit to one of them; and, as I dwelt under the Exercise, I felt a Resignedness in my Mind to go; So I went, and told him, in private, I had a Desire to have an Opportunity with him alone; to which he readily agreed: And then, in the Fear of the Lord, Things relating to that Shyness were searched to the Bottom; and we had a large Conference, which, I believe, was of Use to both of us, and am thankful that Way was opened for it. On the fourteenth Day of the sixth Month, in the same Year, having felt Drawings in my Mind to visit Friends about _Salem_, and having the Approbation of our Monthly-meeting therein, I attended their Quarterly-meeting, and was out seven Days, and at seven Meetings; in some of which I was chiefly silent, and in others, through the baptizing Power of Truth, my Heart was enlarged in heavenly Love, and found a near Fellowship with the Brethren and Sisters, in the manifold Trials attending their _Christian_ Progress through this World. In the seventh Month, I found an increasing Concern on my Mind to visit some active Members in our Society who had Slaves; and, having no Opportunity of the Company of such as were named on the Minutes of the Yearly-meeting, I went alone to their Houses, and, in the Fear of the Lord, acquainted them with the Exercise I was under: And thus, sometimes, by a few Words, I found myself discharged from a heavy Burthen. After this, our Friend JOHN CHURCHMAN, coming into our Province with a View to be at some Meetings, and to join again in the Visit to those who had Slaves, I bore him Company in the said Visit to some active Members, and found inward Satisfaction. At our Yearly-meeting, in the Year 1759, we had some weighty Seasons; where the Power of Truth was largely extended, to the strengthening of the Honest-minded. As Friends read over the Epistles, to be sent to the Yearly-meetings along this Continent, I observed in most of them, both this Year and last, it was recommended to Friends to labour against buying and keeping Slaves; and in some of them closely treated upon. This Practice had long been a heavy Exercise to me, and I have often waded through mortifying Labours on that Account; and, at Times, in some Meetings been almost alone therein. Now, observing the increasing Concern in our religious Society, and seeing how the Lord was raising up and qualifying Servants for his Work, not only in this Respect, but for promoting the Cause of Truth in general, I was humbly bowed in Thankfulness before him. This Meeting continued near a Week; and, for several Days, in the fore Part of it, my Mind was drawn into a deep inward Stillness; and being, at Times, covered with the Spirit of Supplication, my Heart was secretly poured out before the Lord: And, near the Conclusion of the Meeting for Business, Way opened, that, in the pure Flowings of divine Love, I expressed what lay upon me; which, as it then arose in my Mind, was "first to shew how Deep answers to Deep in the Hearts of the Sincere and Upright; though, in their different Growths, they may not all have attained to the same Clearness in some Points relating to our Testimony: And I was led to mention the Integrity and Constancy of many Martyrs, who gave their Lives for the Testimony of Jesus; and yet, in some Points, held Doctrines distinguishable from some which we hold: And that, in all Ages, where People were faithful to the Light and Understanding which the Most High afforded them, they found Acceptance with him; and that now, though there are different Ways of Thinking amongst us in some Particulars, yet, if we mutually kept to that Spirit and Power which crucifies to the World, which teaches us to be content with Things really needful, and to avoid all Superfluities, giving up our Hearts to fear and serve the Lord, true Unity may still be preserved amongst us: And that if such, as were, at Times, under Sufferings on Account of some Scruples of Conscience, kept low and humble, and in their Conduct in Life manifested a Spirit of true Charity, it would be more likely to reach the Witness in others, and be of more Service in the Church, than if their Sufferings were attended with a contrary Spirit and Conduct." In which Exercise I was drawn into a sympathizing Tenderness with the Sheep of Christ, however distinguished one from another in this World; and the like Disposition appeared to spread over others in the Meeting. Great is the Goodness of the Lord toward his poor Creatures! An Epistle went forth from this Yearly-meeting, which I think good to give a Place in this Journal; being as follows: From the Yearly-meeting held at _Philadelphia_, for _Pennsylvania_ and _New-Jersey_, from the twenty-second Day of the ninth Month, to the twenty-eighth Day of the same, inclusive, 1759. To the Quarterly and Monthly-meetings of Friends belonging to the said Yearly-meeting. "Dearly beloved Friends and Brethren,--In an awful Sense of the Wisdom and Goodness of the Lord our God, whose tender Mercies have long been continued to us in this Land, we affectionately salute you, with sincere and fervent Desires, that we may reverently regard the Dispensations of his Providence, and improve under them. The Empires and Kingdoms of the Earth are subject to his almighty Power: He is the God of the Spirits of all Flesh, and deals with his People agreeable to that Wisdom, the Depth whereof is to us unsearchable: We, in these Provinces, may say, he hath, as a gracious and tender Parent, dealt bountifully with us, even from the Days of our Fathers: It was he who strengthened them to labour through the Difficulties attending the Improvement of a Wilderness, and made Way for them in the Hearts of the Natives; so that by them they were comforted in Times of Want and Distress: It was by the gracious Influences of his holy Spirit, that they were disposed to work Righteousness, and walk uprightly one towards another, and towards the Natives, and in Life and Conversation to manifest the Excellency of the Principles and Doctrines of the _Christian_ Religion; and thereby they retain their Esteem and Friendship: Whilst they were labouring for the Necessaries of Life, many of them were fervently engaged to promote Piety and Virtue in the Earth, and educate their Children in the Fear of the Lord. If we carefully consider the peaceable Measures pursued in the first Settlement of the Land, and that Freedom from the Desolations of Wars which for a long Time we enjoyed, we shall find ourselves under strong Obligations to the Almighty, who, when the Earth is so generally polluted with Wickedness, gave us a Being in a Part so signally favoured with Tranquility and Plenty, and in which the Glad-tidings of the Gospel of Christ are so freely published, that we may justly say with the Psalmist, "What shall we render unto the Lord for all his Benefits?" Our own real Good, and the Good of our Posterity, in some Measure, depend on the Part we act; and it nearly concerns us to try our Foundations impartially. Such are the different Rewards of the Just and Unjust in a future State, that, to attend diligently to the Dictates of the Spirit of Christ, to devote ourselves to his Service, and engage fervently in his Cause, during our short Stay in this World, is a Choice well becoming a free intelligent Creature; we shall thus clearly see and consider that the Dealings of God with Mankind in a national Capacity, as recorded in Holy Writ, do sufficiently evidence the Truth of that Saying, "It is Righteousness which exalteth a Nation;" and though he doth not at all Times suddenly execute his Judgments on a sinful People in this Life, yet we see, by many Instances, that where "Men follow lying Vanities, they forsake their own Mercies;" and as a proud selfish Spirit prevails and spreads among a People, so partial Judgment, Oppression, Discord, Envy, and Confusions, increase, and Provinces and Kingdoms are made to drink the Cup of Adversity as a Reward of their own Doings. Thus the inspired Prophet, reasoning with the degenerated _Jews_, saith, "Thine own Wickedness shall correct thee, and thy Backslidings shall reprove thee: Know, therefore, that it is an evil Thing and bitter, that thou hast forsaken the Lord thy God, and that my Fear is not in thee, saith the Lord God of Hosts." _Jer._ ii. 19. The God of our Fathers, who hath bestowed on us many Benefits, furnished a Table for us in the Wilderness, and made the Desarts and solitary Places to rejoice; he doth now mercifully call upon us to serve him more faithfully.--We may truly say, with the Prophet, "It is his Voice which crieth to the City, and Men of Wisdom see his Name: They regard the Rod, and him who hath appointed it."--People, who look chiefly at Things outward, too little consider the original Cause of the present Troubles; but such as fear the Lord, and think often upon his Name, see and feel that a wrong Spirit is spreading among the Inhabitants of our Country; that the Hearts of many are waxed fat, and their Ears dull of hearing; that the Most High, in his Visitations to us, instead of calling, lifteth up his Voice and crieth; he crieth to our Country, and his Voice waxeth louder and louder. In former Wars between the _English_ and other Nations, since the Settlement of our Provinces, the Calamities attending them have fallen chiefly on other Places, but now of late they have reached to our Borders; many of our fellow Subjects have suffered on and near our Frontiers, some have been slain in Battle, some killed in their Houses, and some in their Fields, some wounded and left in great Misery, and others separated from their Wives and little Children, who have been carried Captives among the _Indians_: We have seen Men and Women, who have been Witnesses of these Scenes of Sorrow, and been reduced to Want, have come to our Houses asking Relief.--It is not long since it was the Case of many young Men, in one of these Provinces, to be draughted, in order to be taken as Soldiers; some were at that Time in great Distress, and had Occasion to consider that their Lives had been too little conformable to the Purity and Spirituality of that Religion which we profess, and found themselves too little acquainted with that inward Humility, in which true Fortitude to endure Hardness for the Truth's Sake is experienced.--Many Parents were concerned for their Children, and in that Time of Trial were led to consider, that their Care, to get outward Treasure for them, had been greater than their Care for their Settlement in that Religion which crucifieth to the World, and enableth to bear a clear Testimony to the peaceable Government of the Messiah. These Troubles are removed, and for a Time we are released from them. Let us not forget that "The Most High hath his Way in the Deep, in Clouds and in thick Darkness"--that it is his Voice which crieth to the City and to the Country; and oh! that these loud and awakening Cries may have a proper Effect upon us, that heavier Chastisement may not become necessary! For though Things, as to the Outward, may, for a short Time, afford a pleasing Prospect; yet, while a selfish Spirit, that is not subject to the Cross of Christ, continueth to spread and prevail, there can be no long Continuance in outward Peace and Tranquility. If we desire an Inheritance incorruptible, and to be at Rest in that State of Peace and Happiness, which ever continues; if we desire, in this Life, to dwell under the Favour and Protection of that almighty Being, whose Habitation is in Holiness, whose Ways are all equal, and whose Anger is now kindled because of our Backslidings; let us then awfully regard these Beginnings of his fore Judgments, and, with Abasement and Humiliation turn to him, whom we have offended. Contending with one equal in Strength is an uneasy Exercise; but if the Lord is become our Enemy, if we persist to contend with him who is omnipotent, our Overthrow will be unavoidable. Do we feel an affectionate Regard to Posterity; and are we employed to promote their Happiness? Do our Minds, in Things outward, look beyond our own Dissolution; and are we contriving for the Prosperity of our Children after us? Let us then, like wise Builders, lay the Foundation deep; and, by our constant uniform Regard to an inward Piety and Virtue, let them see that we really value it: Let us labour, in the Fear of the Lord, that their innocent Minds, while young and tender, may be preserved from Corruptions; that, as they advance in Age, they may rightly understand their true Interest, may consider the Uncertainty of temporal Things, and, above all, have their Hope and Confidence firmly settled in the Blessing of that Almighty Being, who inhabits Eternity, and preserves and supports the World. In all our Cares, about worldly Treasures, let us steadily bear in Mind, that Riches, possessed by Children who do not truly serve God, are likely to prove Snares that may more grievously entangle them in that Spirit of Selfishness and Exaltation, which stands in Opposition to real Peace and Happiness; and renders them Enemies to the Cross of Christ, who submit to the Influence of it. To keep a watchful eye towards real Objects of Charity, to visit the Poor in their lonesome Dwelling-places, to comfort them who, through the Dispensations of divine Providence, are in strait and painful Circumstances in this Life, and steadily to endeavour to honour God with our Substance, from a real Sense of the Love of Christ influencing our Minds thereto, is more likely to bring a Blessing to our Children, and will afford more Satisfaction to a _Christian_ favoured with Plenty, than an earnest Desire to collect much Wealth to leave behind us; for "Here we have no continuing City;" may we therefore diligently "seek one that is to come, whose Builder and Maker is God." "Finally, Brethren, whatsoever Things are true, whatsoever Things are just, whatsoever Things are pure, whatsoever Things are lovely, whatsoever Things are of good Report; if there be any Virtue, if there be any Praise, think on these Things and do them, and the God of Peace shall be with you." Signed, by Appointment, and on Behalf of our said Meeting, by seven Friends. On the twenty-eighth Day of the eleventh Month, in the Year 1759, I was at the Quarterly-meeting in _Bucks_ County: This Day being the Meeting of Ministers and Elders, my Heart was enlarged in the Love of Jesus Christ; and the Favour of the Most High was extended to us in that and the ensuing Meeting. I had Conversation, at my Lodging, with my beloved Friend, SAMUEL EASTBURN; who expressed a Concern to join in a Visit to some Friends, in that County, who had Negroes; and as I had felt a Draught in my Mind to that Work in the said County, came Home and put Things in Order: On the eleventh Day of the twelfth Month following, I went over the River; and on the next Day was at _Buckingham_ Meeting; where, through the Descendings of heavenly Dew, my Mind was comforted, and drawn into a near Unity with the Flock of Jesus Christ. Entering upon this Visit appeared weighty: And before I left Home my Mind was often sad; under which Exercise I felt, at Times, the Holy Spirit, which helps our Infirmities; through which, in private, my Prayers were, at Times, put up to God, that he would be pleased to purge me from all Selfishness, that I might be strengthened to discharge my Duty faithfully, how hard soever to the natural Part. We proceeded on the Visit in a weighty Frame of Spirit, and went to the Houses of the most active Members, throughout the Country, who had Negroes; and, through the Goodness of the Lord, my Mind was preserved in Resignation in Times of Trial, and, though the Work was hard to Nature, yet through the Strength of that Love which is stronger than Death, Tenderness of Heart was often felt amongst us in our Visits, and we parted from several Families with greater Satisfaction than we expected. * * * * * We visited JOSEPH WHITE'S Family, he being in _England_; and also a Family-sitting at the House of an Elder who bore us Company, and was at _Makefield_ on a First-day: At all which Times my Heart was truly thankful to the Lord, who was graciously pleased to renew his Loving-kindness to us, his poor Servants, uniting us together in his Work. CHAPTER VII _His Visit, in Company with_ SAMUEL EASTBURN, _to_ Long-Island, Rhode-Island, Boston, _etc. in_ New-England--_Remarks on the Slave-Trade at_ Newport, _and his Exercise on that Account; also on Lotteries_--_Some Observations on the Island of_ Nantucket Having, for some Time past, felt a Sympathy in my Mind with Friends Eastward, I opened my Concern in our Monthly-meeting; and, obtaining a Certificate, set forward on the seventeenth Day of the fourth Month, in the Year 1760, joining in Company, by a previous Agreement, with my beloved Friend, SAMUEL EASTBURN. We had Meetings at _Woodbridge_, _Rahaway_, and _Plainfield_; and were at their Monthly-meeting of Ministers and Elders in _Rahaway_. We laboured under some Discouragement; but, through the invisible Power of Truth, our Visit was made reviving to the Lowly-minded, with whom I felt a near Unity of Spirit, being much reduced in my Mind. We passed on and visited the chief of the Meetings on _Long-Island_. It was my Concern, from Day to Day, to say no more nor less than what the Spirit of Truth opened in me; being jealous over myself, lest I should speak any Thing to make my Testimony look agreeable to that Mind in People, which is not in pure Obedience to the Cross of Christ. The Spring of the Ministry was often low; and, through the subjecting Power of Truth, we were kept low with it; and from Place to Place, such whose Hearts were truly concerned for the Cause of Christ, appeared to be comforted in our Labours; and though it was in general a Time of Abasement of the Creature, yet, through his Goodness, who is a Helper of the Poor, we had some truly edifying Seasons, both in Meetings, and in Families where we tarried; and sometimes found Strength to labour earnestly with the Unfaithful, especially with those whose Station in Families, or in the Society, was such, that their Example had a powerful Tendency to open the Way for others to go aside from the Purity and Soundness of the blessed Truth. At _Jericho_, on _Long-Island_, I wrote Home as follows: _24th of the 4th Month, 1760._ "Dearly beloved Wife,--We are favoured with Health; have been at sundry Meetings in _East-Jersey_, and on this Island: My Mind hath been much in an inward watchful Frame since I left thee, greatly desiring that our Proceedings may be singly in the Will of our heavenly Father. "As the present Appearance of Things is not joyous, I have been much shut up from outward Cheerfulness, remembering that Promise, 'Then shalt thou delight thyself in the Lord:'--As this, from Day to Day, has been revived in my Memory, I have considered that his internal Presence on our Minds is a Delight, of all others, the most pure; and that the Honest-hearted not only delight in this, but in the Effect of it upon them. He regards the Helpless and Distressed, and reveals his Love to his Children under Affliction; they delight in beholding his Benevolence, and feeling divine Charity moving upon them: Of this I may speak a little; for though, since I left you, I have often found an engaging Love and Affection toward thee and my Daughter, and Friends about Home, that going out at this Time, when Sickness is so great amongst you, is a Trial upon me; yet I often remember there are many Widows and Fatherless, many who have poor Tutors, many who have evil Examples before them, and many whose Minds are in Captivity, for whose Sake my Heart is, at Times, moved with Compassion; so that I feel my Mind resigned to leave you for a Season, to exercise that Gift which the Lord hath bestowed on me; which though small, compared with some, yet in this I rejoice, that I feel Love unfeigned toward my Fellow-creatures. I recommend you to the Almighty, who, I trust, cares for you; and, under a Sense of his heavenly Love, remain,--Thy loving Husband, "J. W." We crossed from the East End of _Long-Island_ to _New-London_, about thirty Miles, in a large open Boat; while we were out, the Wind rising high, the Waves several Times beat over us, so that to me it appeared dangerous; but my Mind was, at that Time, turned to him, who made and governs the Deep, and my Life was resigned to him: And, as he was mercifully pleased to preserve us, I had fresh Occasion to consider every Day as a Day lent to me; and felt a renewed Engagement to devote my Time, and all I had, to him who gave them. We had five Meetings in _Narraganset_; and went thence to _Newport_ on _Rhode-Island_. Our gracious Father preserved us in an humble Dependence on him through deep Exercises, that were mortifying to the creaturely Will. In several Families in the Country, where we lodged, I felt an Engagement on my Mind to have a Conference with them in private concerning their Slaves; and, through divine Aid, I was favoured to give up thereto: Though, in this Concern, I appeared singular from many, whose Service in Travelling, I believe, is greater than mine; I do not think hard of them for omitting it; I do not repine at having so unpleasant a Task assigned me, but look with Awfulness to him, who appoints to his Servants their respective Employments, and is good to all who serve him sincerely. We got to _Newport_ in the Evening, and on the next Day visited two sick Persons, and had comfortable Sittings with them; and in the Afternoon attended the Burial of a Friend. The next Day we were at Meetings at _Newport_, in the Forenoon and Afternoon; where the Spring of the Ministry was opened, and Strength given to declare the Word of Life to the People. The next Day we went on our Journey; but the great Number of Slaves in these Parts, and the Continuance of that Trade from thence to _Guinea_, made deep Impression on me; and my Cries were often put up to my heavenly Father in secret, that he would enable me to discharge my Duty faithfully, in such Way as he might be pleased to point out to me. We took _Swansea_, _Freetown_, and _Tanton_, in our Way to _Boston_; where also we had a Meeting; our Exercise was deep, and the Love of Truth prevailed, for which I bless the Lord. We went Eastward about eighty Miles beyond _Boston_, taking Meetings, and were in a good Degree preserved in an humble Dependance on that Arm which drew us out; and, though we had some hard Labour with the Disobedient, laying Things home and close to such as were stout against the Truth; yet, through the Goodness of God, we had, at Times, to partake of heavenly Comfort with them who were meek, and were often favoured to part with Friends in the Nearness of true Gospel-fellowship. We returned to _Boston_, and had another comfortable Opportunity with Friends there; and thence rode back a Day's Journey Eastward of _Boston_: Our Guide being a heavy Man, and the Weather hot, and my Companion and I considering it, expressed our Freedom to go on without him, to which he consented, and we respectfully took our Leave of him; this we did, as believing the Journey would have been hard to him and his Horse. We visited the Meetings in those Parts, and were measurably baptized into a feeling of the State of the Society: And in Bowedness of Spirit went to the Yearly-meeting at _Newport_; where I understood that a large Number of Slaves were imported from _Africa_ into that Town, and then on Sale by a Member of our Society. At this Meeting we met with JOHN STORER from _England_, ELIZABETH SHIPLEY, ANN GAUNT, HANNAH FOSTER, and MERCY REDMAN, from our Parts, all Ministers of the Gospel, of whose Company I was glad. At this Time my Appetite failed, and I grew outwardly weak, and had a Feeling of the Condition of _Habakkuk_ as there expressed: "When I heard, my Belly trembled, my Lips quivered, I trembled in myself that I might rest in the Day of Trouble;" I had many Cogitations, and was sorely distressed: And was desirous that Friends might petition the Legislature, to use their Endeavours to discourage the future Importation of Slaves; for I saw that this Trade was a great Evil, and tended to multiply Troubles, and bring Distresses on the People in those parts, for whose Welfare my Heart was deeply concerned. But I perceived several Difficulties in Regard to petitioning; and such was the Exercise of my Mind, that I had Thought of endeavouring to get an Opportunity to speak a few Words in the House of Assembly, then sitting in Town. This Exercise came upon me in the Afternoon, on the second Day of the Yearly-meeting, and, going to Bed, I got no Sleep till my Mind was wholly resigned therein; and in the Morning I enquired of a Friend how long the Assembly were likely to continue sitting; who told me, they were expected to be prorogued that Day or the next. As I was desirous to attend the Business of the Meeting, and perceived the Assembly were likely to depart before the Business was over; after considerable Exercise, humbly seeking to the Lord for Instruction, my Mind settled to attend on the Business of the Meeting; on the last Day of which, I had prepared a short Essay of a Petition to be presented to the Legislature, if Way opened: And being informed that there were some appointed, by that Yearly-meeting, to speak with those in Authority, in Cases relating to the Society, I opened my Mind to several of them, and shewed them the Essay I had made; and afterward opened the Case in the Meeting for Business, in Substance as follows: "I have been under a Concern for some Time, on Account of the great Number of Slaves which are imported in this Colony; I am aware that it is a tender Point to speak to, but apprehend I am not clear in the Sight of Heaven without speaking to it. I have prepared an Essay of a Petition, if Way open, to be presented to the Legislature; and what I have to propose to this Meeting is, that some Friends may be named to withdraw and look over it, and report whether they believe it suitable to be read in the Meeting; if they should think well of reading it, it will remain for the Meeting, after hearing it, to consider, whether to take any farther Notice of it at a Meeting or not." After a short Conference some Friends went out, and, looking over it, expressed their Willingness to have it read; which being done, many expressed their Unity with the Proposal; and some signified, that to have the Subjects of the Petition enlarged upon, and to be signed out of Meeting by such as were free, would be more suitable than to do it there: Though I expected, at first, that if it was done it would be in that Way; yet, such was the Exercise of my Mind, that to move it in the hearing of Friends, when assembled, appeared to me as a Duty; for my Heart yearned toward the Inhabitants of these Parts; believing that by this Trade there had been an Increase of Inquietude amongst them, and a Way made easy for the spreading of a Spirit opposite to that Meekness and Humility, which is a sure Resting-place for the Soul: And that the Continuance of this Trade would not only render their Healing more difficult, but increase their Malady. Having thus far proceeded, I felt easy to leave the Essay among Friends, for them to proceed in it as they believed best. And now an Exercise revived on my Mind in Relation to Lotteries, which were common in those Parts: I had once moved it in a former Sitting of this Meeting, when Arguments were used in Favour of Friends being held excused who were only concerned in such Lotteries as were agreeable to Law: And now, on moving it again, it was opposed as before; but the Hearts of some solid Friends appeared to be united to discourage the Practice amongst their Members; and the Matter was zealously handled by some on both Sides. In this Debate it appeared very clear to me, that the Spirit of Lotteries was a Spirit of Selfishness, which tended to Confusion and Darkness of Understanding; and that pleading for it in our Meetings, set apart for the Lord's Work, was not right: And, in the Heat of Zeal, I once made Reply to what an ancient Friend said, though when I sat down, I saw that my Words were not enough seasoned with Charity; and, after this, I spake no more on the Subject. At length a Minute was made; a Copy of which was agreed to be sent to their several Quarterly-meetings, inciting Friends to labour to discourage the Practice amongst all professing with us. Some Time after this Minute was made, I, remaining uneasy with the Manner of my speaking to the ancient Friend, could not see my Way clear to conceal my Uneasiness, but was concerned that I might say nothing to weaken the Cause in which I had laboured; and then, after some close Exercise and hearty Repentance, for that I had not attended closely to the safe Guide, I stood up, and reciting the Passage, acquainted Friends, that, though I durst not go from what I had said as to the Matter, yet I was uneasy with the Manner of my speaking, as believing milder Language would have been better. As this was uttered in some Degree of creaturely Abasement, it appeared to have a good Savour amongst us, after a warm Debate. The Yearly-meeting being now over, there yet remained on my Mind a secret, though heavy, Exercise in regard to some leading active Members about _Newport_, being in the Practice of Slave-keeping. This I mentioned to two ancient Friends, who came out of the Country, and proposed to them, if Way opened, to have some Conversation with those Friends: And, thereupon, one of those Country Friends and I consulted one of the most noted Elders who had Slaves; and he, in a respectful Manner, encouraged me to proceed to clear myself of what lay upon me. Now I had, near the Beginning of the Yearly-meeting, a private Conference with this said Elder and his Wife concerning theirs; so that the Way seemed clear to me to advise with him about the Manner of proceeding: I told him, I was free to have a Conference with them all together in a private House; or, if he thought they would take it unkind to be asked to come together, and to be spoke with one in the hearing of another, I was free to spend some Time among them, and visit them all in their own Houses: He expressed his Liking to the first Proposal, not doubting their Willingness to come together: And, as I proposed a Visit to only Ministers, Elders, and Overseers, he named some others, who he desired might be present also: And, as a careful Messenger was wanted to acquaint them in a proper Manner, he offered to go to all their Houses to open the Matter to them; and did so. About the eighth Hour, the next Morning, we met in the Meeting-house Chamber, and the last-mentioned Country Friend, also my Companion, and JOHN STORER, with us; when, after a short Time of Retirement, I acquainted them with the Steps I had taken in procuring that Meeting, and opened the Concern I was under; and so we proceeded to a free Conference upon the Subject. My Exercise was heavy, and I was deeply bowed in Spirit before the Lord, who was pleased to favour us with the seasoning Virtue of Truth, which wrought a Tenderness amongst us; and the Subject was mutually handled in a calm and peaceable Spirit: And, at length, feeling my Mind released from that Burthen which I had been under, I took my Leave of them, in a good Degree of Satisfaction; and, by the Tenderness they manifested in Regard to the Practice, and the Concern several of them expressed in Relation to the Manner of disposing of their Negroes after their Decease, I believed that a good Exercise was spreading amongst them; and I am humbly thankful to God, who supported my Mind, and preserved me in a good Degree of Resignation through these Trials. Thou, who sometimes travellest in the Work of the Ministry, art made very welcome by thy Friends, and seest many Tokens of their Satisfaction, in having thee for their Guest, it is good for thee to dwell deep, that thou mayst feel and understand the Spirits of People: If we believe Truth points towards a Conference on some Subjects, in a private Way, it is needful for us to take heed that their Kindness, their Freedom, and Affability, do not hinder us from the Lord's Work. I have seen that, in the midst of Kindness and smooth Conduct, to speak close and home to them who entertain us, on Points that relate to their outward Interest, is hard Labour; and sometimes, when I have felt Truth lead toward it, I have found myself disqualified by a superficial Friendship; and as the Sense thereof hath abased me, and my Cries have been to the Lord, so I have been humbled and made content to appear weak, or as a Fool for his Sake; and thus a Door hath opened to enter upon it. To attempt to do the Lord's Work in our own Way, and to speak of that which is the Burthen of the Word in a Way easy to the natural Part, doth not reach the Bottom of the Disorder. To see the Failings of our Friends and think hard of them, without opening that which we ought to open, and still carry a Face of Friendship; this tends to undermine the Foundation of true Unity. The Office of a Minister of Christ is weighty; and they, who go forth as Watchmen, had need to be steadily on their Guard against the Snares of Prosperity and an outside Friendship. After the Yearly-meeting, we were at Meetings at _New-Town_, _Cushnet_, _Long-Plain_, _Rochester_, and _Dartmouth_: From thence we sailed for _Nantucket_, in Company with ANN GAUNT and MERCY REDMAN, and several other Friends: The Wind being slack, we only reached _Tarpawling-Cove_ the first Day; where, going on Shore, we found Room in a Publick-house, and Beds for a few of us, the rest sleeping on the Floor: We went on board again about Break of Day; and, though the Wind was small, we were favoured to come within about four Miles of _Nantucket_; and then, about ten of us getting into our Boat, we rowed to the Harbour before dark; whereupon a large Boat, going off, brought in the rest of the Passengers about Midnight: The next Day but one was their Yearly-meeting, which held four Days; the last of which was their Monthly-meeting for Business. We had a laborious Time amongst them: Our Minds were closely exercised, and I believe it was a Time of great Searching of Heart: The longer I was on the Island, the more I became sensible that there was a considerable Number of valuable Friends there, though an evil Spirit, tending to Strife, had been at Work amongst them: I was cautious of making any Visits, but as my Mind was particularly drawn to them; and in that Way we had some Sittings in Friends Houses, where the heavenly Wing was, at Times, spread over us, to our mutual Comfort. My beloved Companion had very acceptable Service on this Island. When Meeting was over, we all agreed to sail the next Day, if the Weather was suitable and we well; and, being called up the latter Part of the Night, we went on board a Vessel, being in all about fifty; but, the Wind changing, the Seamen thought best to stay in the Harbour till it altered; so we returned on Shore; and, feeling clear as to any farther Visits, I spent my Time in our Chamber chiefly alone; and, after some Hours, my Heart being filled with the Spirit of Supplication, my Prayers and Tears were poured out, before my heavenly Father, for his Help and Instruction in the manifold Difficulties which attended me in Life: And, while I was waiting upon the Lord, there came a Messenger from the Women Friends, who lodged at another House, desiring to confer with us about appointing a Meeting, which to me appeared weighty, as we had been at so many before; but, after a short Conference, and advising with some elderly Friends, a Meeting was appointed, in which the Friend, who first moved it, and who had been much shut up before, was largely opened in the Love of the Gospel: And the next Morning, about Break of Day, going again on board the Vessel, we reached _Falmouth_ on the Main before Night; where our Horses being brought, we proceeded toward _Sandwich_ Quarterly-meeting. Being two Days in going to _Nantucket_, and having been there once before, I observed many Shoals in their Bay, which make Sailing more dangerous, especially in stormy Nights; also, that a great Shoal, which encloses their Harbour, prevents their going in with Sloops, except when the Tide is up; waiting without which, for the Rising of the Tide, is sometimes hazardous in Storms; waiting within, they sometimes miss a fair Wind. I took Notice, that on that small Island was a great Number of Inhabitants, and the Soil not very fertile; the Timber so gone, that for Vessels, Fences, and Firewood, they depend chiefly on the buying from the Main; the Cost whereof, with most of their other Expences, they depend principally upon the Whale-fishery to answer. I considered, that as Towns grew larger, and Lands near navigable Waters more cleared, Timber and Wood require more Labour to get it: I understood that the Whales being much hunted, and sometimes wounded and not killed, grew more shy and difficult to come at: I considered that the Formation of the Earth, the Seas, the Islands, Bays, and Rivers, the Motions of the Winds and great Waters, which cause Bars and Shoals in particular Places, were all the Works of him who is perfect Wisdom and Goodness; and, as People attend to his heavenly Instruction, and put their Trust in him, he provides for them in all Parts where he gives them a Being. And as, in this Visit to these People, I felt a strong Desire for their firm Establishment on the sure Foundation, besides what was said more publickly, I was concerned to speak with the Women Friends, in their Monthly-meeting of Business, many being present; and, in the fresh Spring of pure Love, to open before them the Advantage, both inward and outward, of attending singly to the Guidance of the Holy Spirit, and therein to educate their Children in true Humility, and the Disuse of all Superfluities, reminding them of the Difficulties their Husbands and Sons were frequently exposed to at Sea; and that, the more plain and simple their Way of Living was, the less Need of running great Hazards to support them in it; encouraging the young Women in their neat decent Way of attending themselves on the Affairs of the House; shewing, as the Way opened, that, where People were truly humble, used themselves to Business, and were content with a plain Way of Life, it had ever been attended with more true Peace and Calmness of Mind, than they have had who, aspiring to Greatness and outward Shew, have grasped hard for an Income to support themselves in it: And, as I observed they had few or no Slaves amongst them, I had to encourage them to be content without them; making mention of the numerous Troubles and Vexations which frequently attend the Minds of People who depend on Slaves to do their Labour. We attended the Quarterly-meeting at _Sandwich_, in Company with ANN GAUNT and MERCY REDMAN, which was preceded by a Monthly-meeting; and in the whole held three Days: We were various Ways exercised amongst them, in Gospel-love, according to the several Gifts bestowed on us; and were, at Times, overshadowed with the Virtue of Truth, to the Comfort of the Sincere, and stirring up of the Negligent. Here we parted with ANN and MERCY, and went to _Rhode-Island_, taking one Meeting in our Way, which was a satisfactory Time; and, reaching _Newport_ the Evening before their Quarterly-meeting, we attended it; and, after that, had a Meeting with our young People, separated from those of other Societies. We went through much Labour in this Town; and now, in taking Leave of it, though I felt close inward Exercise to the last, I found inward Peace; and was, in some Degree, comforted, in a Belief, that a good Number remain in that Place, who retain a Sense of Truth; and that there are some young People attentive to the Voice of the heavenly Shepherd. The last Meeting, in which Friends from the several Parts of the Quarter came together, was a select Meeting; and, through the renewed Manifestation of the Father's Love, the Hearts of the Sincere were united together. That Poverty of Spirit, and inward Weakness, with which I was much tried the fore Part of this Journey, have of late appeared to me as a Dispensation of Kindness. Appointing Meetings never appeared more weighty to me; and I was led into a deep Search, whether in all Things my Mind was resigned to the Will of God; often querying with myself, what should be the Cause of such inward Poverty; and greatly desired, that no secret Reserve in my Heart might hinder my Access to the divine Fountain. In these humbling Times I was made watchful, and excited to attend the secret Movings of the heavenly Principle in my Mind, which prepared the Way to some Duties, that in more easy and prosperous Times, as to the Outward, I believe I should have been in danger of omitting. From _Newport_ we went to _Greenwich_, _Shanticut_, and _Warwick_; and were helped to labour amongst Friends in the Love of our gracious Redeemer: And then, accompanied by our Friend, JOHN CASEY, from _Newport_, we rode through _Connecticut_ to _Oblong_, visited the Meetings of Friends in those Parts, and thence proceeded to the Quarterly-meeting at _Ryewoods_; and, through the gracious Extendings of divine Help, had some seasoning Opportunities in those Places: So we visited Friends at _New York_ and _Flushing_; and thence to _Rahaway_: And here, our Roads parting, I took Leave of my beloved Companion, and true Yoke-mate, SAMUEL EASTBURN; and reached Home on the tenth Day of the eighth Month, 1760, where I found my Family well: And, for the Favours and Protection of the Lord, both inward and outward, extended to me in this Journey, my Heart is humbled in grateful Acknowledgments; and I find renewed Desires to dwell and walk in Resignedness before him. CHAPTER VIII _His Visits to_ Pennsylvania, Shrewsbury, _and_ Squan_--His publishing the second Part of Considerations on keeping Negroes_--_His visiting the Families of Friends of_ Ancocas _and_ Mount-Holly _Meetings_--_His Visits to the_ Indians _at_ Wehaloosing _on the River_ Susquehannah Having felt my Mind drawn toward a Visit to a few Meetings in _Pennsylvania_, I was very desirous to be rightly instructed as to the Time of setting off: And, on the tenth Day of the fifth Month, 1761, being the first Day of the Week, I went to _Haddonfield_ Meeting, concluding to seek for heavenly Instruction, and come Home, or go on, as I might then believe best for me; and there, through the springing up of pure Love, I felt Encouragement, and so crossed the River. In this Visit I was at two Quarterly and three Monthly-meetings; and, in the Love of Truth, felt my Way open to labour with some noted Friends, who kept Negroes: And, as I was favoured to keep to the Root, and endeavoured to discharge what I believed was required of me, I found inward Peace therein, from Time to Time, and Thankfulness of Heart to the Lord, who was graciously pleased to be a Guide to me. In the eighth Month, 1761, having felt Drawings in my Mind to visit Friends in and about _Shrewsbury_, I went there, and was at their Monthly-meeting, and their First-day-meeting; and had a Meeting at _Squan_, and another at _Squankum_; and, as Way opened, had Conversation with some noted Friends concerning their Slaves: And I returned Home in a thankful Sense of the Goodness of the Lord. From the Care I felt growing in me some Years, I wrote Considerations on keeping Negroes, Part the Second; which was printed this Year, 1762. When the Overseers of the Press had done with it, they offered to get a Number printed, to be paid for out of the Yearly-meeting Stock, and to be given away; but I being most easy to publish them at my own Expence, and, offering my Reasons, they appeared satisfied. This Stock is the Contribution of the Members of our religious Society in general; amongst whom are some who keep Negroes; and, being inclined to continue them in Slavery, are not likely to be satisfied with those Books being spread amongst a People where many of the Slaves are taught to read, and especially not at their Expence; and such often, receiving them as a Gift, conceal them: But as they, who make a Purchase, generally buy that which they have a Mind for, I believe it best to sell them; expecting, by that Means, they would more generally be read with Attention. Advertisements being signed by Order of the Overseers of the Press, directed to be read in Monthly-meetings of Business within our own Yearly-meeting, informing where the Books were, and that the Price was no more than the Cost of printing and binding them, many were taken off in our Parts; some I sent to _Virginia_, some to _New-York_, and some to _Newport_, to my Acquaintance there; and some I kept, expecting to give Part of them away, where there appeared a Prospect of Service. In my Youth I was used to hard Labour; and, though I was middling healthy, yet my Nature was not fitted to endure so much as many others: So that, being often weary, I was prepared to sympathize with those whose Circumstances in Life, as free Men, required constant Labour to answer the Demands of their Creditors, and with others under Oppression. In the Uneasiness of Body, which I have many Times felt by too much Labour, not as a forced but as a voluntary Oppression, I have often been excited to think on the original Cause of that Oppression, which is imposed on many in the World: And, the latter Part of the Time wherein I laboured on our Plantation, my Heart, through the fresh Visitations of heavenly Love, being often tender, and my leisure Time frequently spent in reading the Life and Doctrines of our blessed Redeemer, the Account of the Sufferings of Martyrs, and the History of the first Rise of our Society, a Belief was gradually settled in my Mind, that if such, as had great Estates, generally lived in that Humility and Plainness which belongs to a _Christian_ Life, and laid much easier Rents and Interests on their Lands and Monies, and thus led the Way to a right Use of Things, so great a Number of People might be employed in Things useful, that Labour, both for Men and other Creatures, would need to be no more than an agreeable Employ; and divers Branches of Business, which serve chiefly to please the natural Inclinations of our Minds, and which, at present, seem necessary to circulate that Wealth which some gather, might, in this Way of pure Wisdom, be discontinued. And, as I have thus considered these Things, a Query, at Times, hath arisen: Do I, in all my Proceedings, keep to that Use of Things which is agreeable to universal Righteousness? And then there hath some Degree of Sadness, at Times, come over me, for that I accustomed myself to some Things, which occasioned more Labour than I believe divine Wisdom intends for us. From my early Acquaintance with Truth I have often felt an inward Distress, occasioned by the striving of a Spirit in me against the Operation of the heavenly Principle; and in this Circumstance have been affected with a Sense of my own Wretchedness, and in a mourning Condition felt earnest Longing for that divine Help, which brings the Soul into true Liberty; and sometimes, in this State, retiring into private Places, the Spirit of Supplication hath been given me; and, under a heavenly Covering, I have asked my gracious Father to give me a Heart in all Things resigned to the Direction of his Wisdom. In visiting People of Note in the Society who had Slaves, and labouring with them in brotherly Love on that Account, I have seen, and the Sight hath affected me, that a Conformity to some Customs, distinguishable from pure Wisdom, has entangled many; and the Desire of Gain, to support these Customs, greatly opposed the Work of Truth: And sometimes, when the Prospect of the Work before me has been such, that in Bowedness of Spirit, I have been drawn into retired Places, and besought the Lord with Tears that he would take me wholly under his Direction, and shew me the Way in which I ought to walk, it hath revived, with Strength of Conviction, that, if I would be his faithful Servant, I must, in all Things, attend to his Wisdom, and be teachable; and so cease from all Customs contrary thereto, however used amongst religious People. As he is the Perfection of Power, of Wisdom, and of Goodness, so, I believe, he hath provided, that so much Labour shall be necessary for Men's Support, in this World, as would, being rightly divided, be a suitable Employment of their Time; and that we cannot go into Superfluities, or grasp after Wealth in a Way contrary to his Wisdom, without having Connection with some Degree of Oppression, and with that Spirit which leads to Self-exaltation and Strife, and which frequently brings Calamities on Countries, by Parties contending about their Claims. In the eleventh Month of the Year 1762, feeling an Engagement of Mind to visit some Families in _Mansfield_. I joined my beloved Friend, BENJAMIN JONES, and we spent a few Days together in that Service. In the second Month, 1763, I joined in Company with ELIZABETH SMITH and MARY NOBLE on a Visit to the Families of Friends at _Ancocas_; in both which Visits, through the baptizing Power of Truth, the sincere Labourers were often comforted, and the Hearts of Friends opened to receive us. And, in the fourth Month following, I accompanied some Friends in a Visit to the Families of Friends in _Mount-Holly_, in which my Mind was often drawn into an inward Awfulness, wherein strong Desires were raised for the everlasting Welfare of my Fellow-creatures; and, through the Kindness of our heavenly Father, our Hearts were, at Times, enlarged, and Friends invited, in the Flowings of divine Love, to attend to that which would settle them on the sure Foundation. Having many Years felt Love in my Heart towards the Natives of this Land, who dwell far back in the Wilderness, whose Ancestors were the Owners and Possessors of the Land where we dwell; and who, for a very small Consideration, assigned their Inheritance to us; and, being at _Philadelphia_, in the eighth Month, 1761, in a Visit to some Friends who had Slaves, I fell in Company with some of those Natives who lived on the East Branch of the River _Susquehannah_, at an _Indian_ Town called _Wehaloosing_, two hundred Miles from _Philadelphia_, and, in Conversation with them by an Interpreter, as also by Observations on their Countenances and Conduct, I believed some of them were measurably acquainted with that divine Power which subjects the rough and forward Will of the Creature: And, at Times, I felt inward Drawings toward a Visit to that Place, of which I told none except my dear Wife, until it came to some Ripeness; and, then, in the Winter, 1762, I laid it before Friends at our Monthly and Quarterly, and afterwards at our general Spring-meeting; and, having the Unity of Friends, and being thoughtful about an _Indian_ Pilot, there came a Man and three Women from a little beyond that Town to _Philadelphia_ on Business: And I, being informed thereof by Letter, met them in Town in the fifth Month, 1763; and, after some Conversation, finding they were sober People, I, by the Concurrence of Friends in that Place, agreed to join with them as Companions in their Return; and, on the seventh Day of the sixth Month following, we appointed to meet at SAMUEL FOULK'S, at _Richland_ in _Bucks_ County. Now, as this Visit felt weighty, and was performed at a Time when Travelling appeared perilous, so the Dispensations of divine Providence, in preparing my Mind for it, have been memorable; and I believe it good for me to give some Hints thereof. After I had given up to go, the Thoughts of the Journey were often attended with unusual Sadness; in which Times my Heart was frequently turned to the Lord with inward Breathings for his heavenly Support, that I might not fail to follow him wheresoever he might lead me: And, being at our Youths Meeting at _Chesterfield_, about a Week before the Time I expected to set off, I was there led to speak on that Prayer of our Redeemer to his Father: "I pray not that thou shouldest take them out of the World, but that thou shouldest keep them from the Evil." And, in attending to the pure Openings of Truth, I had to mention what he elsewhere said to his Father; "I know that thou hearest me at all Times:" So that, as some of his Followers kept their Places, and as his Prayer was granted, it followed necessarily that they were kept from Evil: And, as some of those met with great Hardships and Afflictions in this World, and at last suffered Death by cruel Men, it appears, that whatsoever befals Men while they live in pure Obedience to God, as it certainly works for their Good, so it may not be considered an Evil as if relates to them. As I spake on this Subject, my Heart was much tendered, and great Awfulness came over me; and then, on the first Day of the next Week, being at our own Afternoon-meeting, and my Heart being enlarged in Love, I was led to speak on the Care and Protection of the Lord over his People, and to make mention of that Passage, where a Band of _Assyrians_ endeavouring to take captive the Prophet, were disappointed; and how the Psalmist said, "The Angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him." And thus, in true Love and Tenderness, I parted from Friends, expecting the next Morning, to proceed on my Journey, and, being weary, went early to Bed; and, after I had been asleep a short Time, I was awaked by a Man calling at my Door; and, arising, was invited to meet some Friends at a Publick-house in our Town, who came from _Philadelphia_ so late, that Friends were generally gone to Bed: These Friends informed me, that an Express arrived the last Morning from _Pittsburgh_, and brought News that the _Indians_ had taken a Fort from the _English_ Westward, and slain and scalped _English_ People in divers Places, some near the said _Pittsburgh_; and that some elderly Friends in _Philadelphia_, knowing the Time of my expecting to set off, had conferred together, and thought good to inform me of these Things, before I left Home, that I might consider them, and proceed as I believed best; so I, going again to Bed, told not my Wife till Morning. My Heart was turned to the Lord for his heavenly Instruction; and it was an humbling Time to me. When I told my dear Wife, she appeared to be deeply concerned about it; but, in a few Hours Time, my Mind became settled in a Belief, that it was my Duty to proceed on my Journey; and she bore it with a good Degree of Resignation. In this Conflict of Spirit, there were great Searchings of Heart, and strong Cries to the Lord, that no Motion might be, in the least Degree, attended to, but that of the pure Spirit of Truth. The Subjects before-mentioned, on which I had so lately spoken in publick, were now very fresh before me; and I was brought inwardly to commit myself to the Lord, to be disposed of as he saw best. So I took Leave of my Family and Neighbours, in much Bowedness of Spirit, and went to our Monthly-meeting at _Burlington_; and, after taking Leave of Friends there, I crossed the River, accompanied by my Friends, ISRAEL and JOHN PEMBERTON; and, parting the next Morning with ISRAEL, JOHN bore me Company to SAMUEL FOULK'S, where I met the before-mentioned _Indians_, and we were glad to see each other: Here my Friend, BENJAMIN PARVIN, met me, and proposed joining as a Companion, we having passed some Letters before on the Subject; and now, on his Account, I had a sharp Trial; for, as the Journey appeared perilous, I thought, if he went chiefly to bear me Company, and we should be taken Captive, my having been the Means of drawing him into these Difficulties would add to my own Afflictions: So I told him my Mind freely, and let him know that I was resigned to go alone; but, after all, if he really believed it to be his Duty to go on, I believed his Company would be very comfortable to me: It was indeed a Time of deep Exercise, and BENJAMIN appeared to be so fastened to the Visit, that he could not be easy to leave me; so we went on, accompanied by our Friends, JOHN PEMBERTON, and WILLIAM LIGHTFOOT of _Pikeland_, and lodged at _Bethlehem_; and there, parting with JOHN, WILLIAM and we went forward on the ninth Day of the sixth Month, and got Lodging on the Floor of a House, about five Miles from _Fort-Allen_: Here we parted with WILLIAM; and at this Place we met with an _Indian_ Trader, lately come from _Wioming_; and, in Conversation with him, I perceived that many white People do often sell Rum to the _Indians_, which, I believe, is a great Evil; first, they being thereby deprived of the Use of their Reason, and their Spirits violently agitated, Quarrels often arise, which end in Mischief; and the Bitterness and Resentments, occasioned hereby, are frequently of long Continuance; Again, their Skins and Furs, gotten through much Fatigue and hard Travels in Hunting, with which they intended to buy Clothing, when they become intoxicated, they often sell at a low Rate for more Rum; and afterward, when they suffer for want of the Necessaries of Life, are angry with those who, for the Sake of Gain, took the Advantage of their Weakness: Of this their Chiefs have often complained, at their Treaties with the _English_. Where cunning People pass Counterfeits, and impose that on others which is good for nothing, it is considered as a Wickedness; but, to sell that to People which we know does them Harm, and which often works their Ruin, for the Sake of Gain, manifests a hardened and corrupt Heart, and is an Evil, which demands the Care of all true Lovers of Virtue to suppress: And while my Mind, this Evening, was thus employed, I also remembered, that the People on the Frontiers, among whom this Evil is too common, are often poor; who venture to the Outside of a Colony, that they may live more independent on such as are wealthy, who often set high Rents on their Land: Being renewedly confirmed in a Belief, that, if all our Inhabitants lived according to sound Wisdom, labouring to promote universal Love and Righteousness, and ceased from every inordinate Desire after Wealth, and from all Customs which are tinctured with Luxury, the Way would be easy for our Inhabitants, though much more numerous than at present, to live comfortably on honest Employments, without having that Temptation they are often under of being drawn into Schemes to make Settlements on Lands which have not been purchased of the _Indians_, or of applying to that wicked Practice of selling Rum to them. On the tenth Day of the Month we set out early in the Morning, and crossed the Western Branch of _Delaware_, called the _Great Lehie_, near _Fort-Allen_; the Water being high, we went over in a Canoe: Here we met an _Indian_, and had some friendly Conversation with him, and gave him some Biscuit; and he having killed a Deer, gave the _Indians_ with us some of it: Then, after travelling some Miles, we met several _Indian_ Men and Women with a Cow and Horse, and some Household Goods, who were lately come from their Dwelling at _Wioming_, and going to settle at another Place; we made them some small Presents, and, some of them understanding _English_, I told them my Motive in coming into their Country, with which they appeared satisfied: And, one of our Guides talking a While with an ancient Woman concerning us, the poor old Woman came to my Companion and me, and took her Leave of us with an Appearance of sincere Affection. So, going on, we pitched our Tent near the Banks of the same River, having laboured hard in crossing some of those Mountains called the Blue-Ridge; and, by the Roughness of the Stones, and the Cavities between them, and the Steepness of the Hills, it appeared dangerous; but we were preserved in Safety, through the Kindness of him, whose Works in those mountainous Desarts appeared awful: Toward whom my Heart was turned during this Day's Travel. Near our Tent, on the Sides of large Trees peeled for that Purpose, were various Representations of Men going to, and returning from the Wars, and of some killed in Battle; this being a Path heretofore used by Warriours: And, as I walked about viewing those _Indian_ Histories, which were painted mostly in red, but some in black; and thinking on the innumerable Afflictions which the proud, fierce, Spirit produceth in the World; thinking on the Toils and Fatigues of Warriours, travelling over Mountains and Desarts; thinking on their Miseries and Distresses when wounded far from Home by their Enemies; and of their Bruises and great Weariness in chasing one another over the Rocks and Mountains; and of their restless, unquiet, State of Mind, who live in this Spirit; and of the Hatred which mutually grows up in the Minds of the Children of those Nations engaged in War with each other: During these Meditations, the Desire to cherish the Spirit of Love and Peace amongst these People arose very fresh in me. This was the first Night that we lodged in the Woods; and, being wet with travelling in the Rain, the Ground, our Tent, and the Bushes, which we proposed to lay under our Blankets, being also wet, all looked discouraging; but I believed, that it was the Lord who had thus far brought me forward, and that he would dispose of me as he saw good; and therein I felt easy: So we kindled a Fire, with our Tent open to it; and, with some Bushes next the Ground, and then our Blankets, we made our Bed, and, lying down, got some Sleep; and, in the Morning, feeling a little unwell, I went into the River; the Water was cold, but soon after I felt fresh and well. The eleventh Day of the sixth Month, the Bushes being wet, we tarried in our Tent till about eight o'Clock; when, going on, we crossed a high Mountain supposed to be upwards of four Miles over; the Steepness on the North Side exceeding all the others. We also crossed two Swamps, and, it raining near Night, we pitched our Tent and lodged. About Noon, on our Way, we were overtaken by one of the _Moravian_ Brethren, going to _Wehaloosing_, and an _Indian_ Man with him, who could talk _English_; and we, being together while our Horses ate Grass, had some friendly Conversation; but they, travelling faster than we, soon left us. This _Moravian_, I understood, had spent some Time this Spring at _Wehaloosing_, and was, by some of the _Indians_, invited to come again. The twelfth Day of the sixth Month, and first of the Week, it being a rainy Day, we continued in our Tent; and here I was led to think on the Nature of the Exercise which hath attended me: Love was the first Motion, and thence a Concern arose to spend some Time with the _Indians_, that I might feel and understand their Life, and the Spirit they live in, if haply I might receive some Instruction from them, or they be in any Degree helped forward by my following the Leadings of Truth amongst them: And, as it pleased the Lord to make Way for my going at a Time when the Troubles of War were increasing, and when, by Reason of much wet Weather, Travelling was more difficult than usual at that Season, I looked upon it as a more favourable Opportunity to season my Mind, and bring me into a nearer Sympathy with them: And, as mine Eye was to the great Father of Mercies, humbly desiring to learn what his Will was concerning me, I was made quiet and content. Our Guide's Horse, though hoppled, went away in the Night; after finding our own, and searching some Time for him, his Footsteps were discovered in the Path going back again, whereupon my kind Companion went off in the Rain, and, about seven Hours after, returned with him: And here we lodged again; tying up our Horses before we went to Bed, and loosing them to feed about Break of Day. On the thirteenth Day of the sixth Month, the Sun appearing, we set forward; and, as I rode over the barren Hills, my Meditations were on the Alterations of the Circumstances of the Natives of this Land since the Coming in of the _English_. The Lands near the Sea are conveniently situated for fishing; the Lands near the Rivers, where the Tides flow, and some above, are in many Places fertile, and not mountainous; while the Running of the Tides makes passing up and down easy with any Kind of Traffic. Those Natives have, in some Places, for trifling Considerations, sold their Inheritance so favourably situated; and, in other Places, been driven back by superior Force: So that in many Places, as their Way of clothing themselves is now altered from what it was, and they, far remote from us, have to pass over Mountains, Swamps, and barren Desarts, Travelling is very troublesome, in bringing their Skins and Furs to trade with us. By the extending of _English_ Settlements, and partly by _English_ Hunters, the wild Beasts, they chiefly depend on for a Subsistance, are not so plenty as they were; and People too often, for the Sake of Gain, open a Door for them to waste their Skins and Furs, in purchasing a Liquor which tends to the Ruin of them and their Families. My own Will and Desires were now very much broken, and my Heart, with much Earnestness, turned to the Lord, to whom alone I looked for Help in the Dangers before me. I had a Prospect of the _English_ along the Coast, for upwards of nine hundred Miles, where I had travelled; and the favourable Situation of the _English_, and the Difficulties attending the Natives in many Places, and the Negroes, were open before me; and a weighty and heavenly Care came over my Mind, and Love filled my Heart toward all Mankind, in which I felt a strong Engagement, that we might be obedient to the Lord, while, in tender Mercies, he is yet calling to us; and so attend to pure universal Righteousness, as to give no just Cause of Offence to the _Gentiles_, who do not profess _Christianity_, whether the Blacks from _Africa_, or the native Inhabitants of this Continent: And here I was led into a close laborious Enquiry, whether I, as an Individual, kept clear from all Things which tended to stir up, or were connected with Wars, either in this Land or _Africa_; and my Heart was deeply concerned, that, in future, I might in all Things keep steadily to the pure Truth, and live and walk in the Plainness and Simplicity of a sincere Follower of Christ. And, in this lonely Journey, I did, this Day, greatly bewail the Spreading of a wrong Spirit, believing, that the prosperous, convenient, Situation of the _English_, requires a constant Attention to divine Love and Wisdom to guide and support us in a Way answerable to the Will of that good, gracious, and almighty Being, who hath an equal Regard to all Mankind: And, here, Luxury and Covetousness, with the numerous Oppressions, and other Evils attending them, appeared very afflicting to me; and I felt in that which is immutable, that the Seeds of great Calamity and Desolation are sown and growing fast on this Continent: Nor have I Words sufficient to set forth that Longing I then felt, that we, who are placed along the Coast, and have tasted the Love and Goodness of God, might arise in his Strength; and, like faithful Messengers, labour to check the Growth of these Seeds, that they may not ripen to the Ruin of our Posterity. We reached the _Indian_ Settlement at _Wioming_; and here we were told, that an _Indian_ Runner had been at that Place a Day or two before us, and brought News of the _Indians_ taking an _English_ Fort westward, and destroying the People, and that they were endeavouring to take another; and also, that another _Indian_ Runner came there about the Middle of the Night before we got there, who came from a Town about ten Miles above _Wehaloosing_, and brought News, that some _Indian_ Warriours, from distant Parts, came to that Town with two _English_ Scalps, and told the People, that it was War with the _English_. Our Guides took us to the House of a very ancient Man; and, soon after we had put in our Baggage, there came a Man from another _Indian_ House some Distance off; and I, perceiving there was a Man near the Door, went out; and, having a Tomahawk wrapped under his Matchcoat out of Sight, as I approached him, he took it in his Hand; I, however, went forward, and, speaking to him in a friendly Way, perceived he understood some _English_: My Companion then coming out, we had some Talk with him concerning the Nature of our Visit in these Parts; and then he going into the House with us, and talking with our Guides, soon appeared friendly, and sat down and smoked his Pipe. Though his taking his Hatchet in his Hand, at the Instant I drew near to him, had a disagreeable Appearance, I believe he had no other Intent than to be in Readiness in case any Violence was offered to him. Hearing the News brought by these _Indian_ Runners, and being told by the _Indians_ where we lodged, that what _Indians_ were about _Wioming_ expected, in a few Days, to move to some larger Towns, I thought that, to all outward Appearance, it was dangerous Travelling at this Time; and was, after a hard Day's Journey, brought into a painful Exercise at Night, in which I had to trace back, and view over the Steps I had taken from my first Moving in the Visit; and though I had to bewail some Weakness which, at Times, had attended me, yet I could not find that I had ever given way to a wilful Disobedience: And then, as I believed I had, under a Sense of Duty, come thus far, I was now earnest in Spirit, beseeching the Lord to shew me what I ought to do. In this great Distress I grew jealous of myself, lest the Desire of Reputation, as a Man firmly settled to persevere through Dangers, or the Fear of Disgrace arising on my returning without performing the Visit, might have some Place in me: Thus I lay, full of Thoughts, great Part of the Night, while my beloved Companion lay and slept by me; till the Lord, my gracious Father, who saw the Conflicts of my Soul, was pleased to give Quietness: Then I was again strengthened to commit my Life, and all Things relating thereto, into his heavenly Hands; and, getting a little Sleep toward Day, when Morning came we arose. On the fourteenth Day of the sixth Month, we sought out and visited all the _Indians_ hereabout that we could meet with; they being chiefly in one Place, about a Mile from where we lodged, in all perhaps twenty. Here I expressed the Care I had on my Mind for their Good; and told them, that true Love had made me willing thus to leave my Family to come and see the _Indians_, and speak with them in their Houses. Some of them appeared kind and friendly. So we took our Leave of these _Indians_, and went up the River _Susquehannah_, about three Miles, to the House of an _Indian_, called JACOB JANUARY, who had killed his Hog; and the Women were making store of Bread, and preparing to move up the River. Here our Pilots left their Canoe when they came down in the Spring, which lying dry, was leaky; so that we, being detained some Hours, had a good deal of friendly Conversation with the Family; and, eating Dinner with them, we made them some small Presents. Then, putting our Baggage in the Canoe, some of them pushed slowly up the Stream, and the rest of us rode our Horses; and swimming them over a Creek, called _Lahawahamunk_, we pitched our Tent a little above it, there being a Shower in the Evening: And, in a Sense of God's Goodness in helping me in my Distress, sustaining me under Trials, and inclining my Heart to trust in him, I lay down in an humble bowed Frame of Mind, and had a comfortable Night's Lodging. On the fifteenth Day of the sixth Month, we proceeded forward till the Afternoon; when, a Storm appearing, we met our Canoe at an appointed Place; and, the Rain continuing, we stayed all Night, which was so heavy, that it beat through our Tent, and wet us and our Baggage. On the sixteenth Day, we found, on our Way, abundance of Trees blown down with the Storm the Day before; and had Occasion reverently to consider the kind Dealings of the Lord, who provided a safe Place for us in a Valley, while this Storm continued. By the falling of abundance of Trees across our Path, we were much hindered, and in some Swamps our Way was so stopped, that we got through with extreme Difficulty. I had this Day often to consider myself as a Sojourner in this World; and a Belief in the All-sufficiency of God to support his People in their Pilgrimage felt comfortable to me; and I was industriously employed to get to a State of perfect Resignation. We seldom saw our Canoe but at appointed Places, by reason of the Path going off from the River; and, this Afternoon, JOB CHILAWAY, an _Indian_ from _Wehaloosing_, who talks good _English_, and is acquainted with several People in and about _Philadelphia_, met our People on the River; and, understanding where we expected to lodge, pushed back about six Miles, and came to us after Night; and in a While our own Canoe came, it being hard Work pushing up Stream. JOB told us, that an _Indian_ came in Haste to their Town yesterday, and told them, that three Warriours, coming from some Distance, lodged in a Town above _Wehaloosing_ a few Nights past; and that these three Men were going against the _English_ at _Juniata_. JOB was going down the River to the Province-store at _Shamokin_. Though I was so far favoured with Health as to continue travelling, yet, through the various Difficulties in our Journey, and the different Way of living from what I had been used to, I grew sick; and the News of these Warriours being on their March so near us, and not knowing whether we might not fall in with them, was a fresh Trial of my Faith; and though, through the Strength of divine Love, I had several Times been enabled to commit myself to the divine Disposal, I still found the Want of my Strength to be renewed, that I might persevere therein; and my Cries for Help were put up to the Lord, who, in great Mercy, gave me a resigned Heart, in which I found Quietness. On the seventeenth Day, parting from JOB CHILAWAY, we went on, and reached _Wehaloosing_ about the Middle of the Afternoon, and the first _Indian_ that we saw was a Woman of a modest Countenance, with a Bible, who first spake to our Guide; and then, with a harmonious Voice, expressed her Gladness at seeing us, having before heard of our Coming: Then, by the Direction of our Guide, we sat down on a Log; and he went to the Town, to tell the People we were come. My Companion and I sitting thus together, in a deep inward Stillness, the poor Woman came and sat near us; and, great Awfulness coming over us, we rejoiced in a Sense of God's Love manifested to our poor Souls. After a While, we heard a Conkshell blow several Times, and then came JOHN CURTIS, and another _Indian_ Man, who kindly invited us into a House near the Town, where we found, I suppose, about sixty People sitting in Silence; and, after sitting a short Time, I stood up, and in some Tenderness of Spirit acquainted them with the Nature of my Visit, and that a Concern for their Good had made me willing to come thus far to see them; all in a few short Sentences, which some of them understanding interpreted to the others, and there appeared Gladness amongst them. Then I shewed them my Certificate, which was explained to them; and the _Moravian_, who overtook us on the Way, being now here, bade me welcome. On the eighteenth Day: We rested ourselves this Forenoon; and the _Indians_, knowing that the _Moravian_ and I were of different religious Societies, and as some of their People had encouraged him to come and stay a While with them, were, I believe, concerned that no Jarring or Discord might be in their Meetings: And they, I suppose, having conferred together, acquainted me, that the People, at my Request, would, at any Time, come together, and hold Meetings; and also told me, that they expected the _Moravian_ would speak in their settled Meetings, which are commonly held Morning and near Evening. So I found Liberty in my Heart to speak to the _Moravian_, and told him of the Care I felt on my Mind for the Good of these People; and that I believed no ill Effects would follow it, if I sometimes spake in their Meetings when Love engaged me thereto, without calling them together at Times when they did not meet of course: Whereupon he expressed his Good-will toward my speaking, at any Time, all that I found in my Heart to say: So, near Evening, I was at their Meeting, where the pure Gospel-love was felt, to the tendering some of our Hearts; and the Interpreters, endeavouring to acquaint the People with what I said in short Sentences, found some Difficulty, as none of them were quite perfect in the _English_ and _Delaware_ Tongues; so they helped one another, and we laboured along, divine Love attending: And afterwards, feeling my Mind covered with the Spirit of Prayer, I told the Interpreters that I found it in my Heart to pray to God, and believed, if I prayed aright, he would hear me, and expressed my Willingness for them to omit interpreting; so our Meeting ended with a Degree of divine Love: And, before the People went out, I observed PAPUNEHANG (the Man who had been zealous in labouring for a Reformation in that Town, being then very tender) spoke to one of the Interpreters; and I was afterwards told that he said in Substance as follows: "I love to feel where Words come from." On the nineteenth Day, and first of the Week: This Morning, in the Meeting, the _Indian_, who came with the _Moravian_, being also a Member of that Society, prayed; and then the _Moravian_ spake a short Time to the People: And, in the Afternoon, they coming together, and my Heart being filled with a heavenly Care for their Good, I spake to them a While by Interpreters; but none of them being perfect in the Work, and I, feeling the Current of Love run strong, told the Interpreters, that I believed some of the People would understand me, and so I proceeded: In which Exercise I believe the Holy Ghost wrought on some Hearts to Edification, where all the Words were not understood, I looked upon it as a Time of divine Favour, and my Heart was tendered and truly thankful before the Lord; and, after I sat down, one of the Interpreters seemed spirited to give the _Indians_ the Substance of what I had said. Before our first Meeting, this Morning, I was led to meditate on the manifold Difficulties of these _Indians_, who, by the Permission of the six Nations, dwell in these Parts; and a near Sympathy with them was raised in me; and, my Heart being enlarged in the Love of Christ, I thought that the affectionate Care of a good Man for his only Brother in Affliction does not exceed what I then felt for that People. I came to this Place through much Trouble; and though, through the Mercies of God, I believed, that if I died in the Journey, it would be well with me; yet the Thoughts of falling into the Hands of _Indian_ Warriours were, in Times of Weakness, afflicting to me; and, being of a tender Constitution of Body, the Thoughts of Captivity amongst them were, at Times, grievous; as supposing, that they being strong and hardy, might demand Service of me beyond what I could well bear; but the Lord alone was my Keeper; and I believed, if I went into Captivity, it would be for some good End: And thus, from Time to Time, my Mind was centered in Resignation, in which I always found Quietness. And now, this Day, though I had the same dangerous Wilderness between me and Home, I was inwardly joyful that the Lord had strengthened me to come on this Visit, and manifested a fatherly Care over me in my poor lowly Condition, when in mine own Eyes I appeared inferior to many amongst the _Indians_. When the last-mentioned Meeting was ended, it being Night, PAPUNEHANG went to Bed; and, one of the Interpreters sitting by me, I observed PAPUNEHANG spoke with an harmonious Voice, I suppose a Minute or two; and, asking the Interpreter, I was told, that "He was expressing his Thankfulness to God for the Favours he had received that Day; and prayed that he would continue to favour him with that same, which he had experienced in that Meeting." And though PAPUNEHANG had before agreed to receive the _Moravian_, and join with them, he still appeared kind and loving to us. On the twentieth Day I was at two Meetings, and silent in them. The twenty-first Day: This Morning, in Meeting, my Heart was enlarged in pure Love amongst them, and, in short plain Sentences, I expressed several Things that rested upon me, which one of the Interpreters gave the People pretty readily; after which, the Meeting ended in Supplication, and I had Cause humbly to acknowledge the Loving-kindness of the Lord towards us; and then I believed that a Door remained open for the faithful Disciples of Jesus Christ to labour amongst these People. I now feeling my Mind at Liberty to return, took my Leave of them in general, at the Conclusion of what I said in Meeting; and so we prepared to go homeward: But some of their most active Men told us, that, when we were ready to move, the People would choose to come and shake Hands with us; which those who usually come to Meeting did: And, from a secret Draught in my Mind, I went amongst some who did not use to go to Meeting, and took my Leave of them also: And the _Moravian_ and his _Indian_ Interpreter appeared respectful to us at parting. This Town stands on the Bank of _Susquehannah_, and consists, I believe, of about forty Houses, mostly compact together; some about thirty feet long, and eighteen wide, some bigger, some less; mostly built of split Plank, one End set in the Ground, and the other pinned to a Plate, on which lay Rafters, and covered with Bark. I understand a great Flood last Winter overflowed the chief Part of the Ground where the Town stands; and some were now about moving their Houses to higher Ground. We expected only two _Indians_ to be our Company; but, when we were ready to go, we found many of them were going to _Bethlehem_ with Skins and Furs, who chose to go in Company with us: So they loaded two Canoes, which they desired us to go in, telling us, that the Waters were so raised with the Rains, that the Horses should be taken by such as were better acquainted with the Fording-places: So we, with several _Indians_, went in the Canoes, and others went on Horses, there being seven besides ours. And we meeting with the Horsemen once on the Way by Appointment, and that near Night, a little below a Branch called _Tankhannah_, we lodged there; and some of the young Men going out a little before Dusk with their Guns, brought in a Deer. On the twenty-second Day, through Diligence, we reached _Wioming_ before Night, and understood the _Indians_ were mostly gone from this Place: Here we went up a small Creek into the Woods with our Canoes, and, pitching our Tent, carried out our Baggage; and before Dark our Horses came to us. On the twenty-third Day in the Morning their Horses were loaded, and we prepared our Baggage, and so set forward, being in all fourteen; and with diligent Travelling, were favoured to get near half-way to _Fort-Allen_. The Land on this Road from _Wioming_ to our Frontier being mostly poor, and good Grass scarce, they chose a Piece of low Ground to lodge on, as the best for grazing; and I, having sweated much in Travelling, and being weary, slept sound; I perceived in the Night that I had taken Cold, of which I was favoured to get better soon. On the twenty-fourth Day we passed _Fort-Allen_, and lodged near it in the Woods. Having forded the westerly Branch of _Delaware_ three Times, we thereby had a shorter Way, and missed going over the Top of the Blue Mountains, called the second Ridge. In the second Time fording, where the River cuts through the Mountain, the Waters being rapid, and pretty deep, and my Companion's Mare being a tall, tractable Animal, he sundry Times drove her back through the River, and they loaded her with the Burthens of some small Horses, which they thought not sufficient to come through with their Loads. The Troubles westward, and the Difficulty for _Indians_ to pass through our Frontier, I apprehend, was one Reason why so many came; as expecting that our being in Company would prevent the outside Inhabitants from being surprised. On the twenty-fifth Day we reached _Bethlehem_, taking Care on the Way to keep foremost, and to acquaint People on and near the Road who these _Indians_ were: This we found very needful; for the Frontier Inhabitants were often alarmed at the Report of _English_ being killed by _Indians_ westward. Amongst our Company were some whom I did not remember to have seen at Meeting, and some of these, at first, were very reserved; but, we being several Days together, and behaving friendly toward them, and making them suitable Returns for the Services they did us, they became more free and social. On the twenty-sixth Day and first of the Week, having carefully endeavoured to settle all Affairs with the _Indians_ relative to our Journey, we took Leave of them, and I thought they generally parted with us affectionately; so we, getting to _Richland_, had a very comfortable Meeting amongst our Friends: Here I parted with my kind Friend and Companion, BENJAMIN PARVIN; and, accompanied by my Friend, SAMUEL FOULK, we rode to JOHN CADWALLADER'S, from whence I reached Home the next Day, where I found my Family middling well; and they, and my Friends, all along appeared glad to see me return from a Journey which they apprehended dangerous: But my Mind, while I was out, had been so employed in striving for a perfect Resignation, and I had so often been confirmed in a Belief, that whatever the Lord might be pleased to allot for me, would work for Good, I was careful lest I should admit any Degree of Selfishness in being glad over much, and laboured to improve by those Trials in such a Manner as my gracious Father and Protector intends for me. Between the _English_ Inhabitants and _Wehaloosing_ we had only a narrow Path, which in many Places is much grown up with Bushes, and interrupted by abundance of Trees lying across it; these, together with the Mountains, Swamps, and rough Stones, make it a difficult Road to travel; and the more so, for that Rattle-snakes abound there, of which we killed four: People, who have never been in such Places, have but an imperfect Idea of them; but I was not only taught Patience, but also made thankful to God, who thus led me about and instructed me, that I might have a quick and lively Feeling of the Afflictions of my Fellow-creatures, whose Situation in Life is difficult. CHAPTER IX _His religious Conversation with a Company met to see the Tricks of a Juggler_--_His Account of_ JOHN SMITH'S _Advice, and of the Proceedings of a Committee, at the Yearly-meeting in 1764_--_Contemplations on the Nature of true Wisdom, occasioned by hearing of the Cruelty of the_ Indians _to their Captives_--_His visiting the Families of Friends at_ Mount-Holly, Mansfield, _and_ Burlington, _in 1764, and the Meetings on the Sea-Coast, from_ Cape-May, _toward_ Squan, _in 1765_--_His Visit to the lower Counties on_ Delaware,_ and the eastern Shore of_ Maryland, _in 1766, in Company with_ JOHN SLEEPER; _with some Account of_ JOSEPH NICHOLS _and his Followers; and Observations on the different State of the first Settlers in_ Pennsylvania, _who depended on their own Labour, and those of the southern Provinces, who kept Negroes_--_His visiting the northern Parts of_ New-Jersey _the same Year, and the western Parts of_ Maryland _and_ Pennsylvania _in 1767, and afterwards other Parts of_ Pennsylvania, _and the Families of Friends at_ Mount-Holly; _and again, several Parts of_ Maryland _in 1768_--_Farther Considerations on keeping Slaves; and his Concern for having formerly, as an Executor, been Party to the Sale of one; and what he did in Consequence of it_--_Thoughts on Friends exercising Offices in civil Government_ The latter Part of the Summer, 1763, there came a Man to _Mount-Holly_, who had before published, by a printed Advertisement, that, at a certain Publick-house, he would shew many wonderful Operations, which he therein enumerated. This Man, at the Time appointed, did, by slight of Hand, sundry Things; which, to those gathered, appeared strange. The next Day, I, hearing of it, and understanding that the Shew was to be continued the next Night, and the People to meet about Sun-set, felt an Exercise on that Account: So I went to the Publick-house in the Evening, and told the Man of the House that I had an Inclination to spend a Part of the Evening there; with which he signified that he was content. Then, sitting down by the Door, I spake to the People as they came together, concerning this Shew; and, more coming and sitting down with us, the Seats of the Door were mostly filled; and I had Conversation with them in the Fear of the Lord, and laboured to convince them that, thus assembling to see those Tricks or Slights of Hand, and bestowing their Money to support Men, who, in that Capacity, were of no Use in the World, was contrary to the Nature of the _Christian_ Religion. There was one of the Company, who, for a Time, endeavoured, by Arguments, to shew the Reasonableness of their Proceedings herein; but, after considering some Texts of Scripture, and calmly debating the Matter, he gave up the Point. So, having spent about an Hour amongst them, and feeling my Mind easy, I departed. At our Yearly-meeting at _Philadelphia_, on the twenty-fifth Day of the ninth Month, 1764, JOHN SMITH, of _Marlborough_, aged upwards of eighty Years, a faithful Minister, though not eloquent, stood up in our Meeting of Ministers and Elders, and, appearing to be under a great Exercise of Spirit, informed Friends in Substance as follows: to wit, "That he had been a Member of the Society upwards of sixty Years, and well remembered, that in those early Times Friends were a plain lowly-minded People; and that there was much Tenderness and Contrition in their Meetings.--That, at twenty Years from that Time, the Society, increasing in Wealth, and in some Degree conforming to the Fashions of the World, true Humility was less apparent, and their Meetings, in general, not so lively and edifying.--That, at the End of forty Years, many of them were grown very rich; that wearing of fine costly Garments, and using of silver (and other) Watches, became customary with them, their Sons and their Daughters, and many of the Society made a specious Appearance in the World; which Marks of outward Wealth and Greatness appeared on some in our Meetings of Ministers and Elders; and as these Things became more prevalent, so the powerful Overshadowings of the Holy Ghost were less manifest in the Society.--That there had been a continued Increase of these Ways of Life even until now; and that the Weakness which hath now overspread the Society, and the Barrenness manifest amongst us, are Matter of much Sorrow." He then mentioned the Uncertainty of his attending these Meetings in future, expecting his Dissolution was now near; and, having tenderly expressed his Concern for us, signified that he had seen in the true Light that the Lord would bring back his People from these Things into which they were thus degenerated; but that his faithful Servants must first go through great and heavy Exercises therein. On the twenty-ninth Day, the Committee, appointed by the Yearly-meeting to visit the Quarterly and Monthly-meetings, now gave an Account in Writing of their Proceedings in that Service; in which they signified, that, in the Course of it, they had been apprehensive that some Persons holding Offices in Government, inconsistent with our Principles, and others, who kept Slaves, remaining active Members in our Meetings of Discipline, had been one Means of Weakness more and more prevailing in the Management thereof in some Places. After this Report was read, an Exercise revived on my Mind, which, at Times, had attended me several Years, and inward Cries to the Lord were raised in me, that the Fear of Man might not prevent me from doing what he required of me; and standing up, I spake in Substance as follows: "I have felt a Tenderness in my Mind, towards Persons, in two Circumstances mentioned in that Report; that is, toward such active Members as keep Slaves, and such as hold Offices in civil Government; and have desired, that Friends, in all their Conduct, may be kindly affectioned one toward another. Many Friends, who keep Slaves, are under some Exercise on that Account; and, at Times, think about trying them with Freedom; but find many Things in their Way: And the Way of Living, and annual Expences of some of them, are such, that it seems impracticable for them to set their Slaves free, without changing their own Way of Life. It has been my Lot to be often abroad; and I have observed in some Places, at Quarterly and Yearly-meetings, and at some Houses where travelling Friends and their Horses are often entertained, that the yearly Expence of Individuals therein is very considerable: And Friends, in some Places, crouding much on Persons in these Circumstances for Entertainment, hath often rested as a Burthen on my Mind for some Years past; and I now express it in the Fear of the Lord, greatly desiring that Friends now present may duly consider it." In the Fall of this Year, having hired a Man to work, I perceived, in Conversation, that he had been a Soldier in the late War on this Continent; and, in the Evening, giving a Narrative of his Captivity amongst the _Indians_, he informed me that he saw two of his Fellow-captives tortured to Death in a very cruel Manner. This Relation affected me with Sadness, under which I went to Bed; and, the next Morning, soon after I awoke, a fresh and living Sense of divine Love was spread over my Mind; in which I had a renewed Prospect of the Nature of that Wisdom from above, which leads to a right Use of all Gifts, both spiritual and temporal, and gives Content therein: Under a Feeling thereof, I wrote as follows: "Hath he, who gave me a Being attended with many Wants unknown to Brute-creatures, given me a Capacity superior to theirs; and shewn me, that a moderate Application to Business is proper to my present Condition; and that this, attended with his Blessing, may supply all outward Wants, while they remain within the Bounds he hath fixed; and no imaginary Wants, proceeding from an evil Spirit, have any Place in me? Attend then, O my Soul! to this pure Wisdom, as thy sure Conductor through the manifold Dangers in this World. "Doth Pride lead to Vanity? Doth Vanity form imaginary Wants? Do these Wants prompt Men to exert their Power in requiring that of others, which they themselves would rather be excused from, were the same required of them? "Do these Proceedings beget hard Thoughts? Do hard Thoughts, when ripe, become Malice? Does Malice, when ripe, become revengeful; and, in the End, inflict terrible Pains on their Fellow-creatures, and spread Desolation in the World? "Doth Mankind, walking in Uprightness, delight in each other's Happiness? And do these Creatures, capable of this Attainment, by giving way to an evil Spirit, employ their Wit and Strength to afflict and destroy one another? "Remember then, O my Soul! the Quietude of those in whom Christ governs, and in all thy Proceedings feel after it. "Doth he condescend to bless thee with his Presence? To move and influence to Action? To dwell in thee, and walk in thee? Remember then thy Station, as a Being sacred to God; accept of the Strength freely offered thee; and take heed that no Weakness, in conforming to expensive, unwise, and hard-hearted, Customs, gendering to Discord and Strife, be given way to. Doth he claim my Body as his Temple, and graciously grant that I may be sacred to him? O! that I may prize this Favour; and that my whole Life may be conformable to this Character! "Remember, O my Soul! that the Prince of Peace is thy Lord: That he communicates his unmixed Wisdom to his Family; that they, living in perfect Simplicity, may give no just Cause of Offence to any Creature, but may walk as he walked." Having felt an Openness in my Heart toward visiting Families in our own Meeting, and especially in the Town of Mount-Holly, the Place of my Abode, I mentioned it in our Monthly-meeting the Fore-part of the Winter, 1764; which being agreed to, and several Friends of our Meeting being united in the Exercise, we proceeded therein; and, through divine Favour, were helped in the Work, so that it appeared to me as a fresh reviving of godly Care amongst Friends: And, the latter Part of the same Winter, I joined my Friend WILLIAM JONES, in a Visit to Friends Families in _Mansfield_; in which Labour I had Cause to admire the Goodness of the Lord towards us. Having felt my Mind drawn toward a Visit to Friends along the Sea-coast from _Cape-May_ to near _Squan_; and also to visit some People in those Parts, amongst whom there is no settled Worship; I joined with my beloved Friend, BENJAMIN JONES, in a Visit there, having Friends Unity therein: And, setting off the twenty-fourth Day of the tenth Month, 1765, we had a prosperous and very satisfactory Journey; feeling, at Times, through the Goodness of the heavenly Shepherd, the Gospel to flow freely toward a poor People scattered in those Places: And soon after our Return, I joined my Friends, JOHN SLEEPER and ELIZABETH SMITH, in visiting Friends Families at _Burlington_, there being at this Time about fifty Families of our Society in that City; and we had Cause humbly to adore our heavenly Father, who baptized us into a Feeling of the State of the People, and strengthened us to labour in true Gospel-love amongst them. An Exercise having, at Times, for several Years attended me, in regard to paying a religious Visit to Friends on the eastern Shore of _Maryland_: Such was the Nature of this Exercise, that I believed the Lord moved me to travel on Foot amongst them, that, by so travelling, I might have a more lively Feeling of the Condition of the oppressed Slaves, set an Example of Lowliness before the Eyes of their Masters, and be more out of the Way of Temptation to unprofitable Converse. The Time now drawing near in which I believed it my Duty to lay my Concern before our Monthly-meeting, I perceived, in Conversation with my beloved Friend, JOHN SLEEPER, that he was under a Concern to travel the same Way, and also to travel on Foot in the Form of a Servant amongst them, as he expressed it. This he told me before he knew aught of my Exercise. We, being thus drawn the same Way, laid our Exercise and the Nature of it before Friends; and, obtaining Certificates, we set off the sixth Day of the fifth Month, 1766; and were at Meetings with Friends at _Wilmington_, _Duck-Creek_, _Little-Creek_, and _Motherkill_; my Heart being sundry Times tendered under the divine Influence, and enlarged in Love toward the People amongst whom we travelled. From _Motherkill_, we crossed the Country about thirty-five Miles to Friends at _Tuckahoe_ in _Maryland_, and had a Meeting there and at _Marshy-Creek_. At these, our three last Meetings, were a considerable Number of People, Followers of one JOSEPH NICHOLS, a Preacher; who, I understand, is not in outward Fellowship with any religious Society of People, but professeth nearly the same Principles as our Society doth, and often travels up and down appointing Meetings, to which many People come. I heard some Friends speaking of some of their Neighbours, who had been irreligious People, that were now his Followers, and were become sober well-behaved Men and Women. Some Irregularities, I hear, have been amongst the People at several of his Meetings; but, from the whole of what I have perceived, I believe the Man and some of his Followers are honestly disposed, but that skilful Fathers are wanting amongst them: From hence we went to _Choptank_ and _Third-Haven_; and thence to _Queen Anne's_. The Weather having some Days past been hot and dry, and we, to attend Meetings pursuant to Appointment, having travelled pretty steadily, and had hard Labour in Meetings, I grew weakly, at which I was, for a Time, discouraged; but, looking over our Journey, and thinking how the Lord had supported our Minds and Bodies, so that we got forward much faster than I expected before we came out, I now saw that I had been in Danger of too strongly desiring to get soon through the Journey, and that this bodily Weakness, now attending me, was a Kindness to me; and then, in Contrition of Spirit, I became very thankful to my gracious Father, for this Manifestation of his Love; and, in humble Submission to his Will, my Trust was renewed in him. On this Part of our Journey, I had many Thoughts on the different Circumstances of Friends, who inhabit _Pennsylvania_ and _Jersey_, from those who dwell in _Maryland_, _Virginia_, and _Carolina_. _Pennsylvania_ and _New-Jersey_ were settled by many Friends, who were convinced of our Principles in _England_ in Times of Suffering, and, coming over, bought Lands of the Natives, and applied themselves to Husbandry in a peaceable Way; and many of their Children were taught to labour for their Living. Few Friends, I believe, came from _England_ to settle in any of these southern Provinces; but, by the faithful Labours of travelling Friends in early Times, there were considerable Convincements amongst the Inhabitants of these Parts. Here I remembered my reading of the warlike Disposition of many of the first Settlers in those Provinces, and of their numerous Engagements with the Natives, in which much Blood was shed, even in the Infancy of those Colonies. These People, inhabiting those Places, being grounded in Customs contrary to the pure Truth, when some of them were affected with the powerful preaching of the Word of Life, and joined in Fellowship with our Society, they had a great Work to go through. It is observable, in the History of the Reformation from _Popery_, that it had a gradual Progress from Age to Age: The Uprightness of the first Reformers, in attending to the Light and Understanding given them, opened the Way for sincere-hearted People to proceed farther afterward; and thus, each one truly fearing God, and labouring in those Works of Righteousness appointed for him in his Day, findeth Acceptance with him: Though, through the Darkness of the Times, and the Corruption of Manners and Customs, some upright Men have had little more for their Day's Work than to attend to the righteous Principle in their Minds, as it related to their own Conduct in Life, without pointing out to others the whole Extent of that, which the same Principle would lead succeeding Ages into. Thus, for Instance, amongst an imperious warlike People, supported by oppressed Slaves, some of these Masters, I suppose, are awakened to feel and see their Error; and, through sincere Repentance, cease from Oppression, and become like Fathers to their Servants; shewing, by their Example, a Pattern of Humility in living, and Moderation in governing, for the Instruction and Admonition of their oppressing Neighbours; those, without carrying the Reformation farther, I believe, have found Acceptance with the Lord. Such was the Beginning; and those who succeeded them, and have faithfully attended to the Nature and Spirit of the Reformation, have seen the Necessity of proceeding forward, and not only to instruct others, by their Example, in governing well, but also to use Means to prevent their Successors from having so much Power to oppress others. Here I was renewedly confirmed in my Mind, that the Lord (whose tender Mercies are over all his Works, and whose Ear is open to the Cries and Groans of the Oppressed) is graciously moving on the Hearts of People, to draw them off from the Desire of Wealth, and bring them into such an humble, lowly, Way of Living, that they may see their Way clearly, to repair to the Standard of true Righteousness; and not only break the Yoke of Oppression, but know him to be their Strength and Support in a Time of outward Affliction. We, passing on, crossed _Chester-River_; and had a Meeting there, and at _Cecil_ and _Sassafras_. Through my bodily Weakness, joined with a heavy Exercise of Mind, it was to me an humbling Dispensation, and I had a very lively Feeling of the State of the Oppressed; yet I often thought, that what I suffered was little, compared with the Sufferings of the blessed Jesus, and many of his faithful Followers; and may say, with Thankfulness, I was made content. From _Sassafras_ we went pretty directly Home, where we found our Families well; and, for several Weeks after our Return, I had often to look over our Journey: And though it appeared to me as a small Service, and that some faithful Messengers will yet have more bitter Cups to drink in those southern Provinces, for Christ's Sake, than we had; yet I found Peace in that I had been helped to walk in Sincerity, according to the Understanding and Strength given me. On the thirteenth Day of the eleventh Month, 1766, with the Unity of Friends at our Monthly-meeting, in Company with my beloved Friend, BENJAMIN JONES, I set out on a Visit to Friends in the upper Part of this Province, having had Drawings of Love in my Heart that Way a considerable Time: We travelled as far as _Hardwick_; and I had inward Peace in my Labours of Love amongst them. Through the humbling Dispensations of divine Providence, my Mind hath been brought into a farther Feeling of the Difficulties of Friends and their Servants south-westward; and being often engaged in Spirit on their Account, I believed it my Duty to walk into some Parts of the western Shore of _Maryland_, on a religious Visit; and, having obtained a Certificate from Friends of our Monthly-meeting, I took my Leave of my Family under the heart-tendering Operation of Truth; and, on the twentieth Day of the fourth Month, 1767, I rode to the Ferry opposite to _Philadelphia_, and from thence walked to WILLIAM HORNE'S, at _Derby_, that Evening; and next Day pursued my journey alone, and reached _Concord_ week-day Meeting. Discouragements and a Weight of Distress had, at Times, attended me in this lonesome Walk; through which Afflictions I was mercifully preserved: And now, sitting down with Friends, my Mind was turned toward the Lord, to wait for his holy Leadings; who, in infinite Love, was pleased to soften my Heart into an humble Contrition, and did renewedly strengthen me to go forward; so that to me it was a Time of heavenly Refreshment in a silent Meeting. The next Day I came to _New-Garden_ week-day Meeting, in which I sat with Bowedness of Spirit; and, being baptized into a Feeling of the State of some present, the Lord gave us a heart-tendering Season; to his Name be the Praise. I passed on, and was at _Nottingham_ Monthly-meeting; and at a Meeting at _Little-Britain_ on First-day: And in the Afternoon several Friends came to the House where I lodged, and we had a little Afternoon-meeting; and, through the humbling Power of Truth, I had to admire the Loving-kindness of the Lord manifested to us! On the twenty-sixth Day, I crossed _Susquehannah_; and coming amongst People in outward Ease and Greatness, chiefly on the Labour of Slaves, my Heart was much affected; and, in awful Retiredness, my Mind was gathered inward to the Lord, being humbly engaged that in true Resignation I might receive Instruction from him, respecting my Duty amongst this People. Though travelling on Foot was wearisome to my Body; yet thus travelling was agreeable to the State of my Mind. I went gently on, being weakly; and was covered with Sorrow and Heaviness, on Account of the spreading prevailing Spirit of this World, introducing Customs grievous and oppressive on one Hand, and cherishing Pride and Wantonness on the other. In this lonely Walk, and State of Abasement and Humiliation, the State of the Church in these Parts was opened before me; and I may truly say with the Prophet, "I was bowed down at the hearing of it; I was dismayed at the seeing of it." Under this Exercise, I attended the Quarterly-meeting at _Gunpowder_; and, in Bowedness of Spirit, I had to open, with much Plainness, what I felt respecting Friends living in Fullness, on the Labours of the poor oppressed Negroes; and that Promise of the Most High was now revived: "I will gather all Nations and Tongues; and they shall come and see my Glory."--Here the Sufferings of Christ, and his tasting Death for every Man, and the Travels, Sufferings, and Martyrdoms, of the Apostles and primitive _Christians_, in labouring for the Conversion of the Gentiles, were livingly revived in me; and, according to the Measure of Strength afforded, I laboured in some Tenderness of Spirit, being deeply affected amongst them: And thus the Difference, between the present Treatment which these Gentiles, the Negroes, receive at our Hands, and the Labours of the primitive _Christians_ for the Conversion of the Gentiles was pressed home, and the Power of Truth came over us; under a Feeling of which, my Mind was united to a tender-hearted People in those Parts; and the Meeting concluded in a Sense of God's Goodness toward his humble dependent Children. The next Day was a general Meeting for Worship, much crouded; in which I was deeply engaged in inward Cries to the Lord for Help, that I might stand wholly resigned, and move only as he might be pleased to lead me: And I was mercifully helped to labour honestly and fervently amongst them, in which I found inward Peace; and the Sincere were comforted. From hence I turned toward _Pipe-Creek_, and passed on to the _Red-Lands_; and had several Meetings amongst Friends in those Parts. My Heart was often tenderly affected, under a Sense of the Lord's Goodness, in sanctifying my Troubles and Exercises, turning them to my Comfort, and, I believe, to the Benefit of many others; for, I may say, with Thankfulness, that in this Visit, it appeared like a fresh tendering Visitation in most Places. I passed on to the western Quarterly-meeting in _Pennsylvania_; during the several Days of this Meeting, I was mercifully preserved in an inward feeling after the Mind of Truth, and my publick Labours tended to my Humiliation, with which I was content: And, after the Quarterly-meeting of Worship ended, I felt Drawings to go to the Women's Meeting of Business; which was very full: And here the Humility of Jesus Christ, as a Pattern for us to walk by, was livingly opened before me; and in treating on it my Heart was enlarged; and it was a baptizing Time. From hence I went on; and was at Meetings at _Concord_, _Middletown_, _Providence_, and _Haddonfield_, and so Home; where I found my Family well. A sense of the Lord's merciful Preservation, in this my Journey, excites reverent Thankfulness to him. On the second Day of the ninth Month, 1767, with the Unity of Friends, I set off on a Visit to Friends in the upper Part of _Berks_ and _Philadelphia_ Counties; was at eleven Meetings in about two Weeks; and have renewed Cause to bow in Reverence before the Lord, who, by the powerful Extendings of his humbling Goodness, opened my Way amongst Friends, and made the Meetings (I trust) profitable to us. And, the Winter following, I joined Friends on a Visit to Friends Families, in some Part of our Meeting; in which Exercise, the pure Influence of divine Love made our Visits reviving. On the fifth Day of the fifth Month, 1768, I left Home under the humbling Hand of the Lord, having obtained a Certificate, in order to visit some Meetings in _Maryland_; and to proceed without a Horse looked clearest to me. I was at the Quarterly-meetings at _Philadelphia_ and _Concord_; and then went on to _Chester-River_; and, crossing the Bay with Friends, was at the Yearly-meeting at _West-River_; thence back to _Chester-River_; and, taking a few Meetings in my Way, proceeded Home. It was a Journey of much inward Waiting; and, as my Eye was to the Lord, Way was, several Times, opened to my humbling Admiration, when Things had appeared very difficult. In my Return, I felt a Relief of Mind, very comfortable to me; having, through divine Help, laboured in much Plainness, both with Friends selected, and in the more publick Meetings; so that (I trust) the pure Witness, in many Minds, was reached. The eleventh Day of the sixth Month, 1769. Sundry Cases have happened, of late Years, within the Limits of our Monthly-meeting, respecting that of exercising pure Righteousness toward the Negroes; in which I have lived under a Labour of Heart, that Equity might be steadily kept to. On this Account, I have had some close Exercises amongst Friends; in which, I may thankfully say, I find Peace: And, as my Meditations have been on universal Love, my own Conduct in Time past became of late very grievous to me. As Persons, setting Negroes free in our Province, are bound by Law to maintain them, in case they have Need of Relief, some, who scrupled keeping Slaves for Term of Life, in the Time of my Youth, were wont to detain their young Negroes in their Service till thirty Years of Age, without Wages, on that Account; and with this Custom I so far agreed, that I, being joined to another Friend, in executing the Will of a deceased Friend, once sold a Negro Lad till he might attain the Age of thirty Years, and applied the Money to the Use of the Estate. With Abasement of Heart, I may now say, that sometimes, as I have sat in a Meeting, with my Heart exercised toward that awful Being, who respecteth not Persons nor Colours, and have looked upon this Lad, I have felt that all was not clear in my Mind respecting him; and as I have attended to this Exercise, and fervently sought the Lord, it hath appeared to me, that I should make some Restitution, but in what Way I saw not till lately; when, being under some Concern that I may be resigned to go on a Visit to some Part of the _West-Indies_, and under close Engagement of Spirit, seeking to the Lord for Counsel herein, that of my joining in the Sale aforesaid, came heavily upon me; and my Mind, for a Time, was covered with Darkness and Sorrow; and, under this sore Affliction, my Heart was softened to receive Instruction: And here I first saw, that, as I had been one of the two Executors, who had sold this Lad nine Years longer than is common for our own Children to serve, so I should now offer a Part of my Substance to redeem the last Half of that nine Years; but, as the Time was not yet come, I executed a Bond, binding me and my Executors to pay to the Man, he was sold to, what, to candid Men, might appear equitable for the last four Years and a Half of his Time, in case the said Youth should be living, and in a Condition likely to provide comfortably for himself. The ninth Day of the tenth Month, 1769. My Heart hath often been deeply afflicted under a Feeling I have had, that the Standard of pure Righteousness is not lifted up to the People by us, as a Society, in that Clearness which it might have been, had we been so faithful to the Teachings of Christ as we ought to have been: And, as my Mind hath been inward to the Lord, the Purity of Christ's Government hath been opened in my Understanding; and, under this Exercise, that of Friends being active in civil Society, in putting Laws in force which are not agreeable to the Purity of Righteousness, hath, for several Years, been an increasing Burthen upon me; having felt, in the Openings of universal Love, that where a People, convinced of the Truth of the inward Teachings of Christ, are active in putting Laws in Execution which are not consistent with pure Wisdom, it hath a necessary Tendency to bring Dimness over their Minds: And, as my Heart hath been thus exercised, and a tender Sympathy in me toward my Fellow-members, I have, within a few Months past, in several Meetings for Discipline, expressed my Concern on this Subject. CHAPTER X _His preparing to visit Friends in_ England--_His embarking at_ Chester, _in Company with_ SAMUEL EMLEN, _in a Ship bound to_ London--_His deep Exercise, in observing the Difficulties and Hardships the common Sailors are exposed to_--_Considerations on the Dangers to which Youth are exposed, in being trained to a sea-faring Life; and its Inconsistency with a pious Education_--_His Thoughts in a Storm at Sea: With many instructive Contemplations on the Voyage_--_And his Arrival at_ London Having been some Time under a religious Concern to prepare for crossing the Seas, in order to visit Friends in the northern Parts of _England_, and more particularly _Yorkshire_; after weighty Consideration, I thought it expedient to inform Friends, at our Monthly-meeting at _Burlington_, of it; who, having Unity with me therein, gave me a Certificate; and I afterward communicated the same to our Quarterly-meeting, and they likewise certified their Concurrence therewith. Some Time after which, at the general Spring-meeting of Ministers and Elders, I thought it my Duty to acquaint them of the religious Exercise which attended my Mind; with which they likewise signified their Unity by a Certificate, dated the twenty-fourth Day of the third Month, 1772, directed to Friends in _Great-Britain_. In the fourth Month following, I thought the Time was come for me to make some Enquiry for a suitable Conveyance; being apprehensive that, as my Concern was principally toward the northern Parts of _England_, it would be most proper to go in a Vessel bound to _Liverpool_ or _Whitehaven_: And, while I was at _Philadelphia_, deliberating on this Occasion, I was informed, that my beloved Friend, SAMUEL EMLEN, jun., intending to go to _London_, and having taken a Passage for himself in the Cabbin of a Ship, called _Mary and Elizabeth_, of which JAMES SPARKS was Master, and JOHN HEAD, of the City of _Philadelphia_, one of the Owners; and I feeling a Draught in my Mind toward the Steerage of the same Ship, went first and opened to SAMUEL the Feeling I had concerning it. My beloved Friend appeared glad that I had Thoughts of going in the Vessel with him, though my Prospect was toward the Steerage; and he, offering to go with me, we went on board, first in the Cabbin, a commodious Room, and then into the Steerage; where we sat down on a Chest, the Sailors being busy about us: Then the Owner of the Ship came, and sat down with us. Here my Mind was turned toward Christ, the heavenly Counsellor; and I feeling, at this Time, my own Will subjected, my Heart was contrite before him. A Motion was made, by the Owner, to go and sit in the Cabbin, as a Place more retired; but I felt easy to leave the Ship, and made no Agreement as to a Passage in her; but told the Owner, if I took a Passage in the Ship, I believed it would be in the Steerage; but did not say much as to my Exercise in that Case. I went to my Lodgings, and soon after went to Bed, and my Mind was under a deep Exercise before the Lord; whose helping Hand was manifested to me as I slept that Night, and his Love strengthened my Heart. In the Morning I went with two Friends on board the Vessel again; and, after a short Time spent therein, I went, with SAMUEL EMLEN, to the House of the Owner; to whom, in the Hearing of SAMUEL only, I opened my Exercise, in relation to a Scruple with regard to a Passage in the Cabbin. After this I agreed for a Passage in the Steerage; and, hearing in Town that JOSEPH WHITE had a Desire to see me, I felt the Reviving of a Desire to see him, and went then to his House, and next Day Home; where I tarried two Nights; and then, early in the Morning, I parted with my Family, under a Sense of the humbling Hand of God upon me; and going to _Philadelphia_, had Opportunity with several of my beloved Friends; who appeared to be concerned for me, on Account of the unpleasant Situation of that Part of the Vessel where I was likely to lodge. Having stayed two Nights in _Philadelphia_, I went the next Day to _Derby_ Monthly-meeting; where, through the Strength of divine Love, my Heart was enlarged toward the Youth then present; under which I was helped to labour in some Tenderness of Spirit. Then, lodging at WILLIAM HORNE'S, I, with one Friend, went to _Chester_; where, meeting with SAMUEL EMLEN, we went on board, the first Day of the fifth Month, 1772; and, as I sat down alone, on a Seat on the Deck, I felt a satisfactory Evidence that my Proceedings were not in my own Will, but under the Power of the Cross of Christ. Seventh Day of the fifth Month. We have had rough Weather mostly since I came on board; and the Passengers, JAMES REYNOLDS, JOHN TILL-ADAMS, SARAH LOGAN and her hired Maid, and JOHN BISPHAM, were all sea-sick, more or less, at Times; from which Sickness, through the tender Mercies of my heavenly Father, I have been preserved; my Afflictions now being of another Kind. There appeared an Openness in the Minds of the Master of the Ship and of the Cabbin-Passengers toward me: We were often together on the Deck, and sometimes in the Cabbin. My Mind, through the merciful Help of the Lord, hath been preserved in a good Degree, watchful and inward; and I have, this Day, great Cause to be thankful, in that I remain to feel Quietness of Mind. As my lodging in the Steerage, now near a Week, hath afforded me sundry Opportunities of seeing, hearing, and feeling, with respect to the Life and Spirit of many poor Sailors, an inward Exercise of Soul hath attended me, in regard to placing our Children and Youth where they may be likely to be exampled and instructed in the pure Fear of the Lord; and I, being much amongst the Seamen, have, from a Motion of Love, sundry Times taken Opportunities, with one of them at a Time alone, and in a free Conversation laboured to turn their Minds toward the Fear of the Lord: And this Day we had a Meeting in the Cabbin, where my Heart was contrite under a Feeling of divine Love. Now, concerning Lads being trained up as Seamen; I believe a Communication from one Part of the World to some other Parts of it, by Sea, is, at Times, consistent with the Will of our heavenly Father; and to educate some Youth in the Practice of sailing, I believe, may be right: But how lamentable is the present Corruption of the World! how impure are the Channels through which Trade hath a Conveyance! how great is that Danger, to which poor Lads are now exposed, when placed on shipboard to learn the Art of sailing! O! that all may take Heed and beware of Covetousness! O that all may learn of Christ, who was meek and low of Heart! Then, in faithfully following him, he will teach us to be content with Food and Raiment, without respect to the Customs or Honours of this World. Men, thus redeemed, will feel a tender Concern for their Fellow-creatures, and a Desire that those in the lowest Stations may be assisted and encouraged; and, where Owners of Ships attain to the perfect Law of Liberty, and are Doers of the Word, these will be blessed in their Deeds. Rising to work in the Night is not commonly pleasant in any case; but, in dark rainy Nights, it is very disagreeable, even though each Man were furnished with all Conveniences: But, if Men must go out at Midnight, to help manage the Ship in the Rain, and, having small Room to sleep and lay their Garments in, are often beset to furnish themselves for the Watch, their Garments or something relating to their Business being wanting and not easily found, when, from the Urgency occasioned by high Winds, they are hastened and called up suddenly, here is a Trial of Patience on the poor Sailors and the poor Lads their Companions. If, after they have been on Deck several Hours in the Night, and come down into the Steerage soaking wet, and are so close stowed that proper Convenience for change of Garment is not easily come at, but for Want of proper Room, their wet Garments are thrown in Heaps, and sometimes, through much crouding, are trodden under Foot in going to their Lodgings and getting out of them, and they have great Difficulties, at Times, each one to find his own, here are Trials on the poor Sailors. Now, as I have been with them in my Lodge, my Heart hath often yearned for them, and tender Desires have been raised in me, that all Owners and Masters of Vessels may dwell in the Love of God, and therein act uprightly; and, by seeking less for Gain, and looking carefully to their Ways, may earnestly labour to remove all Cause of Provocation from the poor Seamen, either to fret or use Excess of Strong-drink; for, indeed, the poor Creatures, at Times, in the Wet and Cold, seem to apply to Strong-drink to supply the Want of other Convenience. Great Reformation in the World is wanting; and the Necessity of it, amongst these who do Business on great Waters, hath, at this Time, been abundantly opened before me. The eighth Day of the fifth Month. This Morning the Clouds gathered, the Wind blew strong from South-eastward, and before Noon increased to that Degree that Sailing appeared dangerous. The Seamen then bound up some of their Sails, and took down some; and, the Storm increasing, they put the Dead-lights, so called, into the Cabbin-Windows, and lighted a Lamp as at Night. The Wind now blew vehemently, and the Sea wrought to that Degree, that an awful Seriousness prevailed in the Cabbin, in which I spent, I believe, about seventeen Hours; for I believed the poor wet toiling Seamen had Need of all the Room in the crouded Steerage, and the Cabbin-Passengers had given me frequent Invitations. They ceased now from Sailing, and put the Vessel in the Posture called, lying-to. My Mind, in this Tempest, through the gracious Assistance of the Lord, was preserved in a good Degree of Resignation; and I felt, at Times, a few Words in his Love to my Ship-mates, in regard to the All-sufficiency of him who formed the great Deep, and whose Care is so extensive, that a Sparrow falls not without his Notice; and thus, in a tender Frame of Mind, spake to them of the Necessity of our yielding, in true Obedience, to the Instructions of our heavenly Father, who sometimes, through Adversities, intendeth our Refinement. About eleven at Night I went out on the Deck, when the Sea wrought exceedingly, and the high-foaming Waves, all round about, had in some Sort the Appearance of Fire, but did not give much, if any, Light. The Sailor, then at the Helm, said he lately saw a Corposant at the Head of the Mast. About this Time I observed the Master of the Ship ordered the Carpenter to keep on the Deck; and, though he said little, I apprehended his Care was, that the Carpenter, with his axe, might be in Readiness, in case of any Extremity. Soon after this, the Vehemency of the Wind abated; and, before Morning, they again put the Ship under Sail. The tenth Day of the Month, and first of the Week, it being fine Weather, we had a Meeting in the Cabbin, at which most of the Seamen were present: This Meeting to me was a strengthening Time. The thirteenth Day of the Month. As I continue to lodge in the Steerage, I feel an Openness this Morning, to express something farther of the State of my Mind, in Respect to poor Lads bound Apprentice to learn the Art of Sailing. As I believe Sailing is of some Use in the World, a Labour of Soul attends me, that the pure Counsel of Truth may be humbly waited for in this Case, by all concerned in the Business of the Seas. A pious Father, whose Mind is exercised for the everlasting Welfare of his Child, may not, with a peaceable Mind, place him out to an Employment amongst a People, whose common Course of Life is manifestly corrupt and prophane; so great is the present Defect amongst Seafaring Men, in regard to Piety and Virtue: And, through an abundant Traffic, and many Ships of War, so many People are employed on the Sea, that this Subject of placing Lads to the Employment appears very weighty. Prophane Examples are very corrupting, and very forcible. And as my Mind, Day after Day, and Night after Night, hath been affected with a sympathizing Tenderness toward poor Children, put to the Employment of Sailors, I have sometimes had weighty Conversation with the Sailors in the Steerage, who were mostly respectful to me, and more and more so the longer I was with them: They mostly appeared to take kindly what I said to them; but their Minds have appeared to be so deeply impressed with that almost universal Depravity amongst Sailors, that the poor Creatures, in their Answers to me on this Subject, have revived in my Remembrance that of the degenerate _Jews_ a little before the Captivity, as repeated by JEREMIAH the Prophet, "There is no Hope." Now, under this Exercise, a Sense of the Desire of outward Gain prevailing amongst us hath felt grievous, and a strong Call to the professed Followers of Christ hath been raised in me, that all may take Heed, lest, through loving this present World, they be found in a continued Neglect of Duty, with respect to a faithful Labour for a Reformation. Silence, as to every Motion proceeding from the Love of Money, and an humble Waiting upon God to know his Will concerning us, has now appeared necessary: He alone is able to strengthen us to dig deep, to remove all which lies between us and the safe Foundation, and so direct us in our outward Employments, that pure universal Love may shine forth in our Proceedings. Desires arising from the Spirit of Truth are pure Desires; and when a Mind, divinely opened toward a young Generation, is made sensible of corrupting Examples, powerfully working, and extensively spreading amongst them, how moving is the Prospect! The sixteenth Day of the Month. Wind for several Days past often high, what the Sailors call squally, rough Sea and frequent Rains. This last Night a very trying Night to the poor Seamen: The Water, chief Part of the Night, running over the main Deck, and sometimes Breaking-waves came on the Quarter-deck. The latter Part of the Night, as I lay in Bed, my Mind was humbled under the Power of divine Love; and Resignedness to the great Creator of the Earth and Seas, renewedly wrought in me; whose fatherly Care over his Children felt precious to my Soul: And Desires were now renewed in me, to embrace every Opportunity of being inwardly acquainted with the Hardships and Difficulties of my Fellow-creatures, and to labour in his Love for the spreading of pure universal Righteousness on the Earth. The Opportunities were frequent of hearing Conversation amongst the Sailors, in respect to the Voyages to _Africa_, and the Manner of bringing the deeply-oppressed Slaves into our Islands. The Thoughts of their Condition, frequently in Chains and Fetters on board the Vessels, with Hearts loaded with Grief, under the Apprehensions of miserable Slavery; my Mind was frequently opened to meditate on these Things. On the seventeenth Day of the Month, and first of the Week, we had a Meeting in the Cabbin; to which the Seamen generally came. My Spirit was contrite before the Lord; whose Love, at this Time, affected my Heart. This Afternoon I felt a tender Sympathy of Soul with my poor Wife and Family left behind; in which State, my Heart was enlarged in Desires that they may walk in that humble Obedience wherein the everlasting Father may be their Guide and Support, through all the Difficulties in this World; and a Sense of that gracious Assistance, through which my Mind hath been strengthened to take up the Cross and leave them, to travel in the Love of Truth, hath begotten Thankfulness in my Heart to our great Helper. On the twenty-fourth Day of the Month, and first of the Week, a clear pleasant Morning: And, as I sat on Deck, I felt a Reviving in my Nature; which, through much rainy Weather and high Winds, being shut up in a close unhealthy Air, was weakened. Several Nights of late I felt Breathing difficult; so that a little after the rising of the second Watch (which is about Midnight) I got up, and stood, I believe, near an Hour, with my Face near the Hatchway, to get the fresh Air at the small Vacancy under the Hatch-door; which is commonly shut down, partly to keep out Rain, and sometimes to keep the Breaking-waves from dashing into the Steerage. I may, with Thankfulness to the Father of Mercies, acknowledge, that, in my present weak State, my Mind hath been supported to bear the Affliction with Patience; and have looked at the present Dispensation as a Kindness from the great Father of Mankind, who, in this my floating Pilgrimage, is in some Degree bringing me to feel that, which many thousands of my Fellow-creatures often suffer in a greater Degree. My Appetite failing, the Trial hath been the heavier; and I have felt tender Breathings in my Soul after God, the Fountain of Comfort, whose inward Help hath supplied, at Times, the Want of outward Convenience: And strong Desires have attended me, that his Family, who are acquainted with the Movings of his holy Spirit, may be so redeemed from the Love of Money, and from that Spirit in which Men seek Honour one of another, that in all Business, by Sea or Land, we may constantly keep in View the coming of his Kingdom on Earth, as it is in Heaven; and, by faithfully following this safe Guide, shew forth Examples, tending to lead out of that under which the Creation groans! This Day we had a Meeting in the Cabbin; in which I was favoured in some Degree to experience the fulfilling of that Saying of the Prophet, "The Lord hath been a Strength to the Poor, a Strength to the Needy in their Distress;" for which, my Heart is bowed in Thankfulness before him! The twenty-eighth Day of the Month.--Wet Weather of late, small Winds inclining to Calms: Our Seamen have cast a Lead, I suppose about one hundred Fathoms, but find no Bottom: Foggy Weather this Morning. Through the Kindness of the great Preserver of Men my Mind remains quiet; and a Degree of Exercise, from Day to Day, attends me, that the pure peaceable Government of Christ may spread and prevail amongst Mankind. The leading on of a young Generation in that pure Way in which the Wisdom of this World hath no Place; where Parents and Tutors, humbly waiting for the heavenly Counsellor, may example them in the Truth, as it is in Jesus;--this, for several Days, hath been the Exercise of my Mind. O! how safe, how quiet, is that State, where the Soul stands in pure Obedience to the Voice of Christ, and a watchful Care is maintained not to follow the Voice of the Stranger! Here Christ is felt to be our Shepherd, and, under his Leading, People are brought to a Stability; and, where he doth not lead forward, we are bound, in the Bonds of pure Love, to stand still and wait upon him. In the Love of Money, and in the Wisdom of this World, Business is proposed; then the Urgency of Affairs pushes forward; nor can the Mind in this State, discern the good and perfect Will of God concerning us. The Love of God is manifested in graciously calling us to come out of that which stands in Confusion: But, if we bow not in the Name of Jesus; if we give not up those Prospects of Gain, which, in the Wisdom of this World, are open before us, but say, in our Hearts, I must needs go on, and, in going on, I hope to keep as near to the Purity of Truth as the Business before me will admit of; here the Mind remains entangled, and the Shining of the Light of Life into the Soul is obstructed. In an entire Subjection of our Wills the Lord graciously opens a Way for his People, where all their Wants are bounded by his Wisdom; and here we experience the Substance of what _Moses_ the Prophet figured out in the Water of Separation, as a Purification from Sin. _Esau_ is mentioned as a Child red all over, like a hairy Garment: In _Esau_ is represented the natural Will of Man. In preparing the Water of Separation, a red Heifer, without Blemish, on which there had been no Yoke, was to be slain, and her Blood sprinkled by the Priest seven Times toward the Tabernacle of the Congregation; then her Skin, her Flesh, and all pertaining to her, were to be burnt without the Camp; and of her Ashes the Water was prepared. Thus the crucifying the old Man, or natural Will, is represented; and hence comes a Separation from that carnal Mind, which is Death. "He who toucheth the dead Body of a Man, and purifieth not himself with the Water of Separation, he defileth the Tabernacle of the Lord; he is unclean." _Numb._ xix. 13. If any, through the Love of Gain, go forth into Business, wherein they dwell as amongst the Tombs, and touch the Bodies of those who are dead; if these, through the infinite Love of God feel the Power of the Cross of Christ to crucify them to the World, and therein learn humbly to follow the divine Leader;--here is the Judgment of this World;--here the Prince of this World is cast out. The Water of Separation is felt; and, though we have been amongst the Slain, and, through the Desire of Gain, have touched the dead Body of a Man, yet, in the purifying Love of Christ, we are washed in the Water of Separation; are brought off from that Business, from that Gain, and from that Fellowship, which was not agreeable to his holy Will: And I have felt a renewed Confirmation, in the Time of this Voyage, that the Lord, in his infinite Love, is calling to his visited Children, so to give up all outward Possessions and Means of getting Treasures, that his holy Spirit may have free Course in their Hearts, and direct them in all their Proceedings. To feel the Substance pointed at in this Figure, Man must know Death, as to his own Will. "No Man can see God, and live." This was spoken by the Almighty to _Moses_ the Prophet, and opened by our blessed Redeemer. As Death comes on our own Wills, and a new Life is formed in us, the Heart is purified and prepared to understand clearly. "Blessed are the Pure in Heart; for they shall see God." In Purity of Heart the Mind is divinely opened to behold the Nature of universal Righteousness, or the Righteousness of the Kingdom of God. "No Man hath seen the Father, save he that is of God; he hath seen the Father." The natural Mind is active about the Things of this Life; and, in this natural Activity, Business is proposed, and a Will in us to go forward in it. As long as this natural Will remains unsubjected, so long there remains an Obstruction against the Clearness of divine Light operating in us; but when we love God with all our Heart, and with all our Strength, then in this Love, we love our Neighbours as ourselves; and a Tenderness of Heart is felt toward all People for whom Christ died, even such who, as to outward Circumstances, may be to us as the _Jews_ were to the _Samaritans_. Who is my Neighbour? See this Question answered by our Saviour, _Luke_ x. 30. In this Love we can say, that Jesus is the Lord; and the Reformation in our Souls is manifested in a full Reformation of our Lives, wherein all Things are new, and all Things are of God; _2 Cor._ v. 18. in this the Desire of Gain is subjected. When Employment is honestly followed in the Light of Truth, and People become diligent in Business, "fervent in Spirit, serving the Lord;" _Rom._ xii. 11. here the Name is opened: "This is the Name by which he shall be called, THE LORD OUR RIGHTEOUSNESS." _Jerem._ xxiii. 6. O! how precious is this Name! it is like Ointment poured out. The chaste Virgins are in Love with the Redeemer; and, for the promoting his peaceable Kingdom in the World, are content to endure Hardness, like good Soldiers; and are so separated in Spirit from the Desire of Riches, that in their Employments they become extensively careful to give none Offence, neither to _Jews_ nor _Heathen_, nor the Church of Christ. On the thirty-first Day of the Month, and first of the Week, we had a Meeting in the Cabbin, with near all the Ship's Company; the Whole being near thirty. In this Meeting, the Lord, in Mercy, favoured us with the Extendings of his Love. The second Day of the sixth Month. Last Evening the Seamen found Bottom at about seventy Fathoms. This Morning, fair Wind, and pleasant. As I sat on Deck, my Heart was overcome with the Love of Christ, and melted into Contrition before him; and, in this State, the Prospect of that Work, to which I have felt my Mind drawn when in my native Land, being in some Degree opened before me, I felt like a little Child: and my Cries were put up to my heavenly Father for Preservation, that, in a humble Dependence on him, my Soul might be strengthened in his Love, and kept inwardly waiting for his Counsel. This Afternoon we saw that Part of _England_ called the _Lizard_. Some Dunghill-fowls yet remained of those the Passengers took for their Sea-store; I believe about fourteen perished in the Storms at Sea, by the Waves breaking over the Quarter-deck; and a considerable Number with Sickness, at different Times. I observed the Cocks crew, coming down the _Delaware_, and while we were near the Land; but afterward I think I did not hear one of them crow till we came near the Land in _England_, when they again crowed a few Times. In observing their dull Appearance at Sea, and the pining Sickness of some of them, I often remembered the Fountain of Goodness, who gave Being to all Creatures, and whose Love extends to that of caring for the Sparrows; and believe, where the Love of God is verily perfected, and the true Spirit of Government watchfully attended to, a Tenderness toward all Creatures made subject to us will be experienced, and a Care felt in us, that we do not lessen that Sweetness of Life, in the animal Creation, which the great Creator intends for them in our Government. The fourth Day of the Month. About Noon a Pilot came off from _Dover_; where my beloved Friend, SAMUEL EMLEN, went on Shore, and thence to _London_; but I felt easy in staying in the Ship. The seventh Day of the Month, and first of the Week. Clear Morning; we lay at Anchor for the Tide, and had a Parting-meeting with the Ship's Company; in which my Heart was enlarged in a fervent Concern for them, that they may come to experience Salvation through Christ. We had a Head-Wind up the _Thames_; lay sometimes at Anchor; saw many Ships passing, and some at Anchor near; and had large Opportunity of feeling the Spirit in which the poor bewildered Sailors too generally live.--That lamentable Degeneracy, which so much prevails on the People employed on the Seas, so affected my Heart, that I cannot easily convey the Feeling I have had to another. CHAPTER XI _His attending the Yearly-meeting in_ London; _and, after it, proceeding towards_ Yorkshire, _visiting several Quarterly and other Meetings in the Counties of_ Hertford, Warwick, Oxford, Nottingham, York, _and_ Westmoreland; _and thence again into_ Yorkshire, _and to the City of_ York; _with some instructive Thoughts and Observations, and Letters on divers Subjects_--_His hearing of the Decease of_ WILLIAM HUNT; _and some Account of him_--_His Sickness at_ York; _and End of his Pilgrimage there_ On the eighth Day of the sixth Month, 1772, we landed at _London_; and I went straightway to the Yearly-meeting of Ministers and Elders, which had been gathered (I suppose) about half an Hour. In this Meeting my Mind was humbly contrite: In the Afternoon the Meeting of Business opened; which, by Adjournments, held near a Week. In these Meetings I often felt a living Concern for the Establishment of Friends in the pure Life of Truth; and my Heart was enlarged in the Meeting of Ministers, Meeting of Business, and in several Meetings of publick Worship; and I felt my Mind united in true Love to the faithful Labourers now gathered at this Yearly-meeting. On the fifteenth Day of the Month, I left _London_, and went to a Quarterly-meeting at _Hertford_. The first Day of the seventh Month. I have been at Quarterly-meetings at _Sherrington_, _Northampton_, _Banbury_, and _Shipston_; and had sundry Meetings between: My Mind hath been bowed under a Sense of divine Goodness manifested amongst us; my Heart hath been often enlarged in true Love, both amongst Ministers and Elders, and in publick Meetings; that through the Lord's Goodness, I believe it hath been a fresh Visitation to many, in particular to the Youth. The seventeenth Day of the Month. Was this Day at _Birmingham_: Have been at Meetings at _Coventry_, _Warwick_, in _Oxfordshire_, and sundry other Places; have felt the humbling Hand of the Lord upon me; and through his tender Mercies find Peace in the Labours I have gone through. The twenty-sixth Day of the Month. I have continued travelling northward, visiting Meetings: Was this Day at _Nottingham_; which, in the Forenoon especially, was, through divine Love, a Heart-tendering Season: Next Day had a Meeting in a Friend's House with Friends Children and some Friends; this, through the strengthening Arm of the Lord, was a Time to be thankfully remembered. The second Day of the eighth Month, and first of the Week. Was this Day at _Sheffield_, a large inland Town: Have been at sundry Meetings last Week; and feel inward Thankfulness for that divine Support, which hath been graciously extended to me. The ninth Day of the Month, and first of the Week, was at _Rushworth_: Have lately passed through some painful Labour; but have been comforted, under a Sense of that divine Visitation, which I feel extended toward many young People. The sixteenth Day of the Month, and first of the Week, I was at _Settle_: It hath of late been a Time of inward Poverty; under which my Mind hath been preserved in a watchful tender State, feeling for the Mind of the holy Leader, and I find Peace in the Labours I have passed through. I have felt great Distress of Mind, since I came on this Island, on Account of the Members of our Society being mixed with the World in various Sorts of Business and Traffick, carried on in impure Channels. Great is the Trade to _Africa_ for Slaves! and, in loading these Ships, abundance of People are employed in the Factories; amongst whom are many of our Society. Friends, in early Times, refused, on a religious Principle, to make, or trade in, Superfluities; of which we have many large Testimonies on Record; but, for Want of Faithfulness, some gave way; even some, whose Examples were of Note in our Society; and from thence others took more Liberty. Members of our Society worked in Superfluities, and bought and sold them; and thus Dimness of Sight came over many: At length, Friends got into the Use of some Superfluities in Dress, and in the Furniture of their Houses; and this hath spread from less to more, till Superfluity of some Kinds is common amongst us. In this declining State, many look at the Example one of another, and too much neglect the pure Feeling of Truth. Of late Years, a deep Exercise hath attended my Mind, that Friends may dig deep, may carefully cast forth the loose Matter, and get down to the Rock, the sure Foundation, and there hearken to that divine Voice which gives a clear and certain Sound; and I have felt in that which doth not deceive, that if Friends, who have known the Truth, keep in that Tenderness of Heart, where all Views of outward Gain are given up, and their Trust is only on the Lord, he will graciously lead some to be Patterns of deep Self-denial in Things relating to Trade and Handicraft-labour; and that some, who have plenty of the Treasures of this World, will example in a plain frugal Life, and pay Wages, to such as they may hire, more liberally than is now customary in some Places. The twenty-third Day of the Month. Was this Day at _Preston-Patrick_, and had a comfortable Meeting. I have, several Times, been entertained at the Houses of Friends, who had sundry Things about them which had the Appearance of outward Greatness; and, as I have kept inward, Way hath opened for Conversation with such in private, in which Divine Goodness hath favoured us together with heart-tendering Times. I rested a few Days, in Body and Mind, with our Friend JANE CROSFIELD; who was once in _America_: Was, on the sixth Day of the Week, at _Kendal_ in _Westmoreland_; and at _Greyrig_ Meeting the thirtieth Day of the Month, and first of the Week. I have known Poverty of late, and been graciously supported to keep in the Patience; and am thankful, under a Sense of the Goodness of the Lord toward those that are of a contrite Spirit. The sixth Day of the ninth Month, and first of the Week. Was this Day at _Counterside_, a large Meeting-house, and very full; and, through the Opening of pure Love, it was a strengthening Time to me, and (I believe) to many more. The thirteenth Day of the Month. Was this Day at _Richmond_, a small Meeting; but, the Town's People coming in, the House was crowded: It was a Time of heavy Labour; and (I believe) was a profitable Meeting. At this Place I heard that my Kinsman WILLIAM HUNT, from _North-Carolina_, who was on a religious Visit to Friends in _England_, departed this Life on the ninth Day of the ninth Month, Instant, of the Small-pox, at _Newcastle_.--He appeared in the Ministry when a Youth; and his Labours therein were of good Savour. He travelled much in that Work in _America_. I once heard him say, in publick Testimony, that his Concern was (in that Visit) to be devoted to the Service of Christ so fully, that he might not spend one Minute in pleasing himself: Which Words, joined with his Example, were a Means of stirring up the pure Mind in me. On this Visit to _England_ I have felt some Instructions sealed on my Mind, which I am concerned to leave in Writing, for the Use of such as are called to the Station of a Minister of Christ. Christ being the Prince of Peace, and we being no more than Ministers, I find it necessary for us, not only to feel a Concern in our first going forth, but to experience the renewing thereof, in the Appointment of Meetings. I felt a Concern, in _America_, to prepare for this Voyage; and, being, through the Mercy of God, brought safe here, my Heart was like a Vessel that wanted Vent; and for several Weeks, at first, when my Mouth was opened in Meetings, it often felt like the raising of a Gate in a Water-course, where a Weight of Water lay upon it; and in these Labours there appeared a fresh Visitation to many, especially the Youth; but sometimes, after this, I felt empty and poor, and yet felt a Necessity to appoint Meetings. In this State I was exercised to abide in the pure Life of Truth, and in all my Labours to watch diligently against the Motions of Self in my own Mind. I have frequently felt a Necessity to stand up, when the Spring of the Ministry was low; and to speak from the Necessity, in that which subjecteth the Will of the Creature; and herein I was united with the suffering Seed, and found inward Sweetness with these mortifying Labours. As I have been preserved in a watchful Attention to the divine Leader, under these Dispensations, Enlargement at Times hath followed, and the Power of Truth hath risen higher, in some Meetings, than I ever knew it before through me. Thus I have been more and more instructed, as to the Necessity of depending, not upon a Concern which I felt in _America_, to come on a Visit to _England_, but upon the fresh Instructions of Christ, the Prince of Peace, from Day to Day. Now, of late, I felt a Stop in the Appointment of Meetings, not wholly, but in Part; and I do not feel Liberty to appoint them so quick one after another as I have heretofore. The Work of the Ministry being a Work of divine Love, I feel that the Openings thereof are to be waited for, in all our Appointments. O! how deep is divine Wisdom! Christ puts forth his Ministers, and goeth before them: And O! how great is the Danger of departing from the pure Feeling of that which leadeth safely! Christ knoweth the State of the People; and, in the pure Feeling of the Gospel-Ministry, their States are opened to his Servants. Christ knoweth when the Fruit-bearing Branches themselves have Need of purging. O! that these Lessons may be remembered by me! and that all who appoint Meetings may proceed in the pure Feeling of Duty. I have sometimes felt a Necessity to stand up; but that Spirit which is of the World hath so much prevailed in many, and the pure Life of Truth been so pressed down, that I have gone forward, not as one travelling in a Road cast up and well prepared, but as a Man walking through a Miry place, in which are Stones here and there, safe to step on, but so situated, that, one Step being taken, Time is necessary to see where to step next. Now I find that, in the pure Obedience, the Mind learns Contentment, in appearing weak and foolish to that Wisdom which is of the World; and in these lowly Labours, they who stand in a low Place, rightly exercised under the Cross, will find Nourishment. The Gift is pure; and, while the Eye is single in attending thereto, the Understanding is preserved clear: Self is kept out. We rejoice in filling up that which remains of the Afflictions of Christ, for his Body's Sake, which is the Church. The natural Man loveth Eloquence, and many love to hear eloquent Orations; and, if there is not a careful Attention to the Gift, Men who have once laboured in the pure Gospel-ministry, growing weary of Suffering, and ashamed of appearing weak, may kindle a Fire, compass themselves about with Sparks, and walk in the Light; not of Christ who is under Suffering; but of that Fire which they, going from the Gift, have kindled; and that in Hearers, which is gone from the meek suffering State, into the worldly Wisdom, may be warmed with this Fire, and speak highly of these Labours. That which is of God gathers to God; and that which is of the World is owned by the World. In this Journey a Labour hath attended my Mind, that the Ministers amongst us may be preserved in the meek feeling Life of Truth, where we may have no Desire but to follow Christ and be with him; that, when he is under Suffering, we may suffer with him, and never desire to rise up in Dominion, but as he, by the Virtue of his own Spirit, may raise us. * * * * * A few Days after writing these Considerations, our dear Friend, in the Course of his religious Visits, came to the City of _York_, and attended most of the Sittings of the Quarterly-meeting there; but, before it was over, was taken ill of the Small-pox. Our Friend, THOMAS PRIESTMAN, and others who attended him, preserved the following Minutes of his Expressions in the Time of his Sickness and of his Decease. First-day, the twenty-seventh of the ninth Month, 1772. His Disorder appeared to be the Small-pox. Second-day. He said he felt the Disorder to affect his Head, so that he could think little, and but as a Child. Third-day he uttered the following Prayer.--O Lord my God! the amazing Horrors of Darkness were gathered around me and covered me all over, and I saw no Way to go forth; I felt the Depth and Extent of the Misery of my Fellow-creatures separated from the divine Harmony, and it was heavier than I could bear, and I was crushed down under it; I lifted up my Hand, I stretched out my Arm, but there was none to help me; I looked round about and was amazed; in the Depths of Misery, O Lord! I remembered that thou art omnipotent, that I had called thee Father, and I felt that I loved thee, and I was made quiet in thy Will, and I waited for Deliverance from thee; thou hadst Pity upon me when no Man could help me: I saw that Meekness under Suffering was shewed to us in the most affecting Example of thy Son, and thou taughtest me to follow him, and I said, "Thy Will, O Father! be done." Fourth-day-morning, being asked how he felt himself, he meekly answered, I do not know that I have slept this Night, I feel the Disorder making its Progress, but my Mind is mercifully preserved in Stillness and Peace: Sometime after he said he was sensible the Pains of Death must be hard to bear; but, if he escaped them now, he must sometime pass through them, and he did not know that he could be better prepared, but had no Will in it. He said he had settled his outward Affairs to his Mind, had taken Leave of his Wife and Family as never to return, leaving them to the divine Protection; adding, and though I feel them near to me at this Time, yet I freely give them up, having a Hope that they will be provided for. And a little after said, This Trial is made easier than I could have thought, my Will being wholly taken away; for if I were anxious for the Event, it would have been harder; but I am not, and my Mind enjoys a perfect Calm. In the Night a young Woman having given him something to drink, he said, My Child, thou seemest very kind to me, a poor Creature, the Lord will reward thee for it. A While after he cried out with great Earnestness of Spirit, O my Father! my Father! and soon after he said, O my Father! my Father! how comfortable art thou to my Soul in this trying Season! Being asked if he could take a little Nourishment; after some Pause he replied, my Child, I cannot tell what to say to it; I seem nearly arrived where my Soul shall have Rest from all its Troubles. After giving in something to be inserted in his Journal, he said, I believe the Lord will now excuse me from Exercises of this Kind; and I see no Work but one, which is to be the last wrought by me in this World; the Messenger will come that will release me from all these Troubles; but it must be in the Lord's Time, which I am waiting for. He said he had laboured to do whatever was required, according to the Ability received, in the Remembrance of which he had Peace; and, though the Disorder was strong at Times, and would like a Whirlwind come over his Mind, yet it had hitherto been kept steady, and centered in everlasting Love; adding, and if that be mercifully continued, I ask nor desire no more. Another Time he said, he had long had a view of visiting this Nation, and, sometime before he came, had a Dream, in which he saw himself in the northern Parts of it, and that the Spring of the Gospel was opened in him much as in the Beginning of Friends, such as GEORGE FOX and WILLIAM DEWSBERRY, and he saw the different States of the People, as clear as he had ever seen Flowers in a Garden; but in his going along he was suddenly stopt, though he could not see for what End; but, looking towards Home, fell into a Flood of Tears which waked him. At another Time he said, My Draught seemed strongest towards the North, and I mentioned, in my own Monthly-meeting, that attending the Quarterly-meeting at _York_, and being there, looked like Home to me. Fifth-day-night, having repeatedly consented to take Medicine with a View to settle his Stomach, but without Effect, the Friend, then waiting on him, said, through Distress, What shall I do now? He answered with great Composure, Rejoice evermore, and in every Thing give Thanks; but added a little after, this is sometimes hard to come at. Sixth-day-morning, he broke forth early in Supplication on this wise: O Lord! it was thy Power that enabled me to forsake Sin in my Youth, and I have felt thy Bruises for Disobedience; but, as I bowed under them, thou didst heal me, continuing a Father and a Friend: I feel thy Power now, and I beg that, in the approaching trying Moment, thou wilt keep my Heart stedfast unto thee.----Upon his giving Directions to a Friend concerning some little Things, she said, I will take Care, but hope thou wilt live to order them thyself. He replied, My Hope is in Christ; and, though I may seem a little better, a Change in the Disorder may soon happen, and my little Strength be dissolved; and, if it so happen, I shall be gathered to my everlasting Rest. On her saying she did not doubt that, but could not help mourning to see so many faithful Servants removed at so low a Time, he said, All Good cometh from the Lord, whose Power is the same, and can work as he sees best. The same Day he had given Directions about wrapping his Corpse, perceiving a Friend to weep, he said, I would rather thou wouldst guard against weeping for me, my Sister; I sorrow not, though I have had some painful Conflicts; but now they seem over, and Matters well settled, and I look at the Face of my dear Redeemer; for sweet is his Voice, and his Countenance is comely. First-day, fourth of the tenth Month, being very weak, and in general difficult to be understood, he uttered a few Words in Commemoration of the Lord's Goodness, and added, How tenderly have I been waited on in this Time of Affliction! in which I may say, in JOB'S Words, Tedious Days and wearisome Nights are appointed unto me: And how many are spending their Time and Money in Vanity and Superfluities, while thousands and tens of thousands want the Necessaries of Life, who might be relieved by them, and their Distresses, at such a Time as this, in some degree softened, by the administering suitable Things! Second-day-morning, the Apothecary, who appeared very anxious to assist him, being present, he queried about the Probability of such a Load of Matter being thrown off his weak Body; and, the Apothecary making some Remarks implying he thought it might, he spoke with an audible Voice on this wise:--My Dependance is on the Lord Jesus, who, I trust, will forgive my Sins, which is all I hope for; and, if it be his Will to raise up this Body again, I am content; and, if to die, I am resigned; and, if thou canst not be easy without trying to assist Nature, I submit. After which his Throat was so much affected, that it was very difficult for him to speak so as to be understood; and he frequently wrote when he wanted any Thing. About the second Hour, on Fourth-day Morning, he asked for Pen and Ink, and, at several Times, with much Difficulty, wrote thus: I believe my being here is in the Wisdom of Christ; I know not as to Life or Death. About a Quarter before six, the same Morning, he seemed to fall into an easy Sleep, which continued about Half an Hour; when, seeming to awake, he breathed a few Times with more Difficulty, and expired, without Sigh, Groan, or Struggle! END OF THE JOURNAL THE LAST EPISTLE & OTHER WRITINGS OF JOHN WOOLMAN THE INTRODUCTION My Mind hath often been affected with Sorrow, on Account of the prevailing of that Spirit, which leads from an humble waiting on the inward Teaching of Christ, to pursue Ways of Living, attended with unnecessary Labour, and which draws forth the Minds of many People to seek after outward Power, and to strive for Riches, which frequently introduce Oppression, and bring forth Wars and grievous Calamities. It is with Reverence that I acknowledge the Mercies of our Heavenly Father, who, in Infinite Love, did visit me in my Youth, and wrought a Belief in me, that through true Obedience a State of inward Purity may be known in this Life, in which we may love Mankind in the same Love with which our Redeemer loveth us, and therein learn Resignation to endure Hardships, for the real Good of others. _While the Eye is single, the whole Body is full of Light_, Mat. vi. 22. but for want of this, selfish Desires, and an imaginary Superiority, darken the Mind; hence Injustice frequently proceeds; and where this is the Case, to convince the Judgment, is the most effectual Remedy. Where violent Measures are pursued in opposing Injustice, the Passions, and Resentments, of the Injured, frequently operate in the Prosecution of their Designs; and after Conflicts productive of very great Calamities, the Minds of contending Parties often remain as little acquainted with the pure Principle of Divine Love, as they were before; but where People walk in that pure Light in which all their _Works are wrought in God_, John iii. 21. and under Oppression persevere in the meek Spirit, and abide firm in the Cause of Truth, without actively complying with oppressive Demands, through those the Lord hath often manifested his Power, in opening the Understandings of others, to the promoting Righteousness in the Earth. A Time, I believe, is coming, wherein this Divine Work will so spread and prevail, that _Nation shall not lift up Sword against Nation, nor learn War any more_, Isaiah ii. 4. And as we, through the tender Mercies of God, do feel that this precious Work is begun, I am concerned to encourage my Brethren and Sisters in a Holy Care and Diligence, that each of us may so live, under the sanctifying Power of Truth, as to be redeemed from all unnecessary Cares; that our Eye being single to him, no Customs, however prevalent, which are contrary to the Wisdom from above, may hinder us from faithfully following his Holy Leadings, in whatsoever he may graciously appoint for us. CONSIDERATIONS ON PURE WISDOM AND HUMAN POLICY To have our Trust settled in the Lord, and not to seek after, nor desire outward Treasures, any further than his Holy Spirit leads us therein, is a happy State, as saith the Prophet, _Blessed is the Man that trusteth in the Lord, and whose Hope the Lord is_. Pure Wisdom leads People into Lowliness of Mind, in which they learn Resignation to the Divine Will, and Contentment in suffering for his Cause, when they cannot keep a clear Conscience without suffering. In this pure Wisdom the Mind is attentive to the Root, and original Spring of Motions and Desires; and as we know _the Lord to be our Refuge_, and find no Safety but in humbly walking before him, we feel an Holy Engagement, that every Desire which leads therefrom may be brought to Judgment. While we proceed in this precious Way, and find ardent Longings for a full Deliverance from every thing which defiles, all Prospects of Gain, that are not consistent with the Wisdom from above, are considered as Snares, and an inward Concern is felt, that we may live under the Cross, and faithfully attend to that Holy Spirit, which is sufficient to preserve out of them. When I have considered that Saying of Christ, _Mat._ vi. 19, _Lay not up for yourselves Treasures upon Earth_, his Omnipotence hath often occurred to my Mind. While we believe that he is every where present with his People, and that perfect Goodness, Wisdom and Power are united in him, how comfortable is the Consideration. Our Wants may be great, but his Power is greater. We may be oppressed and despised, but he is able to turn our patient Sufferings into Profit to ourselves, and to the Advancement of his Work on Earth. His People, who feel the Power of his Cross, to crucify all that is selfish in them, who are engaged in outward Concerns, from a Convincement that it is their Duty, and resign themselves, and their Treasures, to him; these feel that it is dangerous to give way to that in us, which craves Riches and Greatness in this World. As the Heart truly contrite, earnestly desires _to know Christ, and the Fellowship of his Sufferings_, Phil. iii. 10. so far as the Lord for gracious Ends may lead into them; as such feel that it is their Interest to put their Trust in God, and to seek no Gain but that which he, by his Holy Spirit, leads into; so, on the contrary, they who do not reverently wait for this Divine Teacher, and are not humbly concerned, according to their Measure, _to fill up that which is behind of the Afflictions of Christ_, Col. i. 24. in patiently suffering for the promoting Righteousness in the Earth; but have an Eye toward the Power of Men, and the outward Advantage of Wealth, these are often attentive to those Employments which appear profitable, even though the Gains arise from such Trade and Business which proceeds from the Workings of that Spirit, which is estranged from the self-denying Life of an humble contrite _Christian_. While I write on this Subject, I feel my Mind tenderly affected toward those honestly disposed People, who have been brought up in Employments attended with those Difficulties. To such I may say, in the feeling of our Heavenly Father's Love, and number myself with you, O that our Eyes may be single to the Lord! May we reverently wait on him for Strength, to lay aside all unnecessary Expence of every Kind, and learn Contentment, in a plain simple Life. May we, in Lowliness, submit to the Leadings of his Spirit, and enter upon any outward Employ which he graciously points out to us, and then whatever Difficulties arise, in Consequence of our Faithfulness, I trust they will work for our Good. Small Treasure to a resigned Mind is sufficient. How happy is it to be content with a little, to live in Humility, and feel that in us, which breathes out this Language, Abba! Father. If that, called the Wisdom of this World, had no Resemblance of true Wisdom, the Name of Wisdom, I suppose, had not been given to it. As wasting outward Substance, to gratify vain Desires, on one hand; so Slothfulness and Neglect, on the other, do often involve Men and their Families in Trouble, and reduce them to Want and Distress; to shun both these opposite Vices, is good in itself, and hath a Resemblance of Wisdom; but while People thus provident, have it principally in View to get Riches, and Power, and the Friendship of this World, and do not humbly wait for the Spirit of Truth to lead them into Purity; these, through an anxious Care to obtain the End desired, reach forth for Gain in worldly Wisdom, and, in regard to their inward State, fall into divers Temptations and Snares. And though such may think of applying Wealth to good Purposes, and to use their Power to prevent Oppression, yet Wealth and Power is often applied otherwise; nor can we depart from the Leadings of our Holy Shepherd, without going into Confusion. Great Wealth is frequently attended with Power, which nothing but Divine Love can qualify the Mind to use rightly; and as to the Humility, and Uprightness of our Children after us, how great is the Uncertainty! If, in acquiring Wealth, we take hold on the Wisdom which is from beneath, and depart from the Leadings of Truth, and Example our Children herein, we have great Cause to apprehend, that Wealth may be a Snare to them; and prove an Injury to others, over whom their Wealth may give them Power. To be redeemed from that Wisdom which is from beneath, and walk in the Light of the Lord, is a precious Situation; thus his People are brought to put their Trust in him; and in this humble Confidence in his Wisdom, Goodness and Power, the Righteous find a Refuge in Adversities, superior to the greatest outward Helps, and a Comfort more certain than any worldly Advantages can afford. ON LABOUR Having from my Childhood been used to Bodily Labour for a Living, I may express my Experience therein. Right Exercise affords an innocent Pleasure in the Time of it, and prepares us to enjoy the Sweetness of Rest; but from the Extremes each Way, arise Inconveniences. Moderate Exercise opens the Pores, gives the Blood a lively Circulation, and the better enables us to judge rightly respecting that Portion of Labour which is the true Medium. _The Fowls of the Air sow not, nor gather into Barns, yet our Heavenly Father feedeth them_, Mat. vi. 26. nor do I believe that Infinite Goodness and Power would have allotted Labour to us, had he not seen that Labour was proper for us in this Life. The original Design, and true Medium of Labour, is a Subject that, to me, appears worthy of our serious Consideration. Idle Men are often a Burden to themselves, neglect the Duty they owe to their Families, and become burdensome to others also. As outward Labour, directed by the Wisdom from above, tends to our Health, and adds to our Happiness in this Life; so, on the contrary, entering upon it in a selfish Spirit, and pursuing it too long, or too hard, hath a contrary Effect. I have observed, that too much Labour not only makes the Understanding dull, but so intrudes upon the Harmony of the Body, that after ceasing from our Toil, we have another to pass through, before we can be so composed as to enjoy the Sweetness of Rest. From too much Labour in the Heat, frequently proceeds immoderate Sweats, which do often, I believe, open the Way for Disorders, and impair our Constitutions. When we go beyond the true Medium, and feel Weariness approaching, but think Business may suffer if we cease, at such a Time spirituous Liquors are frequently taken, with a View to support Nature under these Fatigues. I have found that too much Labour in the Summer heats the Blood, that taking strong Drink to support the Body under such Labour, increaseth that Heat, and though a Person may be so far temperate as not to manifest the least Disorder, yet the Mind, in such a Circumstance, doth not retain that Calmness and Serenity which we should endeavour to live in. Thus toiling in the Heat, and drinking strong Liquor, makes Men more resolute, and less considerate, and tends very much to disqualify from successfully following him who is meek and low of Heart. As laying out Business, more than is consistent with pure Wisdom, is an Evil, so this Evil frequently leads into more. Too much Business leads to Hurry. In the Hurry and Toil too much strong Drink is often used, and hereby many proceed to Noise and Wantonness, and some, though more considerate, do often suffer Loss, as to a true Composedness of Mind. I feel sincere Desires in my Heart that no Rent, nor Interest, might be laid so high as to be a Snare to Tenants. That no Desires of Gain may draw any too far in Business. That no Cares to support Customs, which have not their Foundation in pure Wisdom, may have Place in our Minds, but that we may build on the sure Foundation, and feel our Holy Shepherd to lead us, who alone is able to preserve us, and bring forth from every Thing which defiles. Having several Times, in my Travels, had Opportunity to observe the Labour and Manner of Life of great Numbers of Slaves, it appears to me that the true Medium is lamentably neglected by many, who assign them their Portion of Labour. Without saying much at this Time, concerning buying and selling Men for Term of Life, who have as just a Right to Liberty as we have; nor about the great Miseries, and Effusion of Blood, consequent to promoting the Slave-trade, and to speak as favourably as may be, with regard to continuing those in Bondage who are amongst us, we cannot say there is no Partiality in it; for whatever Tenderness may be manifested by Individuals in their Life-time towards them, yet for People to be transmitted from a Man to his Posterity, in the helpless Condition of Slaves, appears inconsistent with the Nature of the Gospel Spirit. From such Proceedings it often follows, that Persons in the Decline of Life, are deprived of Monies equitably due to them, and committed to the Care, and subjected to the absolute Power of young unexperienced Men, who know but little about the Weakness of old Age, nor understand the Language of declining Life. Where Parents give their Estates to their Children, and then depend on them for a Maintainance, they sometimes meet with great Inconveniences; but if the Power of Possession, thus obtained, doth often reverse the Obligations of Gratitude and filial Duty, and makes manifest, that Youth are often ignorant of the Language of old Age, how hard is the Case of ancient Negroes, who, deprived of the Wages equitably due to them, are left to young People, who have been used to look upon them as their Inferiors. For Men to behold the Fruits of their Labour withheld from them, and possessed by others, and in old Age find themselves destitute of those comfortable Accommodations, and that tender Regard which their Time of Life requires: When they feel Pains and Stiffness in their Joints and Limbs, Weakness of Appetite, and that a little Labour is wearisome, and still behold themselves in the neglected uncomfortable Condition of a Slave, and oftentimes to a young unsympathising Man: For Men to be thus treated from one Generation to another, who, besides their own Distresses, think on the Slavery entailed on their Posterity, and are grieved: What disagreeable Thoughts must they have of the professed Followers of Jesus! And how must their Groans ascend to that Almighty Being, who _will be a Refuge for the Oppressed_, Psalm ix. 9. ON SCHOOLS _Suffer the little Children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of God_, Mark x. 14. To encourage Children to do Things with a View to get Praise of Men, to me appears an Obstruction to their being inwardly acquainted with the Spirit of Truth. For it is the Work of the Holy Spirit to direct the Mind of God, that in all our Proceedings we may have a single Eye to him. To give Alms in secret, to fast in secret, and labour to keep clear of that Disposition reproved by our Saviour, _All their Works which they do is for to be seen of Men_, Mat. xxiii. 5. That Divine Light which enlightens all Men, I believe, does often shine in the Minds of Children very early, and to humbly wait for Wisdom, that our Conduct toward them may tend to forward their Acquaintance with it, and strengthen them in Obedience thereto, appears to me to be a Duty on all of us. By cherishing the Spirit of Pride, and the Love of Praise in them, I believe they may sometimes improve faster in Learning, than otherwise they would; but to take Measures to forward Children in Learning, which naturally tend to divert their Minds from true Humility, appears to me to savour of the Wisdom of this World. If Tutors are not acquainted with Sanctification of Spirit, nor experienced in an humble waiting for the Leadings of Truth, but follow the Maxims of the Wisdom of this World, such Children who are under their Tuition, appear to me to be in Danger of imbibing Thoughts, and Apprehensions, reverse to that Meekness, and Lowliness of Heart, which is necessary for all the true Followers of Christ. Children at an Age fit for Schools, are in a Time of Life which requires the patient Attention of pious People, and if we commit them to the Tuition of such, whose Minds we believe are not rightly prepared to _train them up in the Nurture and Admonition of the Lord_, we are in Danger of not acting the Part of faithful Parents toward them; for our Heavenly Father doth not require us to do Evil, that Good may come of it; and it is needful that we deeply examine ourselves, lest we get entangled in the Wisdom of this World, and, through wrong Apprehensions, take such Methods in Education, as may prove a great Injury to the Minds of our Children. It is a lovely Sight to behold innocent Children; and when they are sent to such Schools where their tender Minds are in imminent Danger of being led astray by Tutors, who do not live a self-denying Life, or by the Conversation of such Children who do not live in Innocence, it is a Case much to be lamented. While a pious Tutor hath the Charge of no more Children than he can take due Care of, and keeps his Authority in the Truth, the good Spirit in which he leads and governs, works on the Minds of such who are not hardened, and his Labours not only tend to bring them forward in outward Learning, but to open their Understandings with respect to the true _Christian_ Life; but where a Person hath Charge of too many, and his Thoughts and Time are so much employed in the outward Affairs of his School, that he does not so weightily attend to the Spirit and Conduct of each Individual, as to be enabled to administer rightly to all in due Season; through such Omission he not only suffers, as to the State of his own Mind, but the Minds of the Children are in Danger of suffering also. To watch the Spirit of Children, to nurture them in Gospel Love, and labour to help them against that which would mar the Beauty of their Minds, is a Debt we owe them; and a faithful Performance of our Duty, not only tends to their lasting Benefit, and our own Peace, but also to render their Company agreeable to us. Instruction, thus administered, reaches the pure Witness in the Minds of such Children who are not hardened, and begets Love in them toward those who thus lead them on; but where too great a Number are committed to a Tutor, and he, through much Cumber, omits a careful Attention to the Minds of Children, there is Danger of Disorders gradually increasing amongst them, till the Effects thereof appear in their Conduct, too strong to be easily remedied. A Care hath lived on my Mind, that more Time might be employed by Parents at Home, and by Tutors at School, in weightily attending to the Spirit and Inclinations of Children, and that we may so lead, instruct, and govern them, in this tender Part of Life, that nothing may be omitted in our Power, to help them on their Way to become the Children of our Father, who is in Heaven. Meditating on the Situation of Schools in our Provinces, my Mind hath, at Times, been affected with Sorrow, and under these Exercises it hath appeared to me, that if those who have large Estates, were faithful Stewards, and laid no Rent, nor Interest, nor other Demands, higher than is consistent with universal Love; and those in lower Circumstances would, under a moderate Employ, shun unnecessary Expence, even to the smallest Article; and all unite in humbly seeking to the Lord, he would graciously instruct us, and strengthen us, to relieve the Youth from various Snares, in which many of them are entangled. ON THE RIGHT USE OF THE LORD'S OUTWARD GIFTS As our Understandings are opened by the pure Light, we experience that, through an inward approaching to God, the Mind is strengthened in Obedience; and that by gratifying those Desires which are not of his begetting, those Approaches to him are obstructed, and the deceivable Spirit gains Strength. These Truths, being as it were engraven upon our Hearts, and our everlasting Interest in Christ evidently concerned herein, we become fervently engaged, that nothing may be nourished which tends to feed Pride or Self-love in us. Thus in pure Obedience, we are not only instructed in our Duty to God, but also in the Affairs which necessarily relate to this Life, and the Spirit of Truth which guides into all Truth, leavens the Mind with a pious Concern, that _whatsoever we do in Word or Deed, may be done in his Name_, Col. iii. 17. Hence such Buildings, Furniture, Food, and Raiment, as best answer our Necessities, and are the least likely to feed that selfish Spirit which is our Enemy, are the most acceptable to us. In this State the Mind is tender, and inwardly watchful, that the Love of Gain draw us not into any Business, which may weaken our Love to our Heavenly Father, or bring unnecessary Trouble to any of his Creatures. Thus the Way gradually opens to cease from that Spirit which craves Riches and Things fetched far, which so mixeth with the Customs of this World, and so intrudes upon the true Harmony of Life, that the right Medium of Labour is very much departed from. And as the Minds of People are settled in a steady Concern, not to hold nor possess any Thing but what may be held consistent with the Wisdom from above, they consider what they possess as the Gift of God, and are inwardly exercised, that in all Parts of their Conduct they may act agreeable to the Nature of the peaceable Government of Christ. A little supports such a Life; and in a State truly resigned to the Lord, the Eye is single, to see what outward Employ he leads into, as a Means of our Subsistence, and a lively Care is maintained to hold to that without launching further. There is a Harmony in the several Parts of this Divine Work in the Hearts of People; he who leads them to cease from those gainful Employments, carried on in that Wisdom which is from beneath, delivers also from the Desire after worldly Greatness, and reconciles the Mind to a Life so plain, that a little doth suffice. Here the real Comforts of Life are not lessened. Moderate Exercise, in the Way of true Wisdom, is pleasant both to Mind and Body. Food and Raiment sufficient, though in the greatest Simplicity, is accepted with Content and Gratitude. The mutual Love, subsisting between the faithful Followers of Christ, is more pure than that Friendship which is not seasoned with Humility, how specious soever the Appearance. Where People depart from pure Wisdom in one Case, it is often an Introduction to depart from it in many more; and thus a Spirit which seeks for outward Greatness, and leads into worldly Wisdom to attain it, and support it, gets Possession of the Mind. In beholding the customary Departure from the true Medium of Labour, and that unnecessary Toil which many go through, in supporting outward Greatness, and procuring Delicacies. In beholding how the true Calmness of Life is changed into Hurry, and that many, by eagerly pursuing outward Treasure, are in great Danger of withering as to the inward State of the Mind. In meditating on the Works of this Spirit, and on the Desolations it makes amongst the Professors of _Christianity_, I may thankfully acknowledge, that I often feel pure Love beget Longings in my Heart, for the Exaltation of the peaceable Kingdom of Christ, and an Engagement to labour according to the Gift bestowed on me, for the promoting an humble, plain, temperate Way of living. A Life where no unnecessary Care, nor Expences, may incumber our Minds, nor lessen our Ability to do Good; where no Desires after Riches, or Greatness, may lead into hard Dealing; where no Connections with worldly-minded Men, may abate our Love to God, nor weaken a true Zeal for Righteousness. A Life wherein we may diligently labour for Resignedness to do, and suffer, whatever our Heavenly Father may allot for us, in reconciling the World to himself. When the Prophet _Isaiah_ had uttered his Vision, and declared that a Time was coming wherein _Swords should be beat into Plowshares, and Spears into pruning Hooks, and that Nation shall not lift up Sword against Nation, nor learn War any more_; he immediately directs the Minds of People to the Divine Teacher, in this remarkable Language; _O House of_ Jacob! _come ye, and let us walk in the Light of the Lord_, Isaiah ii. 5. To wait for the Direction of this Light, in all temporal as well as spiritual Concerns, appears necessary; for if in any Case we enter lightly into temporal Affairs, without feeling this Spirit of Truth to open our Way therein, and through the Love of this World proceed on, and seek for Gain by that Business or Traffick, which _is not of the Father, but of the World_, 1 John ii. 16 we fail in our Testimony to the Purity and Peace of his Government, and get into that which is for Chastisement. This Matter hath lain heavy on my Mind, it being evident, that a Life less humble, less simple and plain, than that which Christ leads his Sheep into, does necessarily require a Support, which pure Wisdom does not provide for; hence there is no Probability of our being _a peculiar People, so zealous of good Works, as to have no Fellowship with Works of Darkness_, Titus ii. 14. Ephes. v. 11. while we have Wants to supply which have their Foundation in Custom, and do not come within the Meaning of those Expressions, _your Heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these Things_, Mat. vi. 32. These Things which he beholds necessary for his People, he fails not to give them in his own Way and Time; but as his Ways are above our Ways, and his Thoughts above our Thoughts, so imaginary Wants are different _from these Things which he knoweth that we have need of_. As my Meditations have been on these Things, Compassion hath filled my Heart toward my Fellow Creatures, involved in Customs, grown up in _the Wisdom of this World, which is Foolishness with God_, 1 Cor. iii. 19. And O that the Youth may be so thoroughly experienced in an humble Walking before the Lord, that they may be his Children, and know him to be their Refuge, their safe unfailing Refuge, through the various Dangers attending this uncertain State of Being! If those whose Minds are redeemed from the Love of Wealth, and who are content with a plain, simple Way of living, do yet find that to conduct the Affairs of a Family, without giving Countenance to unrighteous Proceedings, or having Fellowship with Works of Darkness, the most diligent Care is necessary. If Customs, distinguishable from universal Righteousness, and opposite to the true Self-denying Life, are now prevalent, and so mixed with Trade, and with almost every Employ, that it is only through humble waiting on the inward Guidance of Truth, that we may reasonably hope to walk safely, and support an uniform Testimony to the peaceable Government of Christ: If this be the Case, how lamentably do they expose themselves to Temptations, who give way to the Love of Riches, conform to expensive Living, and reach forth for Gain, to support Customs, which our Holy Shepherd leads not into. CONSIDERATIONS ON THE TRUE HARMONY OF MANKIND, AND How it is to be maintained. By JOHN WOOLMAN _And the Remnant of_ Jacob _shall be in the midst of many People, as the Dew from the Lord, as the Showers upon the Grass, that tarrieth not for Man, nor waiteth for the Sons of Men_, Micah v. 7. _LONDON_: Re-printed by MARY HINDE. THE INTRODUCTION As Mankind from one Parent are divided into many Families, and as Trading to Sea is greatly increased within a few Ages past; amidst this extended Commerce how necessary is it that the professed Followers of Christ keep sacred his Holy Name, and be employed about Trade and Traffick no farther than Justice and Equity evidently accompanies? That we may give no just Cause of Offence to any, however distant, or unable to plead their own Cause; and may continually keep in View the Spreading of the true and saving Knowledge of God, and his Son Jesus Christ, amongst our Fellow Creatures, which through his infinite Love some feel to be more precious than any other Treasure. CONSIDERATIONS ON THE TRUE HARMONY OF MANKIND &c. CHAPTER I _On serving the Lord in our outward Employments_ Under the humbling Dispensations of the Father of Mercies, I have felt an inward Labour for the Good of my Fellow Creatures, and a Concern that the Holy Spirit, which alone can restore Mankind to a State of true Harmony, may with Singleness of Heart be waited for and followed. I trust there are many under that Visitation, which if faithfully attended to, will make them quick of Understanding in the Fear of the Lord, and qualify with Firmness to be true Patterns of the _Christian_ Life, who in Living and Walking may hold forth an Invitation to others, to come out of the Entanglements of the Spirit of this World. And that which I feel first to express is, a Care for those who are in Circumstances, which appear difficult, with respect to supporting their Families in a Way answerable to pure Wisdom, that they may not be discouraged, but remember that in humbly obeying the Leadings of Christ, he owneth us as his Friends, _Ye are my Friends if ye do whatsoever I command you_; and to be a Friend to Christ, is to be united to him, who hath all Power in Heaven and in Earth; and though a Woman may forget her sucking Child, yet will he not forget his faithful Ones. The Condition of many who dwell in Cities hath often affected me with a Brotherly Sympathy, attended with a Desire that Resignation may be laboured for; and where the Holy Leader directeth to a Country Life, or some Change of Employ, he may be faithfully followed; for, under the refining Hand of the Lord, I have seen that the Inhabitants of some Cities are greatly increased through some Branches of Business which the Holy Spirit doth not lead into, and that being entangled in these Things, tends to bring a Cloud over the Minds of People convinced of the Leadings of this Holy Leader, and obstructs the coming of the Kingdom of Christ on Earth as it is in Heaven. Now if we indulge a Desire to imitate our Neighbours in those Things which harmonise not with the true _Christian_ Walking, these Entanglements may hold fast to us, and some, who in an awakening Time, feel tender Scruples, with respect to their Manner of Life, may look on the Example of others more noted in the Church, who yet may not be refined from every Degree of Dross; and by looking on these Examples, and desiring to support their Families in a Way pleasant to the natural Mind, there may be Danger of the Worldly Wisdom gaining Strength in them, and of their Departure from that pure Feeling of Truth, which if faithfully attended to, would teach Contentment in the Divine Will, even in a very low Estate. One formerly speaking on the Profitableness of true Humility saith, "He that troubles not himself with anxious Thoughts for more than is necessary, lives little less than the Life of Angels, whilst by a Mind content with little, he imitates their want of nothing." _Cave's_ Prim. _Christi._ Page 31. "It is not enough," says _Tertullian_, "that a _Christian_ be chaste and modest, but he must appear to be so: A Virtue of which he should have so great a Store, that it should flow from his Mind upon his Habit, and break from the Retirements of his Conscience, into the Superficies of his Life." Same Book, Page 43. "The Garments we wear," says _Clemens_, "ought to be mean and frugal--that is true Simplicity of Habit, which takes away what is vain and superfluous, that the best and most solid Garment, which is the farthest from Curiosity." Page 49. Though the Change from Day to Night, is by a Motion so gradual as scarcely to be perceived, yet when Night is come we behold it very different from the Day; and thus as People become wise in their own Eyes, and prudent in their own Sight, Customs rise up from the Spirit of this World, and spread by little, and little, till a Departure from the Simplicity that there is in Christ becomes as distinguishable as Light from Darkness, to such who are crucified to the World. Our Holy Shepherd, to encourage his Flock in Firmness and Perseverance, reminds them of his Love for them; _As the Father hath loved me, so have I loved you; continue ye in my Love._ And in another Place graciously points out the Danger of departing therefrom, by going into unsuitable Employments; this he represents in the Similitude of Offence from that useful active Member, the Hand; and to fix the Instruction the deeper, names the right Hand; _If thy right Hand offend thee, cut it off and cast it from thee_--If thou feelest Offence in thy Employment, humbly follow him who leads into all Truth, and is a strong and faithful Friend to those who are resigned to him. Again, he points out those Things which appearing pleasant to the natural Mind, are not best for us, in the Similitude of Offence from the Eye; _If thy right Eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee._ To pluck out the Eye, or cut off the Hand, is attended with sharp Pain; and how precious is the Instruction which our Redeemer thus opens to us, that we may not faint under the most painful Trial, but put our Trust in him, even in him who sent an Angel to feed _Elijah_ in the Wilderness; who fed a Multitude with a few Barley Loaves, and is now as attentive to the Wants of his People as ever. The Prophet _Isaiah_ represents the unrighteous Doings of the _Israelites_ toward the Poor, as the Fruits of an effeminate Life; _As for my People, Children are their Oppressors, and Women rule over them: What mean ye, that ye beat my People to pieces, and grind the Faces of the Poor? saith the Lord God._ Then he mentions the Haughtiness of the Daughters of _Sion_, and enumerates many Ornaments, as Instances of their Vanity; to uphold which, the Poor were so hardly dealt with, that he sets forth their Poverty, their Leanness and Inability to help themselves, in the Similitude of a Man maimed by Violence, or beaten to pieces, and forced to endure the painful Operation of having his Face gradually worn away in the manner of grinding. And I may here add, that at Times, when I have felt true Love open my Heart towards my Fellow Creatures, and being engaged in weighty Conversation in the Cause of Righteousness, the Instructions I have received under these Exercises, in Regard to the true Use of the outward Gifts of God, have made deep and lasting Impressions on my Mind. I have here beheld, how the Desire to provide Wealth, and to uphold a delicate Life, hath grievously entangled many, and been like Snares to their Offspring; and tho' some have been affected with a Sense of their Difficulties, and appeared desirous, at Times, to be helped out of them; yet for want of abiding under the humbling Power of Truth, they have continued in these Entanglements; for in remaining conformable to this World, and giving Way to a delicate Life, this expensive Way of living, in Parents, and in Children, hath called for a large Supply, and in answering this Call the Faces of the Poor have been ground away, and made thin through hard Dealing. There is Balm, there is a Physician; and O what Longings do I feel! that we may embrace the Means appointed for our Healing, know that removed which now ministers Cause for the Cries of many People to ascend to Heaven against their Oppressors, and that we may see the true Harmony restored. _Behold how good and how pleasant it is, for Brethren to dwell together in Unity._ The Nature of this Unity is thus opened by the Apostle; _If we walk in the Light, as Christ is in the Light, we shall have Fellowship one with another, and the Blood of Christ will cleanse us from all Sin._ The Land may be polluted with innocent Blood, which like the Blood of _Abel_ may cry to the Almighty; but those who _walk in the Light, as Christ is in the Light_, they know the _Lamb of God, who taketh away Sin_. Walking is a Phrase frequently used in Scripture, to represent our Journey thro' Life, and appears to comprehend the various Affairs and Transactions properly relating to our being in this World. Christ being the Light, dwells always in the Light; and if our walking be thus, and in every Affair and Concern we faithfully follow this Divine Leader, he preserves from giving just Cause for any to quarrel with us: And where this Foundation is laid, and mutually kept to, by Families conversant with each other, the Way is open for these Comforts in Society, which our Heavenly Father intends as a Part of our Happiness in this World; and then we may experience the Goodness, and Pleasantness of dwelling together in Unity; but where Ways of Living take place, which tend to Oppression, and in the Pursuit of Wealth, People do that to others which they know would not be acceptable to themselves, either in exercising an absolute Power over them, or otherwise laying on them unequitable Burdens; here a Fear lest that Measure should be meted to them, which they have measured to others, incites a Care to support that by Craft and cunning Devices which stands not on the firm Foundation of Righteousness: Thus the Harmony of Society is broken, and from hence Commotions and Wars do frequently arise in the World. _Come out of_ Babylon _my People, that ye be not Partakers of her Sins, and that ye receive not of her Plagues_. Rev. xv. 3, 4. This _Babel_, or _Babylon_, was built in the Spirit of Self-exaltation: _Let us build us a City and a Tower, whose Top may reach to Heaven, and let us make us a Name_. Gen. xi. 4. In departing from an humble Trust in God, and following a selfish Spirit, People have Intentions to get the upperhand of their Fellow Creatures, privately meditate on Means to obtain their Ends, have a Language in their Hearts which is hard to understand. In _Babel_ the Language is confounded. This City is represented as a Place of Business, and those employed in it, as Merchants of the Earth: _The Merchants of the Earth are waxed rich through the Abundance of her Delicacies_. Rev. xviii. 3. And it is remarkable in this Call, that the Language from the Father of Mercies is, my People, _Come out of_ Babylon _my People_. Thus his tender Mercies are toward us in an imperfect State; and as we faithfully attend to the Call, the Path of Righteousness is more and more opened; Cravings, which have not their Foundation in pure Wisdom, more and more cease; and in an inward Purity of Heart, we experience a Restoration of that which was lost at _Babel_, represented by the inspired Prophet in the _returning of a pure Language_. Zeph. iii. 9. Happy for them who humbly attend to the Call, _Come out of_ Babylon _my People_. For though in going forth we may meet with Trials, which for a Time may be painful, yet as we bow in true Humility, and continue in it, an Evidence is felt that God only is wise; and that in weaning us from all that is selfish he prepares the Way to a quiet Habitation, where all our Desires are bounded by his Wisdom. And an Exercise of Spirit attends me, that we who are convinced of the pure Leadings of Truth, may bow in the deepest Reverence, and so watchfully regard this Leader, that many who are grievously entangled in a Wilderness of vain Customs, may look upon us and be instructed. And O that such who have Plenty of this World's Goods, may be faithful in that with which they are entrusted! and Example others in the true _Christian_ Walking. Our blessed Saviour, speaking on Worldly Greatness, compares himself to one waiting and attending on a Company at Dinner; _Whether is greater, he that sitteth at Meat or he that serveth? Is not he that sitteth at Meat? But I am amongst you as he that serveth._ Luke xxii. 27. Thus in a World greatly disordered, where Men aspiring to outward Greatness were wont to oppress others to support their Designs, he who was of the highest Descent, being the Son of God, and greater than any amongst the greatest Families of Men, by his Example and Doctrines foreclosed his Followers from claiming any Shew of outward Greatness, from any supposed Superiority in themselves, or derived from their Ancestors. He who was greater than Earthly Princes, was not only meek and low of Heart, but his outward Appearance was plain and lowly, and free from every Stain of the Spirit of this World. Such was the Example of our blessed Redeemer, of whom the beloved Disciple said, _He that saith he abideth in him, ought also to walk even as he walked._ _John Bradford_, who suffered Martyrdom under Queen _Mary_, wrote a Letter to his Friends out of Prison, a short Time before he was burnt, in which are these Expressions; "Consider your Dignity as Children of God, and Temples of the Holy Ghost, and Members of Christ, be ashamed therefore to think, speak, or do any Thing unseemly, for God's Children, and the Members of Christ." _Fox's_ Acts and Mon. Page 1177. CHAPTER II _On the Example of CHRIST_ As my Mind hath been brought into a Brotherly Feeling with the Poor, as to the Things of this Life, who are under Trials in regard to getting a Living in a Way answerable to the Purity of Truth; a Labour of Heart hath attended me, that their Way may not be made difficult through the Love of Money in those who are tried with plentiful Estates, but that they with Tenderness of Heart may sympathize with them. It was the Saying of our blessed Redeemer, _Ye cannot serve God and Mammon_. There is a deep Feeling of the Way of Purity, a Way in which the Wisdom of the World hath no Part, but is opened by the Spirit of Truth, and is called _the Way of Holiness_; a Way in which the Traveller is employed in watching unto Prayer; and the outward Gain we get in this Journey is considered as a Trust committed to us, by him who formed and supports the World; and is the rightful Director of the Use and Application of the Product of it. Now except the Mind be preserved chaste, there is no Safety for us; but in an Estrangement from true Resignation, the Spirit of the World casts up a Way, in which Gain is many Times principally attended to, and in which there is a selfish Application of outward Treasures. How agreeable to the true Harmony of Society, is that Exhortation of the Apostle? _Look not every Man on his own Things, but every Man also on the Things of others. Let this Mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus._ A Person in outward Prosperity may have the Power of obtaining Riches, but the same Mind being in him which is in Christ Jesus, he may feel a Tenderness of Heart towards those of low Degree; and instead of setting himself above them, may look upon it as an unmerited Favour, that his Way through Life is more easy than the Way of many others; may improve every Opportunity of leading forth out of those Customs which have entangled the Family; employ his Time in looking into the Wants of the poor Members, and hold forth such a perfect Example of Humiliation, that the pure Witness may be reached in many Minds; and the Way opened for a harmonious walking together. Jesus Christ, in promoting the Happiness of others, was not deficient in looking for the Helpless, who lay in Obscurity, nor did he save any Thing to render himself honourable amongst Men, which might have been of more Use to the weak Members in his Father's Family; of whose Compassion towards us I may now speak a little. He who was perfectly happy in himself, moved with infinite Love, _took not upon him the Nature of Angels_, but our imperfect Natures, and therein wrestled with the Temptations which attend us in this Life; and being the Son of him who is greater than Earthly Princes, yet became a Companion to poor, sincere-hearted Men; and though he gave the clearest Evidence that Divine Power attended him, yet the most unfavourable Constructions were framed by a self-righteous People; those Miracles represented as the Effect of a diabolical Power, and Endeavours used to render him hateful, as having his Mission from the Prince of Darkness; nor did their Envy cease till they took him like a Criminal, and brought him to Trial. Though some may affect to carry the Appearance of being unmoved at the Apprehension of Distress, our dear Redeemer, who was perfectly sincere, having the same human Nature which we have, and feeling, a little before he was apprehended, the Weight of that Work upon him, for which he came into the World, was _sorrowful even unto Death_; here the human Nature struggled to be excused from a Cup so bitter; but his Prayers centered in Resignation, _Not my Will but thine be done_. In this Conflict, so great was his Agony, that _Sweat like Drops of Blood fell from him to the Ground_. Behold now, as foretold by the Prophet, he is in a judicial Manner _numbered with the Transgressors_! Behold him as some poor Man of no Reputation, standing before the High Priest and Elders, and before _Herod_ and _Pilate_, where Witnesses appear against him, and he mindful of the most gracious Design of his Coming, declineth to plead in his own Defence, _but as a Sheep that is dumb before the Shearer_, so under many Accusations, Revilings, and Buffetings, remained silent. And though he signified to _Peter_, that he had Access to Power sufficient to overthrow all their outward Forces; yet retaining a Resignation to suffer for the Sins of Mankind, he exerted not that Power, but permitted them to go on in their malicious Designs, and pronounce him to be worthy of Death, even him who was perfect in Goodness; thus _in his Humiliation his Judgment was taken away_, and he, like some vile Criminal, _led as a Lamb to the Slaughter_. Under these heavy Trials (tho' poor unstable _Pilate_ was convinced of his Innocence, yet) the People generally looked upon him as a Deceiver, a Blasphemer, and the approaching Punishment as a just Judgment upon him; _They esteemed him smitten of God and afflicted._ So great had been the Surprize of his Disciples, at his being taken by armed Men, that they _forsook him, and fled_; thus they hid their Faces from him, he was despised, and by their Conduct it appeared as though _they esteemed him not_. But contrary to that Opinion, of his being smitten of God and afflicted, it was for our Sakes that _he was put to Grief_; _he was wounded for our Transgressions_; _he was bruised for our Iniquities_; and under the Weight of them manifesting the deepest Compassion for the Instruments of his Misery, laboured as their Advocate, and in the Deeps of Affliction, with an unconquerable Patience, cried out, _Father, forgive them, they know not what they do!_ Now this Mind being in us, which was in Christ Jesus, it removes from our Hearts the Desire of Superiority, Worldly Honour, or Greatness; a deep Attention is felt to the Divine Counsellor, and an ardent Engagement to promote, as far as we may be enabled, the Happiness of Mankind universally: This State, where every Motion from a selfish Spirit yieldeth to pure Love, I may, with Gratitude to the Father of Mercies acknowledge, is often opened before me as a Pearl to dig after; attended with a living Concern, that amongst the many Nations and Families on the Earth, those who believe in the Messiah, that _he was manifested to destroy the Works of the Devil_, and thus to _take away the Sins of the World_, may experience the Will of our Heavenly Father, _may be done on Earth as it is in Heaven_. Strong are the Desires I often feel, that this Holy Profession may remain unpolluted, and the Believers in Christ may so abide in the pure inward Feeling of his Spirit, that the Wisdom from above may shine forth in their Living, as a Light by which others may be instrumentally helped on their Way, in the true harmonious Walking. CHAPTER III _On_ MERCHANDIZING Where the Treasures of pure Love are opened, and we obediently follow him who is the Light of Life, the Mind becomes chaste; and a Care is felt, that the Unction from the Holy One may be our Leader in every Undertaking. In being crucified to the World, broken off from that Friendship which is Enmity with God, and dead to the Customs and Fashions which have not their Foundation in the Truth; the Way is prepared to Lowliness in outward Living, and to a Disintanglement from those Snares which attends the Love of Money; and where the faithful Friends of Christ are so situated that Merchandize appears to be their Duty, they feel a Restraint from proceeding farther than he owns their Proceeding; being convinced that _we are not our own, but are bought with a Price, that none of us may live to ourselves, but to him who died for us_, 2 Cor. v. 15. Thus they are taught, not only to keep to a moderate Advance and Uprightness in their Dealings; but to consider the Tendency of their Proceeding; to do nothing which they know would operate against the Cause of universal Righteousness; and to keep continually in View the Spreading of the peaceable Kingdom of Christ amongst Mankind. The Prophet _Isaiah_ spake of the gathered Church, in the Similitude of a City, where many being employed were all preserved in Purity; _They shall call them the Holy People, the Redeemed of the Lord, and thou shalt be called sought out, a City not forsaken_, Isa. lxiii. 10. And the Apostle, after mentioning the Mystery of Christ's Sufferings, exhorts, _Be ye Holy in all Manner of Conversation_, 1 Pet. i. 15. There is a Conversation necessary in Trade; and there is a Conversation so foreign from the Nature of Christ's Kingdom, that it is represented in the Similitude of one Man pushing another with a warlike Weapon; _There is that speaketh like the Piercings of a Sword_, Prov. xii. 18. Now in all our Concerns it is necessary that the Leading of the Spirit of Christ be humbly waited for, and faithfully followed, as the only Means of being preserved chaste as an Holy People, who _in all Things are circumspect_, Exod. xxiii. 13, that nothing we do may carry the Appearance of Approbation of the Works of Wickedness, make the Unrighteous more at Ease in Unrighteousness, or occasion the Injuries committed against the Oppressed to be more lightly looked over. Where Morality is kept to, and supported by the Inhabitants of a Country, there is a certain Reproach attends those Individuals amongst them, who manifestly deviate therefrom. But where Iniquity is committed openly, and the Authors of it are not brought to Justice, nor put to Shame, their Hands grow strong. Thus the general Corruption of the _Jews_ shortly before their State was broke up by the _Chaldeans_, is described by their Boldness in Impiety; for as their Leaders were connected together in Wickedness they strengthened one another, and grew confident; _Were they ashamed when they had committed Abominations? Nay, they were not at all ashamed, neither could they blush_, Jer. vi. 15, on which Account the Lord thus expostulates with them, _What hath my Beloved to do in my House, seeing she hath wrought Lewdness with many, and the Holy Flesh is passed from thee; when thou doest Evil, then thou rejoicest_, Jer. xi. 15. Now the faithful Friends of Christ, who hunger and thirst after Righteousness, and inwardly breathe that his Kingdom may come on Earth as it is in Heaven, he teacheth them to be quick of Understanding in his Fear, and to be very attentive to the Means he may appoint for promoting pure Righteousness in the Earth; and as Shame is due to those whose works manifestly operate against the gracious Design of his Sufferings for us, a Care lives on their Minds that no wrong Customs however supported may bias their Judgments, but that they may humbly abide under the Cross, and be preserved in a Conduct which may not contribute to strengthen the Hands of the Wicked in their Wickedness, or to remove Shame from those to whom it is justly due. The Coming of that Day is precious, in which we experience the Truth of this Expression, _The Lord our Righteousness_, Jer. xiii. 6, and feel him to be _made unto us Wisdom and Sanctification_. The Example of a righteous Man is often looked at with Attention. Where righteous Men join in Business, their Company gives Encouragement to others; and as one Grain of Incense deliberately offered to the Prince of this World, renders an Offering to God in that State unacceptable; and from those esteemed Leaders of the People may be injurious to the Weak; it requires deep Humility of Heart, to follow him faithfully, who alone gives sound Wisdom, and the Spirit of true Discerning; and O how necessary it is, to consider the Weight of a Holy Profession! The Conduct of some formerly gave Occasion of Complaint against them; _Thou hast defiled thy Sanctuaries by the Multitude of thine Iniquities, by the Iniquity of thy Traffick_, Ezek. xxviii. 18, and in several Places it is charged against _Israel_, that they had polluted the Holy Name. The Prophet _Isaiah_ represents inward Sanctification in the Similitude of being purged from that which is Fuel for Fire; and particularly describes the outward Fruits, brought forth by those who dwell in this inward Holiness; _They walk righteously, and speak uprightly._ By _walking_ he represents the Journey through Life, as a righteous Journey; and _by speaking uprightly_, seems to point at that which _Moses_ appears to have had in View, when he thus express'd himself; _Thou shall not follow a Multitude to do Evil, nor speak in a Cause to decline after many to wrest Judgment_, Exod. xxiii. 2. He goes on to shew their Firmness in Equity; representing them as Persons superior to all the Arts of getting Money, which have not Righteousness for their Foundation; _They despise the Gain of Oppressions_: And further shews how careful they are that no Prospects of Gain may induce them to become partial in Judgment respecting an Injury; _They shake their Hands from holding Bribes._ Again, where any Interest is so connected with shedding Blood, that the Cry of innocent Blood goes also with it; he points out their Care to keep innocent Blood from crying against them, in the Similitude of a Man's stopping his Ears to prevent a Sound from entering his Head; _They stop their Ears from hearing Blood_: And where they know that Wickedness is committed, he points out with Care, that they do not by an unguarded Friendship with the Authors of it, appear like unconcerned Lookers on, but as People so deeply affected with Sorrow, that they cannot endure to stand by and behold it; this he represents in the Similitude of a Man _shutting his Eyes from seeing Evil_. _Who amongst us shall dwell with devouring Fire? Who amongst us shall dwell with everlasting Burnings? He that walketh righteously and speaketh uprightly. He that despiseth the Gain of Oppressions, that shaketh his Hands from holding of Bribes, that stoppeth his Ears from hearing of Blood, and shutteth his Eyes from seeing Evil_, Isa. xxxiii. 15. He proceeds in the Spirit of Prophecy to shew how the Faithful, being supported under Temptations, would be preserved from that Defilement that there is in the Love of Money; that as they who in a reverent Waiting on God, feel their Strength renewed, are said to _mount upward_; so here their Preservation from the Snare of unrighteous Gain, is represented in the Likeness of a Man, borne up above all crafty, artful Means of getting the Advantage of another; _They shall dwell on high_; and points out the Stability and Firmness of their Condition; _His Place of Defence shall be the Munition of Rocks_; and that under all the outward Appearances of Loss, in denying himself of gainful Profits for Righteousness Sake, yet through the Care of him who provides for the Sparrows, he should have a Supply answerable to his infinite Wisdom; _Bread shall be given him, his Waters shall be sure_. And as our Saviour mentions the Sight of God to be attainable by _the Pure in Heart_, so here the Prophet pointed out, how in true Sanctification the Understanding is opened, to behold the peaceable harmonious Nature of his Kingdom; _thine Eyes shall see the King in his Beauty_: And that looking beyond all the Afflictions which attend the Righteous, to _a Habitation eternal in the Heavens_, they with an eye divinely open _shall behold the Land that is very far off_. _He shall dwell on high, his Place of Defence shall be the Munition of Rocks, Bread shall be given him, his Waters shall be sure. Thine Eyes shall see the King in his Beauty; they shall behold the Land that is very far off_, Isa. xxxiii. 16. I often remember, and to me the Subject is awful, that the great Judge of all the Earth doeth that which is right, and that he, _before whom the Nations are as the Drop of a Bucket_, is _no Respecter of Persons_. Happy for them, who like the inspired Prophet, _in the Way of his Judgments wait for him_, Isa. xxvi. 8. When we feel him to sit as a Refiner with Fire, and know a Resignedness wrought in us, to that which he appoints for us, his Blessing in a very low Estate, is found to be more precious than much outward Treasure in those Ways of Life, where the Leadings of his Spirit are not followed. The Prophet in a Sight of a divine Work amongst many People, declared in the Name of the Lord, _I will gather all Nations and Tongues, and they shall come and see my Glory_, Isa. lxvi. 18. And again, _from the rising of the Sun to the going down of the same, my Name shall be great amongst the_ Gentiles, _and in every Place Incense shall be offered to my Name, and a pure Offering_, Malachi i. 11. Behold here how the Prophets had an inward Sense of the Spreading of the Kingdom of Christ; and how he was spoken of as one who should _take the Heathen for his Inheritance, and the utmost Parts of the Earth for his Possession_, Psal. ii. 8. That _he was given for a Light to the_ Gentiles; _and for Salvation to the Ends of the Earth_, Isa. xlix. 6. When we meditate on this divine Work, as a Work of Ages; a Work that the Prophets felt long before Christ appeared visibly on Earth, and remember the bitter Agonies he endured when he _poured out his Soul unto Death_, that the Heathen Nations, as well as others, might come to the Knowledge of the Truth and be saved. When we contemplate on this marvellous Work, as that which _the Angels desire to look into_, 1 Pet. i. 12. And behold People amongst whom this Light hath eminently broken forth, and who have received many Favours from the bountiful Hand of our Heavenly Father; not only indifferent with respect to publishing the glad Tidings amongst the _Gentiles_, as yet sitting in Darkness and entangled with many Superstitions; but aspiring after Wealth and worldly Honours, take hold of Means to obtain their Ends, tending to stir up Wrath and Indignation, and to beget an Abhorrence in them to the Name of _Christianity_. When these Things are weightily attended to, how mournful is the Subject? It is worthy of Remembrance, that People in different Ages, deeply baptized into the Nature of that Work for which Christ suffered, have joyfully offered up their Liberty and Lives for the promoting of it in the Earth. _Policarp_, who was reputed a Disciple of the Apostle _John_, having attained to great Age, was at length sentenced to die for his Religion; and being brought to the Fire, prayed nearly as follows, "Thou God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, by whom I have received the Knowledge of thee! O God of the Angels and Powers, and of every living Creature, and of all Sorts of just Men which live in thy Presence. I thank thee, that thou hast graciously vouchsafed this Day and this Hour to allot me a Portion among the Number of Martyrs, among the People of Christ, unto the Resurrection of everlasting Life; among whom I shall be received in thy Sight, this Day, as a fruitful and acceptable Sacrifice; wherefore for all this, I praise thee, I bless thee, I glorify thee through the everlasting High Priest, Jesus Christ, thy well-beloved Son; to whom, with thee and the Holy Ghost, be all Glory, World without End. _Amen._" Bishop _Latimer_, when Sentence of Death by Fire was pronounced against him, on Account of his Firmness in the Cause of Religion, he said, "I thank God most heartily, that he hath prolonged my Life to this End; that I may in this Case glorify him by this Kind of Death." _Fox's_ Acts and Mon. 936. _William Dewsbury_, who had suffered much for his Religion, in his last Sickness, encouraging his Friends to Faithfulness, made mention, like good old _Jacob_, of the Loving kindness of God to him in the Course of his Life, and that through the Power of Divine Love, he, for Christ's Sake, had joyfully entered Prisons. See Introduction to his Works. I mention these as a few Examples, out of many of the powerful Operations of the Spirit of Christ, where People are fully devoted to it, and of the ardent Longings in their Minds for the Spreading of his Kingdom amongst Mankind. Now to those, in the present Age, who truly know Christ, and feel the Nature of his peaceable Government opened in their Understandings, how loud is that Call wherewith we are called to Faithfulness; that in following this pure Light of Life, we, _as Workers together with him_, may labour in that great Work for which he was offered as a Sacrifice on the Cross; and that his peaceable Doctrines may shine through us in their real Harmony, at a Time when the Name of _Christianity_ is become hateful to many of the _Heathen_. When _Gehazi_ had obtained Treasures which the Prophet under divine Direction had refused, and was returned from the Business; the Prophet troubled at his Conduct, queried if it was a Time thus to prepare for a specious Living. _Is it a Time to receive Money and Garments, Men Servants and Maid Servants? The Leprosy therefore of_ Naaman _shall cleave to thee, and to thy Seed for ever_, 2 Kings v. 26. And O that we may lay to Heart the Condition of the present Time, and humbly follow his Counsel, who alone is able to prepare the Way for a true harmonious Walking amongst Mankind. CHAPTER IV _On_ DIVINE ADMONITIONS Such are the Perfections of our Heavenly Father, that in all the Dispensations of his Providence, it is our Duty, _in every Thing, to give Thanks_. Though from the first Settlement of this Part of _America_, he hath not extended his Judgments to the Degree of Famine, yet Worms at Times have come forth beyond numbering, and laid waste Fields of Grain and Grass, where they have appeared; another Kind, in great Multitudes, working out of Sight, in Grass Ground, have so eat the Roots, that the Surface, being loosened from the Soil beneath, might be taken off in great Sheets. These Kind of devouring Creatures appearing seldom, and coming in such Multitudes, their Generation appears different from most other Reptiles, and by the Prophet were call'd _God's Army sent amongst the People_, Joel ii. 25. There have been Tempests of Hail, which have very much destroyed the Grain where they extended. Through long Drought in Summer, Grain in some Places hath been less than half the usual Quantity;[1] and in the Continuance thereof, I have beheld with Attention, from Week to Week, how Dryness from the Top of the Earth, hath extended deeper and deeper, while the Corn and Plants have languished; and with Reverence my Mind hath been turned towards him, who being perfect in Goodness, in Wisdom and Power, doeth all Things right. And after long Drought, when the Sky hath grown dark with a Collection of Matter, and Clouds like Lakes of Water hung over our Heads, from whence the thirsty Land hath been soaked; I have at Times, with Awfulness, beheld the vehement Operation of Lightning, made sometimes to accompany these Blessings, as a Messenger from him who created all Things, to remind us of our Duty in a right Use of those Benefits, and give striking Admonitions, that we do not misapply those Gifts, in which an Almighty Power is exerted, in bestowing them upon us. [Footnote 1: When Crops fail. I often feel a tender Care that the Case of poor Tenants may be mercifully considered.] When I have considered that many of our Fellow Creatures suffer much in some Places, for want of the Necessaries of Life, whilst those who rule over them are too much given to Luxury, and divers Vanities; and behold the apparent Deviation from pure Wisdom amongst us, in the Use of the outward Gifts of God; those Marks of Famine have appeared like humbling Admonitions from him, that we might be instructed by gentle Chastisements, and might seriously consider our Ways; remembering that the outward Supply of Life is a Gift from our Heavenly Father, and no more venture to use, or apply his Gifts, in a Way contrary to pure Wisdom. Should we continue to reject those merciful Admonitions, and use his Gifts at Home, contrary to the gracious Design of the Giver, or send them Abroad in a Way of Trade, which the Spirit of Truth doth not lead into; and should he whose Eyes are upon all our Ways, extend his Chastisements so far as to reduce us to much greater Distress than hath yet been felt by these Provinces; with what sorrow of Heart might we meditate on that Subject, _Hast thou not procured this unto thyself, in that thou hast forsaken the Lord thy God, when he led thee by the Way? Thine own Wickedness shall correct thee, and thy Backslidings shall reprove thee; know therefore, and see that it is an evil Thing and bitter, that thou hast forsaken the Lord thy God, and that my Fear is not in thee, saith the Lord of Hosts_, Jer. ii. 17, 19. My Mind hath often been affected with Sorrow, in beholding a wrong Application of the Gifts of our Heavenly Father; and those Expressions concerning the Defilement of the Earth have been opened to my Understanding; _The Earth was corrupt before God, and the Earth was filled with Violence_, Gen. vi. 11. Again, Isaiah xxiv. 5. _The Earth also is defiled under the Inhabitants thereof._ The Earth being the Work of a Divine Power, may not as such be accounted unclean; but when Violence is committed thereon, and the Channel of Righteousness so obstructed, that _in our Skirts are found the Blood of the Souls of poor Innocents; not by a secret Search, but upon all these_,[2] Jer. ii. 34. [Footnote 2: See a _Caution and Warning to Great Britain and her Colonies_ Page 31.] When Blood shed unrighteously remains unatoned for, and the Inhabitants are not effectually purged from it, when they do not wash their Hands in Innocency, as was figured in the Law, in the Case of one being found slain; but seek for Gain arising from Scenes of Violence and Oppression, here the Land is polluted with Blood, _Deut_. xxi. 6. Moreover, when the Earth is planted and tilled, and the Fruits brought forth are applied to support unrighteous Purposes; here the gracious Design of infinite Goodness, in these his Gifts being perverted, the Earth is defiled; and the Complaint formerly uttered becomes applicable; _Thou hast made me to serve with thy Sins; thou hast wearied me with thine Iniquities_, Isaiah xliii. 24. AN EPISTLE TO THE QUARTERLY AND MONTHLY MEETINGS OF FRIENDS. By JOHN WOOLMAN. _LONDON_: Re-printed by MARY HINDE. AN EPISTLE, &c. Beloved Friends,--Feeling at this Time a renewed Concern that the pure Principle of Light and Life, and the righteous Fruits thereof may spread and prevail amongst Mankind, there is an Engagement on my Heart to labour with my Brethren in religious Profession, that none of us may be a Stumbling-block in the Way of others; but may so walk that our Conduct may reach the pure Witness in the Hearts of such who are not in Profession with us. And, dear Friends, while we publickly own that the Holy Spirit is our Leader, the Profession is in itself weighty, and the Weightiness thereof increaseth in Proportion as we are noted among the Professors of Truth, and active in dealing with such who walk disorderly. Many under our Profession, for Want of due Attention, and a perfect Resignation, to this Divine Teacher, have in some Things manifested a Deviation from the Purity of our religious Principles, and these Deviations having crept in amongst us by little and little, and increasing from less to greater, have been so far unnoticed, that some living in them, have been active in putting Discipline in Practice with relation to others, whose Conduct hath appeared more dishonourable in the World. Now as my Mind hath been exercised before the Lord, I have seen, that the Discipline of the Church of Christ standeth in that which is pure; that it is the Wisdom from above which gives Authority to Discipline, and that the Weightiness thereof standeth not in any outward Circumstances, but in the Authority of Christ who is the Author of it; and where any walk after the Flesh, and not according to the Purity of Truth, and at the same Time are active in putting Discipline in Practice, a Veil is gradually drawn over the Purity of Discipline, and over that Holiness of Life, which Christ leads those into, _in whom, the Love of God is verily perfected_, 1 John ii. 5. When we labour in true Love with Offenders, and they remain obstinate, it sometimes is necessary to proceed as far as our Lord directed; _Let him be to thee as an heathen Man, or a Publican_, Mat. xviii. 17. Now when such are disowned, and they who act therein feel Christ made unto them Wisdom, and are preserved in his meek, restoring Spirit, there is no just Cause of Offence ministered to any; but when such who are active in dealing with Offenders, indulge themselves in Things which are contrary to the Purity of Truth, and yet judge others whose Conduct appears more dishonourable than theirs, here the pure Authority of Discipline ceaseth as to such Offenders, and a Temptation is laid in their Way to wrangle and contend;--_Judge not_, said our Lord, _that ye be not Judged._ Now this forbidding alludes to Man's Judgment, and points out the Necessity of our humbly attending to that sanctifying Power, under which the Faithful experience the Lord to be _a Spirit of Judgment to them_, Isa. xxviii. 6. And as we feel his Holy Spirit to mortify the Deeds of the Body in us, and can say, _It is no more I that live, but Christ that liveth in me_, here right Judgment is known. And while Divine Love prevails in our Hearts, and Self in us is brought under Judgment, a Preparation is felt to labour in a right Manner with Offenders; but if we abide not in this Love, our outward Performance in dealing with others, degenerates into Formality; for _this is the Love of God, that we keep his Commandments_, John i. 3. How weighty are those Instructions of our Redeemer concerning religious Duties, when he points out, that they who pray, should be so obedient to the Teachings of the Holy Spirit, that humbly confiding in his Help, they may say, _Thy Name, O Father I be hallowed. Thy Kingdom come. Thy Will be done on Earth, as it is in Heaven._--In this awful State of Mind is felt that Worship which stands in doing the Will of God on Earth, as it is done in Heaven, and keeping the Holy Name sacred: To take a Holy Profession upon us is awful, nor can we keep his Holy Name sacred, but by humbly abiding under the Cross of Christ. The Apostle laid a heavy Complaint against some who prophaned this Holy Name by their Manner of Living, _Through you_, he says, _the Name of God is blasphemed among the_ Gentiles, _Rom._ ii. 24. Some of our Ancestors, through many Tribulations, were gathered into the State of true Worshippers, and had Fellowship in that which is pure; and as one was inwardly moved to kneel down in their Assemblies, and publickly call on the Name of the Lord, those in the Harmony of united Exercise then present, joined in the Prayer: I mention this, in order that we of the present Age, may look unto the Rock from whence we were hewn, and remember that to unite in Worship, is an Union in Prayer, and that Prayer acceptable to the Father, is only in a Mind truly sanctified, where the sacred Name is kept Holy, and the Heart resigned to do his Will on Earth, as it is done in Heaven; _If ye abide in me_, saith Christ, _and my Words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will in my Name, and it shall be done unto you._--Now we know not what to pray for as we ought, but as the Holy Spirit doth open and direct our Minds, and as we faithfully yield to its Influences, our Prayers are in the Will of our Heavenly Father, who fails not to grant that which his own Spirit, through his Children, asketh;--thus Preservation from Sin is known, and the Fruits of Righteousness are brought forth by such who inwardly unite in Prayer. How weighty are our solemn Meetings when the Name of Christ is kept Holy! "How precious is that State in which the Children of the Lord are so redeemed from the Love of this World, that they are accepted and blessed in all that they do!" _R. Barclay's_ Apology, Page 404. How necessary is it that we who profess these Principles, and are outwardly active in supporting them, should faithfully abide in Divine Strength, that _as he who has called us, is Holy, so we may be Holy in all manner of Conversation_, 1 Pet. i. 15. If one professing to be influenced by the Spirit of Christ, propose to unite in a Labour to promote Righteousness in the Earth, and in Time past he hath manifestly deviated from the Paths of Equity, then to act consistent with this Principle, his first Work is to make Restitution so far as he may be enabled; for if he attempts to contribute toward a Work intended to promote Righteousness, while it appears that he neglecteth, or refuseth to act righteously himself, his Conduct has a Tendency to entangle the Minds of those who are weak in the Faith, who behold these Things, and to draw a Veil over the Purity of Righteousness, by carrying an Appearance as though that was Righteousness which is not. Again, if I propose to assist in supporting those Doctrines wherein that Purity of Life is held forth, in which Customs proceeding from the Spirit of this World have no Place, and at the same Time strengthen others in those Customs by my Example; the first Step then in an orderly Proceeding, is to cease from those Customs myself, and afterwards to labour, as I may be enabled, to promote the like Disposition and Conduct in others. To be convinced of the pure Principle of Truth, and diligently exercised in walking answerable thereto, is necessary before I can consistently recommend this Principle to others.--I often feel a Labour in Spirit, that we who are active Members in religious Society, may experience in ourselves the Truth of those Expressions of the Holy One; _I will be sanctified in them that come nigh me_, Lev. x. 3.----In this Case, my Mind hath been often exercised when alone, Year after Year, for many Years, and in the Renewings of Divine Love, a tender Care hath been incited in me, that we who profess the inward Principle of Light to be our Teacher, may be a Family united in that Purity of Worship, which comprehends a Holy Life, and ministers Instruction to others. My Mind is often drawn towards Children in the Truth, who having a small Share of the Things of this Life, and coming to have Families, may be inwardly exercised before the Lord to support them in a Way agreeable to the Purity of Truth, in which they may feel his Blessing upon them in their Labours; the Thoughts of such being entangled with Customs, contrary to pure Wisdom, conveyed to them through our Hands, doth often very tenderly, and movingly affect my Heart, and when I look towards, and think on the succeeding Generation, fervent Desires are raised in me, that we by yielding to that Holy Spirit which leads into all Truth, may not do the Work of the Lord deceitfully, may not live contrary to the Purity of the Divine Principle we profess; but that as faithful Labourers in our Age, we may be instrumental in removing Stumbling-blocks out of the Way of those who may succeed us. So great was the Love of Christ, that he gave himself for the Church, _that he might sanctify and cleanse it, that it should be Holy, and without Blemish, not having Spot or Wrinkle, or any such Thing_, Eph. v. 25. and where any take the Name of Christ upon them, professing to be Members of his Church, and led by his Holy Spirit, and yet manifestly deviate from the Purity of Truth, they herein act against the gracious Design of his giving himself for them, and minister Cause for the Continuance of his Afflictions, _viz._ in his Body the Church. Christ suffered Afflictions in a Body of Flesh prepared by the Father, but the Afflictions of his mystical Body are yet unfinished; for they who are baptized into Christ are baptized into his Death; and as we humbly abide under his sanctifying Power, and are brought forth into Newness of Life, we feel Christ to live in us, who being the same Yesterday, To-day, and forever, and always at Unity with himself, his Spirit in the Hearts of his People leads to an inward Exercise for the Salvation of Mankind; and when under a Travail of Spirit, we behold a visited People entangled by the Spirit of the World with its Wickedness and Customs, and thereby rendered incapable of being faithful Examples to others, Sorrow and Heaviness under a Sense of these Things, is often experienced, and thus in some Measure is filled up that which remains of the Afflictions of Christ. Our blessed Saviour speaking concerning Gifts offered in Divine Service, says, _If thou bring thy Gift to the Altar, and there remembrest that thy Brother hath ought against thee, leave there thy Gift before the Altar, and go thy Way, first be reconciled to thy Brother, and then come and offer thy Gift_, Mat. v. 23, 24. Now there is no true Unity, but in that wherein the Father and the Son are united, nor can there be a perfect Reconciliation but in ceasing from that which ministers Cause for the Continuation of the Afflictions of Christ; and if any professing to bring their Gift to the Altar, do remember the customary Contradiction which some of their Fruits bear to the pure spiritual Worship, here it appears necessary to lay to Heart this Command, _Leave thy Gift by the Altar_. Christ graciously calls his People Brethren; _Whosoever shall do the Will of God, the same is my Brother_, Mark iii. 35. Now if we walk contrary to the Truth as it is in Jesus, while we continue to profess it, we offend against Christ, and if under this Offence we bring our Gift to the Altar, our Redeemer doth not direct us to take back our Gift, he doth not discourage our proceeding in a good Work; but graciously points out the necessary Means by which the Gift may be rendered acceptable, _Leave_, saith he, _thy Gift by the Altar, first go and be reconciled to thy Brother_, cease from that which grieves the Holy Spirit, cease from that which is against the Truth, as it is in Jesus, and then come and offer thy Gift. I feel, while I am writing, a Tenderness to those who through Divine Favour are preserved in a lively Sense of the State of the Churches, and at Times may be under Discouragements with regard to proceeding in that pure Way which Christ by his Holy Spirit leads into: The Depth of Disorder and Weakness, which so much prevails, being opened, Doubtings are apt to arise as to the Possibility of proceeding as an Assembly of the Lord's People in the pure Council of Truth; and here I feel a Concern to express in Uprightness, that which hath been opened in my Mind, under the Power of the Cross of Christ, relating to a visible gathered Church, the Members whereof are guided by the Holy Spirit. The Church is called _the Body of Christ_, Col. i. 24. Christ is called _the Head of the Church_, Eph. i. 22. The Church is called _the Pillar, and Ground of Truth_, 1 Tim. iii. 15. Thus the Church hath a Name that is sacred, and the Necessity of keeping this Name Holy, appears evident; for where a Number of People unite in a Profession of being led by the Spirit of Christ, and publish their Principles to the World, the Acts and Proceedings of that People may in some Measure be considered as such which Christ is the Author of. Now while we stand in this Station, if the pure Light of Life is not followed and regarded in our Proceedings, we are in the Way of prophaning the Holy Name, and of going back toward that Wilderness of Sufferings and Persecution, out of which, through the tender Mercies of God, a Church hath been gathered; _Christ liveth in sanctified Vessels_, Gal. ii. 20. and where they behold his Holy Name prophaned, and the pure Gospel Light eclipsed, through the Unfaithfulness of any who by their Station appear to be Standard-bearers under the Prince of Peace, the living Members in the Body of Christ in beholding these Things, do in some degree experience the Fellowship of his Sufferings; and as the Wisdom of the World more and more takes Place in conducting the Affairs of this visible gathered Church, and the pure Leadings of the Holy Spirit less waited for and followed, so the true Suffering Seed is more and more oppressed. My Mind is often affected with a Sense of the Condition of sincere-hearted People in some Kingdoms, where Liberty of Conscience is not allowed, many of whom being burthened in their Minds with prevailing Superstition joined with Oppressions, are often under Sorrow; and where such have attended to that pure Light which hath in some degree opened their Understandings, and for their Faithfulness thereto, have been brought to Examination and Trial, how heavy are the Persecutions which in divers Parts of the World are exercised upon them! How mighty, as to the outward, is that Power by which they are borne down, and oppressed! How deeply affecting is the Condition of many upright-hearted People who are taken into the _Papal_ Inquisition! What lamentable Cruelties, in deep Vaults, in a private Way, are exercised on many of them! And how lingering is that Death by a small slow Fire, which they have frequently indured, who have been faithful to the End! How many tender spirited _Protestants_ have been sentenced to spend the Remainder of their Lives in a Galley chained to Oars, under hard-hearted Masters, while their young Children are placed out for Education, and taught Principles so contrary to the Conscience of the Parents, that by dissenting from them, they have hazarded their Liberty, Lives, and all that was dear to them of the Things of this World! There have been in Time past severe Persecutions under the _English_ Government, and many sincere-hearted People have suffered Death for the Testimony of a good Conscience, whose Faithfulness in their Day hath ministred Encouragement to others, and been a Blessing to many who have succeeded them; thus from Age to Age, the Darkness being more and more removed, a Channel at length, through the tender Mercies of God, hath been opened for the Exercise of the pure Gift of the Gospel Ministry, without Interruption from outward Power, a Work, the like of which is rare, and unknown in many Parts of the World. As these Things are often fresh in my Mind, and this great Work of God going on in the Earth has been open before me, that Liberty of Conscience with which we are favoured, hath appeared not as a light Matter. A Trust is committed to us, a great and weighty Trust, to which our diligent Attention is necessary, wherever the active Members of this visible gathered Church use themselves to that which is contrary to the Purity of our Principles, it appears to be a Breach of this Trust, and one Step back toward the Wilderness, one Step towards undoing what God in infinite Love hath done through his faithful Servants, in a Work of several Ages, and like laying the Foundation for future Sufferings. I feel a living Invitation in my Mind to such who are active in our religious Society, that we may lay to Heart this Matter, and consider the Station in which we stand; a Place of outward Liberty under the free Exercise of our Conscience toward God, not obtained but through great and manifold Afflictions of those who lived before us. There is Gratitude due from us to our Heavenly Father, and Justice to our Posterity; can our Hearts endure, or our Hands be strong, if we desert a Cause so precious, if we turn aside from a Work, under which so many have patiently laboured? May the deep Sufferings of our Saviour be so dear to us, that we may never trample under Foot the adorable Son of God, nor count the Blood of the Covenant unholy! May the Faithfulness of the Martyrs when the Prospect of Death by Fire was before them, be remembred. And may the patient constant Sufferings of the upright-hearted Servants of God in latter Ages be revived in our Minds. And may we so follow on to know the Lord, that neither the Faithful in this Age, nor those in Ages to come, may ever be brought under Suffering, through our sliding back from the Work of Reformation in the World. While the active Members in the visible gathered Church stand upright, and the Affairs thereof are carried on under the Leadings of the Holy Spirit, although Disorders may arise among us, and cause many Exercises to those who feel the Care of the Churches upon them; yet while these continue under the Weight of the Work, and labour in the Meekness of Wisdom for the Help of others, the Name of Christ in the visible gathered Church may be kept sacred; but while they who are active in the Affairs of this Church, continue in a manifest Opposition to the Purity of our Principles, this, as the Prophet _Isaiah_ x. 18. expresseth it, is like _as when a Standard-bearer fainteth_; and thus the Way opens to great and prevailing Degeneracy, and to Sufferings for such who through the Power of Divine Love, are separated to the Gospel of Christ, and cannot unite with any Thing which stands in Opposition to the Purity of it. The Necessity of an inward Stillness, hath under these Exercises appeared clear to my Mind; in true Silence Strength is renewed, the Mind herein is weaned from all Things, but as they may be enjoyed in the Divine Will, and a Lowliness in outward Living opposite to Worldly Honour, becomes truly acceptable to us;--in the Desire after outward Gain, the Mind is prevented from a perfect Attention to the Voice of Christ, but being weaned from all Things, but as they may be enjoyed in the Divine Will, the pure Light shines into the Soul, and where the Fruits of that Spirit which is of the World, are brought forth by many who profess to be led by the Spirit of Truth, and Cloudiness is felt to be gathering over the visible gathered Church, the Sincere in Heart who abide in true Stillness, and are exercised therein before the Lord for his Name's Sake, have a Knowledge of Christ in the Fellowship of his Sufferings, and inward Thankfulness is felt at Times, that through Divine Love, our own Wisdom is cast out, and that forward active Part in us subjected, which would rise and do something in the visible gathered Church, without, the pure Leadings of the Spirit of Christ. While aught remains in us different from a perfect Resignation of our Wills, it is like a Seal to a Book wherein is written, _that good, and acceptable, and perfect Will of God concerning us_, Rom. xii. 2. but when our Minds entirely yield to Christ, that Silence is known, which followeth the opening of the last of the Seals, _Rev._ viii. 1. In this Silence we learn abiding in the Divine Will, and there feel, that we have no Cause to promote but that only in which the Light of Life directs us in our Proceedings, and that the alone Way to be useful in the Church of Christ, is to abide faithfully under the Leadings of his Holy Spirit in all Cases, and being preserved thereby in Purity of Heart, and Holiness of Conversation, a Testimony to the Purity of his Government may be held forth through us, to others. As my Mind hath been thus exercised, I have seen that to be active and busy in the visible gathered Church, without the Leadings of the Holy Spirit, is not only unprofitable, but tends to increase Dimness; and where Way is not opened to proceed in the Light of Truth, a Stop is felt by those who humbly attend to the Divine Leader, a Stop which in relation to good Order in the visible gathered Church, is of the greatest Consequence to be observed; thus _Robert Barclay_ in his Treatise on Discipline holds forth, Page 65, 68, 84. "That the Judgment or Conclusion of the Church or Congregation, is no further effectual as to the true End and Design thereof, but as such Judgment or Conclusion proceeds from the Spirit of God operating on their Minds who are sanctified in Christ Jesus." Now in this Stop I have learned the Necessity of waiting on the Lord in Humility, that the Works of all may be brought to the Light, and those to Judgment which are wrought in the Wisdom of this World; and have also seen, that in a Mind thoroughly subjected to the Power of the Cross, there is a Savour of Life to be felt, which evidently tends to gather Souls to God, while the greatest Works in the visible gathered Church brought forth in Man's Wisdom, remain to be unprofitable. Where People are divinely gathered into a Holy Fellowship, and faithfully abide under the Influence of that Spirit which leads into all Truth, _they are the Light of the World_, Mat. v. 14. Now holding this Profession, to me hath appeared weighty, even beyond what I can fully express, and what our blessed Lord seemed to have in View, when he proposed the Necessity of counting the Cost, before we begin to build. I trust there are many who at Times, under Divine Visitation, feel an inward Enquiry after God; and when such in the Simplicity of their Hearts mark the Lives of a People, who profess to walk by the Leadings of his Spirit, of what great Concernment is it that our Lights shine clear, that nothing of our Conduct carry a Contradiction to the Truth as it is in Jesus, or be a Means of prophaning his Holy Name, and be a Stumbling-block in the Way of those sincere Enquirers! When such Seekers, who wearied with empty Forms, look toward uniting with us as a People, and behold active Members among us depart in their customary Way of Living, from that Purity of Life, which under humbling Exercises hath been opened before them, as the Way of the Lord's People, how mournful and discouraging is the Prospect! And how strongly doth such Unfaithfulness operate against the Spreading of the peaceable, harmonious Principle, and Testimony of Truth amongst Mankind! In entering into that Life, which is hid with Christ in God, we behold his peaceable Government, where the whole Family are governed by the same Spirit, and the _doing to others as we would they should do unto us_, groweth up as good Fruit from a good Tree; the Peace, Quietness, and harmonious Walking in this Government is beheld with humble Reverence to him who is the Author of it; and in partaking of the Spirit of Christ, we partake of that which labours, and suffers for the Increase of this peaceable Government among the Inhabitants of the World; and I have felt a Labour of long Continuance, that we, who profess this peaceable Principle, may be faithful Standard-bearers under the Prince of Peace, and that nothing of a defiling Nature, tending to Discord and Wars, may remain among us. May each of us query with ourselves, have the Treasures I possess been gathered in that Wisdom which is from above, so far as hath appeared to me? Have none of my Fellow Creatures an equitable Right to any Part which is called mine? Have the Gifts, and Possessions received by me from others, been conveyed in a Way free from all Unrighteousness, so far as I have seen? The Principle of Peace in which our Trust is only in the Lord, and our Minds weaned from a Dependance on the Strength of Armies, hath appeared to me very precious, and I often feel strong Desires, that we who profess this Principle, may so walk, as to give just Cause for none of our Fellow Creatures to be offended at us; that our Lives may evidently manifest, that we are redeemed from that Spirit in which Wars are. Our blessed Saviour in pointing out the Danger of so leaning on Man, as to neglect the Leadings of his Holy Spirit, said, _Call no Man your Father upon the Earth; for one is your Father which is in Heaven_, Mat. xxiii. 9. Where the Wisdom from above is faithfully followed, and therein we are entrusted with Substance, it is a Treasure committed to our Care in the Nature of an Inheritance, as an Inheritance from him, who formed, and supports the World. Now in this Condition the true Enjoyment of the good Things of this Life is understood, and that Blessing felt, in which is real Safety; this is what I apprehend our blessed Lord had in View, when he pronounced, _Blessed are the Meek, for they shall inherit the Earth_. Selfish Worldly-minded Men may hold Lands in the selfish Spirit, and depending on the Strength of the outward Power, be perplexed with secret Uneasiness, lest the Injured should sometime overpower them, and that Measure meted to them, which they measure to others. Thus selfish Men may possess the Earth; but it is the Meek who inherit it, and enjoy it as an Inheritance from the Heavenly Father, free from all the Defilements, and Perplexities of Unrighteousness. Where Proceedings have been in that Wisdom which is from beneath, and inequitable Gain gathered by a Man, and left as a Gift to his Children, who being entangled by the same Worldly Spirit, have not attained to that Clearness of Light in which the Channels of Righteousness are opened, and Justice done to those who remain silent under Injuries: Here I have seen under humbling Exercise of Mind, that the Sins of the Fathers are embraced by the Children, and become their Sins, and thus of the Days of Tribulation, the Iniquities in the Fathers are visited upon these Children, who take hold of the Unrighteousness of their Fathers, and live in that Spirit in which those Iniquities were committed; to which agreeth the Prophecy of _Moses_, concerning a rebellious People; _They that are left of you shall pine away in their Iniquities, in your Enemy's Land, and in the Iniquities of their Fathers shall they pine away_, Lev. xxvi. 39. and our blessed Lord in beholding the Hardness of Heart in that Generation, and feeling in himself, that they lived in the same Spirit in which the Prophets had been persecuted unto Death, signified, _That the Blood of all the Prophets which was shed from the Foundation of the World, should be required of that Generation, from the Blood of_ Abel, _unto the Blood of_ Zacharias, _who perished between the Altar and the Temple_, Luke xi. 51. Tender Compassion fills my Heart towards my Fellow Creatures estranged from the harmonious Government of the Prince of Peace, and a Labour attends me, that they may be gathered to this peaceable Habitation. In being inwardly prepared to suffer Adversity for Christ's Sake, and weaned from a Dependance on the Arm of Flesh, we feel, that there is a Rest for the People of God, and that it stands in a perfect Resignation of ourselves to his Holy Will; in this Condition, all our Wants and Desires are bounded by pure Wisdom, and our Minds wholly attentive to the Counsel of Christ inwardly communicated, which hath appeared to me as a Habitation of Safety for the Lord's People, in Times of outward Commotion and Trouble, and Desires from the Fountain of pure Love, are opened in me, to invite my Brethren and Fellow Creatures to feel for, and seek after that which gathers the Mind into it. JOHN WOOLMAN. MOUNT-HOLLY, NEW-JERSEY, _4th Month 1772_. REMARKS ON SUNDRY SUBJECTS. By JOHN WOOLMAN. _LONDON_: Printed by MARY HINDE. REMARKS &c. CHAPTER I _On loving our Neighbours as ourselves_ When we love the Lord with all our Hearts, and his Creatures in his Love, we are then preserv'd in Tenderness both toward Mankind and the Animal Creation; but if another Spirit gets Room in our Minds, and we follow it in our Proceedings, we are then in the Way of disordering the Affairs of Society. If a Man successful in Business expends Part of his Income in Things of no real Use, while the Poor employed by him pass through great Difficulties in getting the Necessaries of Life, this requires his serious Attention. If several principal Men in Business unite in setting the Wages of those who work for Hire, and therein have Regard to a Profit to themselves answerable to unnecessary Expence in their Families, while the Wages of the other on a moderate Industry will not afford a comfortable Living for their Families, and a proper Education for their Children, this is like laying a Temptation in the Way of some to strive for a Place higher than they are in, when they have not Stock sufficient for it. Now I feel a Concern in the Spring of pure Love, that all who have Plenty of outward Substance, may Example others in the right Use of Things; may carefully look into the Condition of poor People, and beware of exacting on them with Regard to their Wages. While hired Labourers, by moderate Industry, through the Divine Blessing, may live comfortably, raise up Families, and give them suitable Education, it appears reasonable for them to be content with their Wages. If they who have Plenty love their Fellow Creatures in that Love which is Divine, and in all their Proceedings have an equal Regard to the Good of Mankind universally, their Place in Society is a Place of Care, an Office requiring Attention, and the more we possess, the greater is our Trust, and with an Increase of Treasure, an Increase of Care becomes necessary. When our Will is subject to the Will of God, and in relation to the Things of this World, we have nothing in View, but a comfortable Living equally with the rest of our Fellow Creatures, then outward Treasures are no farther desirable than as we feel a Gift in our Minds equal to the Trust, and Strength to act as dutiful Children in his Service, who hath formed all Mankind, and appointed a Subsistence for us in this World. A Desire for Treasures on any other Motive, appears to be against that Command of our blessed Saviour, _Lay not up for yourselves Treasures here on Earth_, Mat. vi. 19. He forbids not laying up in the Summer against the Wants of Winter; nor doth he teach us to be slothful in that which properly relates to our being in this World; but in this Prohibition he puts in _yourselves_, _Lay not up for_ yourselves _Treasures here on Earth_. Now in the pure Light, this Language is understood, for in the Love of Christ there is no Respect of Persons; and while we abide in his Love, we live not to _ourselves_, but to him who died for us. And as we are thus united in Spirit to Christ, we are engaged to labour in promoting that Work in the Earth for which he suffer'd. In this State of Mind our Desires are, that every honest Member in Society may have a Portion of Treasure, and Share of Trust, answerable to that Gift, with which our Heavenly Father hath gifted us. In great Treasure, there is a great Trust. A great Trust requireth great Care. But the laborious Mind wants Rest. A pious Man is content to do a Share of Business in Society, answerable to the Gifts with which he is endowed, while the Channels of Business are free from Unrighteousness, but is careful lest at any Time his Heart be over-charg'd. In the harmonious Spirit of Society _Christ is all in all_, Col. iii. 11. Here it is that _old Things are past away, all Things are new, all Things are of God_, 2 Cor. v. 17, 18, and the Desire for outward Riches is at an End. They of low Degree who have small Gifts, enjoy their Help who have large Gifts; those with their small Gifts, have a small degree of Care, while these with their large Gifts, have a large degree of Care: And thus to abide in the Love of Christ, and enjoy a comfortable Living in this World is all that is aimed at by those Members in Society, to whom Christ is made Wisdom and Righteousness. But when they who have much Treasure, are not faithful Stewards of the Gifts of God, great Difficulties attend it. Now this Matter hath deeply affected my Mind. The Lord, through merciful Chastisements, hath given me a Feeling of that Love, in which the Harmony of Society standeth, and a Sight of the Growth of that Seed which bringeth forth Wars and great Calamities in the World, and a Labour attends me to open it to others. Now to act with Integrity, according to that Strength of Mind and Body with which our Creator hath endowed each of us, appears necessary for all, and he who thus stands in the lowest Station, appears to be entitled to as comfortable and convenient a Living, as he whose Gifts of Mind are greater, and whose Cares are more extensive. If some endowed with strong Understandings as Men, abide not in the harmonious State, in which we _love our Neighbours as ourselves_, but walk in that Spirit in which the Children of this World are wise in their Generation; these by the Strength of Contrivance may sometimes gather great Treasure, but the Wisdom of this World is Foolishness with God; and if we gather Treasures in Worldly Wisdom, we lay up _Treasures for ourselves_; and great Treasures managed in any other Spirit, than the Spirit of Truth, disordereth the Affairs of Society, for hereby the good Gifts of God in this outward Creation are turned into the Channels of Worldly Honour, and frequently applied to support Luxury, while the Wages of poor Labourers are such, that with moderate Industry and Frugality they may not live comfortably, raise up Families, and give them suitable Education, but through the Streightness of their Condition, are often drawn on to labour under Weariness, to toil through Hardships themselves, and frequently to oppress those useful Animals with which we are intrusted. From Age to Age, throughout all Ages, Divine Love is that alone, in which Dominion has been, is, and will be rightly conducted. In this the Endowments of Men are so employed, that the Friend and the Governor are united in one, and oppressive Customs come to an End. Riches in the Hands of Individuals in Society, is attended with some degree of Power; and so far as Power is put forth separate from pure Love, so far the Government of the Prince of Peace is interrupted; and as we know not that our Children after us will dwell in that State in which Power is rightly applied, to lay up Riches for them appears to be against the Nature of his Government. The Earth, through the Labour of Men under the Blessing of him who formed it, yieldeth a Supply for the Inhabitants from Generation to Generation, and they who walk in the pure Light, their Minds are prepared to taste and relish not only those Blessings which are spiritual, but also feel a Sweetness and Satisfaction in a right Use of the good Gifts of God in the visible Creation. Here we see that Man's Happiness stands not in great Possessions, but in a Heart devoted to follow Christ, in that Use of Things, where Customs contrary to universal Love have no Power over us. In this State our Hearts are prepared to trust in God, and our Desires for our Children and Posterity are, that they, with the rest of Mankind, in Ages to come, may be of that Number, of whom he hath said, _I will be a Father to them, and they shall be my Sons and Daughters_, 2 Cor. vi. 18. When Wages in a fruitful Land bear so small a Proportion to the Necessaries of Life, that poor honest People who have Families cannot by a moderate Industry attain to a comfortable Living, and give their Children sufficient Learning, but must either labour to a degree of Oppression, or else omit that which appears to be a Duty. While this is the Case with the Poor, there is an Inclination in the Minds of most People, to prepare at least so much Treasure for their Children, that they with Care and moderate Industry may live free from these Hardships which the Poor pass through. Now this Subject requireth our serious Consideration: To labour that our Children may be put in a Way to live comfortably, appears in itself to be a Duty, so long as these our Labours are consistent with universal Righteousness; but if in striving to shun Poverty, we do not walk in that State where _Christ is our Life_, then we wander; _He that hath the Son, hath Life_, 1 John v. 12. _This Life is the Light of Men_, 1 John 1. 4. If we walk not in this Light, we walk in Darkness, and _he that walketh in Darkness, knoweth not whither he goeth_, John xii. 35. To keep to right Means in labouring to attain a right End is necessary: If in striving to shun Poverty, we strive only in that State where Christ is the Light of our Life, our Labours will stand in the true Harmony of Society; but if People are confident that the End aimed at is good, and in this Confidence pursue it so eagerly, as not to wait for the Spirit of Truth to lead them, then they come to Loss. _Christ is given to be a Leader and Commander of the People_, Isaiah lv. 4. Again; _The Lord shall guide thee continually_, Isaiah lviii. 12. Again; _Lord, thou wilt ordain Peace for us, for thou also hast wrought all our Works in us_, Isaiah xxvi. 12. _In the Lord have we Righteousness and Strength_, Isaiah xlv. 24. In this State our Minds are preserved watchful in following the Leadings of his Spirit in all our Proceedings in this World, and a Care is felt for a Reformation in general. That our own Posterity, with the rest of Mankind in succeeding Ages, may not be entangled by oppressive Customs, transmitted to them through our Hands; but if People in the Narrowness of natural Love, are afraid that their Children will be oppressed by the Rich, and through an eager Desire to get Treasures, depart from the pure Leadings of Truth in one Case, though it may seem to be a small Matter, yet the Mind even in that small Matter may be embolden'd to continue in a Way of Proceeding, without waiting for the Divine Leader. Thus People may grow expert in Business, wise in the Wisdom of this World, retain a fair Reputation amongst Men, and yet being Strangers to the Voice of Christ, the safe Leader of his Flock, the Treasures thus gotten, may be like Snares to the Feet of their Posterity. Now to keep faithful to the pure Counsellor, and under trying Circumstances suffer Adversity for Righteousness Sake, in this there is a Reward. If we, being poor, are hardly dealt with by those who are rich, and under this Difficulty are frugal and industrious, and in true Humility open our Case to them who oppress us, this may reach the pure Witness in their Minds; and though we should remain under Difficulties as to the outward, yet if we abide in the Love of Christ, all will work for our Good. When we feel what it is to suffer in the true suffering State, then we experience the Truth of those Expressions, that, _as the Sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our Consolation aboundeth by Christ_, 2 Cor. i. 5. But if poor People who are hardly dealt with, do not attain to the true suffering State, do not labour in true Love with those who deal hardly with them, but envy their outward Greatness, murmur in their Hearts because of their own Poverty, and strive in the Wisdom of this World to get Riches for themselves and their Children; this is like wandering in the Dark. If we who are of a middle Station between Riches and Poverty, are affected at Times with the Oppressions of the Poor, and feel a tender Regard for our Posterity after us, O how necessary is it that we wait for the pure Counsel of Truth! Many have seen the Hardships of the Poor, felt an eager Desire that their Children may be put in a Way to escape these Hardships; but how few have continued in that pure Love which openeth our Understandings to proceed rightly under these Difficulties! How few have faithfully followed that Holy Leader who prepares his People to labour for the Restoration of true Harmony amongst our Fellow Creatures! _In the pure Gospel Spirit we walk by Faith and not by Sight_, 2 Cor. v. 7. In the Obedience of Faith we die to the Narrowness of Self-love, and our Life being hid with Christ in God, our Hearts are enlarg'd toward Mankind universally; but in departing from the true Light of Life, many in striving to get Treasures have stumbled upon the dark Mountains. Now that Purity of Life which proceeds from Faithfulness in following the Spirit of Truth, that State where our Minds are devoted to serve God, and all our Wants are bounded by his Wisdom, this Habitation has often been open'd before me as a Place of Retirement for the Children of the Light, where we may stand separated from that which disordereth and confuseth the Affairs of Society, and where we may have a Testimony of our Innocence in the Hearts of those who behold us. Through departing from the Truth as it is in Jesus, through introducing Ways of Life attended with unnecessary Expences, many Wants have arisen, the Minds of People have been employ'd in studying to get Wealth, and in this Pursuit some departing from Equity, have retain'd a Profession of Religion; others have look'd at their Example, and thereby been strengthen'd to proceed further in the same Way: Thus many have encourag'd the Trade of taking Men from _Africa_, and selling them as Slaves. It hath been computed that near One Hundred Thousand Negroes have of late Years been taken annually from that Coast, by Ships employed in the _English_ Trade. As I have travell'd on religious Visits in some Parts of _America_, I have seen many of these People under the Command of Overseers, in a painful Servitude. I have beheld them as _Gentiles_ under People professing _Christianity_, not only kept ignorant of the Holy Scriptures, but under great Provocations to Wrath; of whom it may truly be said, _They that rule over them make them to howl, and the Holy Name is abundantly blasphemed_, Isaiah lii. 5. Where Children are taught to read the Sacred Writings, while young, and exampled in Meekness and Humility, it is often helpful to them; nor is this any more than a Debt due from us to a succeeding Age. But where Youth are pinched for want of the Necessaries of Life, forced to labour hard under the harsh Rebukes of rigorous Overseers, and many Times endure unmerciful Whippings: In such an Education, how great are the Disadvantages they lie under! And how forcibly do these Things work against the Increase of the Government of the Prince of Peace! _Humphrey Smith_, in his Works, p. 125, speaking of the tender Feelings of the Love of God in his Heart when he was a Child, said, "By the violent wrathful Nature that ruled in others, was my Quietness disturbed, and Anger begotten in me toward them, yet that of God in me was not wholly overcome, but his Love was felt in my Heart, and great was my Grief when the Earthly-mindedness and wrathful Nature so provoked me, that I was estranged from it. "And this I write as a Warning to Parents and others, that in the Fear of the living God, you may train up the Youth, and may not be a Means of bringing them into such Alienation." Many are the Vanities and Luxuries of the present Age, and in labouring to support a Way of living conformable to the present World, the Departure from that Wisdom that is pure and peaceable hath been great. Under the Sense of a deep Revolt, and an overflowing Stream of Unrighteousness, my Life has been often a Life of Mourning, and tender Desires are raised in me, that the Nature of this Practice may be laid to Heart. I have read some Books wrote by People who were acquainted with the Manner of getting Slaves in _Africa_. I have had verbal Relations of this Nature from several Negroes brought from _Africa_, who have learn'd to talk _English_. I have sundry Times heard _Englishmen_ speak on this Subject, who have been at _Africa_ on this Business; and from all these Accounts it appears evident that great Violence is committed, and much Blood shed in _Africa_ in getting Slaves. When three or four Hundred Slaves are put in the Hold of a Vessel in a hot Climate, their Breathing soon affects the Air. Were that Number of free People to go Passengers with all Things proper for their Voyage, there would Inconvenience arise from their Number; but Slaves are taken by Violence, and frequently endeavour to kill the white People, that they may return to their Native Land. Hence they are frequently kept under some Sort of Confinement, by Means of which a Scent ariseth in the Hold of a Ship, and Distempers often break out amongst them, of which many die. Of this tainted Air in the Hold of Ships freighted with Slaves, I have had several Accounts, some in Print, and some verbal, and all agree that the Scent is grievous. When these People are sold in _America_, and in the Islands, they are made to labour in a Manner more servile and constant, than that which they were used to at Home, that with Grief, with different Diet from what has been common with them, and with hard Labour, some Thousands are computed to die every Year, in what is called the Seasoning. Thus it appears evident, that great Numbers of these People are brought every Year to an untimely End; many of them being such who never injured us. When the Innocent suffer under hard-hearted Men, even unto Death, and the Channels of Equity are so obstructed, that the Cause of the Sufferers is not judged in Righteousness, _the Land is polluted with Blood_, Numb. xxxv. 33. When Blood hath been shed unrighteously, and remains unatoned for, the Cry thereof is very piercing. Under the humbling Dispensations of Divine Providence, this Cry hath deeply affected my Heart, and I feel a Concern to open, as I may be enabled, that which lieth heavy on my Mind. When _the Iniquity of the House of_ Israel _and of_ Judah _was exceeding great, when the Land was defiled with Blood, and the City full of Perverseness_, Ezek. ix. 9. _some were found sighing and crying for the Abominations of the Times_, Ezek. ix. 4. and such who live under a right Feeling of our Condition as a Nation, these I trust will be sensible that the Lord at this Day doth call to Mourning, though many are ignorant of it. So powerful are bad Customs when they become general, that People growing bold thro' the Examples one of another, have often been unmoved at the most serious Warnings. Our blessed Saviour speaking of the People of the old World, said, _They eat, they drank, they married, and were given in Marriage, until the Day that_ Noah _went into the Ark, and the Flood came and destroy'd them all_, Luke xvii. 27. The like he spake concerning the People of _Sodom_, who are also represented by the Prophet as haughty, luxurious, and oppressive; _This was the Sin of_ Sodom, _Pride, Fulness of Bread, and Abundance of Idleness was found in her, and in her Daughters; neither did she strengthen the Hands of the Poor and Needy_, Ezek. xvi. 49. Now in a Revolt so deep as this, when much Blood has been shed unrighteously, in carrying on the Slave Trade, and in supporting the Practice of keeping Slaves, which at this Day is unatoned for, and crieth from the Earth, and from the Seas against the Oppressor! While this Practice is continued, and under a great Load of Guilt there is more Unrighteousness committed, the State of Things is very moving! There is a Love which stands in Nature, and a Parent beholding his Child in Misery, hath a Feeling of the Affliction; but in Divine Love the Heart is enlarged towards Mankind universally, and prepar'd to sympathize with Strangers, though in the lowest Station in Life. Of this the Prophet appears to have had a Feeling, when he said, _Have we not all one Father? Hath not one God created us? Why then do we deal treacherously every Man with his Brother, in prophaning the Covenant of our Fathers?_ Mal. ii. 10. He who of old heard the Groans of the Children of _Israel_ under the hard Task-masters in _Egypt_, I trust hath looked down from his Holy Habitation on the Miseries of these deeply oppress'd People. Many Lives have been shorten'd through extreme Oppression while they labour'd to support Luxury and Worldly Greatness; and tho' many People in outward Prosperity may think little of those Things, yet the gracious Creator hath Regard to the Cries of the Innocent, however unnoticed by Men. The Lord in the Riches of his Goodness is leading some into the Feeling of the Condition of this People, who cannot rest without labouring as their Advocate; of which in some Measure I have had Experience, for, in the Movings of his Love in my Heart, these poor Sufferers have been brought near to me. The unoffending Aged and Infirm made to labour too hard, kept on a Diet less comfortable than their weak State required, and exposed to great Difficulties under hard-hearted Men, to whose Sufferings I have often been a Witness, and under the Heart-melting Power of Divine Love, their Misery hath felt to me like the Misery of my Parents. Innocent Youth taken by Violence from their Native Land, from their Friends and Acquaintance; put on board Ships with Hearts laden with Sorrow; exposed to great Hardships at Sea; placed under People, where their Lives have been attended with great Provocation to Anger and Revenge. With the Condition of these Youth, my Mind hath often been affected, as with the Afflictions of my Children, and in a Feeling of the Misery of these People, and of that great Offence which is minister'd to them, my Tears have been often poured out before the Lord. That Holy Spirit which affected my Heart when I was a Youth, I trust is often felt by the Negroes in their Native Land, inclining their Minds to that which is righteous, and had the professed Followers of Christ in all their Conduct towards them, manifested a Disposition answerable to the pure Principle in their Hearts, how might the Holy Name have been honoured amongst the _Gentiles_, and how might we have rejoiced in the fulfilling of that Prophecy, _I the Lord love Judgment, I hate Robbery for Burnt-offerings, and I will direct their Work in Truth, and make an everlasting Covenant with them. Their Seed shall be known amongst the_ Gentiles, _and their Offspring amongst the People: All that see them shall acknowledge them, that they are the Seed which the Lord hath blessed_, Isaiah lxi. 8, 9. But in the present State of Things, how contrary is this Practice to that meek Spirit, in which our Saviour laid down his Life for us, that all the Ends of the Earth might know Salvation in his Name! How are the Sufferings of our blessed Redeemer set at nought, and his Name blasphemed amongst the _Gentiles_, through the unrighteous Proceedings of his profess'd Followers! My Mind hath often been affected, even from the Days of my Youth, under a Sense of that marvellous Work, for which God, in infinite Goodness, sent his Son into the World. The opening of that Spring of living Waters, which the true Believers in Christ experience, by which they are redeemed from Pride and Covetousness, and brought into a State of Meekness, where their Hearts are enlarged in true Love toward their Fellow Creatures universally; this Work to me has been precious, and the Spreading the Knowledge of the Truth amongst the _Gentiles_ been very desirable. And the professed Followers of Christ joining in Customs evidently unrighteous, which manifestly tend to stir up Wrath, and increase Wars and Desolations, hath often covered my Mind with Sorrow. If we bring this Matter home, and as _Job_ proposed to his Friends, _Put our Soul in their Soul's stead_, Job xvi. 4. If we consider ourselves and our Children as exposed to the Hardships which these People lie under in supporting an imaginary Greatness. Did we in such Case behold an Increase of Luxury and Superfluity amongst our Oppressors, and therewith felt an Increase of the Weight of our Burdens, and expected our Posterity to groan under Oppression after us. Under all this Misery, had we none to plead our Cause, nor any Hope of Relief from Man, how would our Cries ascend to the God of the Spirits of all Flesh, who judgeth the World in Righteousness, and in his own Time is a Refuge for the Oppressed! If they who thus afflicted us, continued to lay Claim to Religion, and were assisted in their Business by others, esteemed pious People, who through a Friendship with them strengthened their Hands in Tyranny. In such a State, when we were Hunger-bitten, and could not have sufficient Nourishment but saw them in fulness pleasing their Taste with Things fetched from far: When we were wearied with Labour, denied the Liberty to rest, and saw them spending their Time at Ease: When Garments answerable to our Necessities were denied us, while we saw them cloathed in that which was costly and delicate: Under such Affliction, how would these painful Feelings rise up as Witnesses against their pretended Devotion! And if the Name of their Religion was mention'd in our Hearing, how would it sound in our Ears like a Word which signified Self-exaltation, and Hardness of Heart! When a Trade is carried on, productive of much Misery, and they who suffer by it are some Thousands Miles off, the Danger is the greater, of not laying their Sufferings to Heart. In procuring Slaves on the Coast of _Africa_, many Children are stolen privately; Wars also are encouraged amongst the Negroes, but all is at a great Distance. Many Groans arise from dying Men, which we hear not. Many Cries are uttered by Widows and Fatherless Children, which reach not our Ears. Many Cheeks are wet with Tears, and Faces sad with unutterable Grief, which we see not. Cruel Tyranny is encouraged. The Hands of Robbers are strengthened, and Thousands reduced to the most abject Slavery, who never injured us. Were we for the Term of one Year only to be an Eye-witness to what passeth in getting these Slaves: Was the Blood which is there shed to be sprinkled on our Garments: Were the poor Captives bound with Thongs, heavy laden with Elephants Teeth, to pass before our Eyes on their Way to the Sea: Were their bitter Lamentations Day after Day to ring in our Ears, and their mournful Cries in the Night to hinder us from Sleeping: Were we to hear the Sound of the Tumult when the Slaves on board the Ships attempt to kill the _English_, and behold the Issue of those bloody Conflicts: What pious Man could be a Witness to these Things, and see a Trade carried on in this Manner, without being deeply affected with Sorrow? Through abiding in the Love of Christ we feel a Tenderness in our Hearts toward our Fellow Creatures, entangled in oppressive Customs; and a Concern so to walk, that our Conduct may not be a Means of strength'ning them in Error. It was the Command of the Lord through _Moses, Thou shalt not suffer Sin upon thy Brother: Thou shalt in anywise rebuke thy Brother, and shalt not suffer Sin upon him_, Lev. xix. 17. Again; _Keep far from a false Matter; and the Innocent and Righteous slay thou not_, Exod. xxiii. 7. The Prophet _Isaiah_ mentions Oppression as that which the true Church in Time of outward Quiet should not only be clear of, but should be _far from it_; _Thou shalt be far from Oppression_, Isaiah liv. 14. Now these Words, _far from_, appear to have an extensive Meaning, and to convey Instruction in regard to that of which _Solomon_ speaks, _Though Hand join in Hand, the Wicked shall not go unpunished_, Prov. xvi. 5. It was a Complaint against one of old, _When thou sawest a Thief, thou consentedst with him_, Psal. l. 18. The Prophet _Jeremiah_ represents the Degrees of Preparation toward Idolatrous Sacrifice, in the Similitude of a Work carried on by Children, Men, and Women: _The Children gather Wood, the Fathers kindle the Fire, and the Women knead the Dough to bake Cakes for the Queen of Heaven_, Jer. vii. 18. It was a complaint of the Lord against _Israel_, through his Prophet _Ezekiel_, that _they strengthen'd the Hands of the Wicked, and made the Hearts of the Righteous sad_, Ezek. xiii. 12. Some Works of Iniquity carried on by the People were represented by the Prophet _Hosea_, in the Similitude of Ploughing, Reaping, and eating the Fruit; _You have ploughed Wickedness, reaped Iniquity, eaten the Fruit of Lying, because thou didst trust in thy own Way, to the Multitude of thy mighty Men_, Hosea x. 13. I have felt great Distress of Mind since I came on this Island, on Account of the Members of our Society being mixed with the World in various Sorts of Business and Traffick, carried on in impure Channels. Great is the Trade to _Africa_ for Slaves; and in loading these Ships abundance of People are employ'd in the Manufactories. Friends in early Time refused, on a religious Principle, to make or trade in Superfluities, of which we have many large Testimonies on Record, but for want of Faithfulness some gave way, even some whose Examples were of Note in Society, and from thence others took more Liberty: Members of our Society worked in Superfluities, and bought and sold them, and thus Dimness of Sight came over many. At length, Friends got into the Use of some Superfluities in Dress, and in the Furniture of their Houses, and this hath spread from less to more, till Superfluity of some Kind is common amongst us. In this declining State many look at the Example one of another, and too much neglect the pure Feeling of Truth. Of late Years a deep Exercise hath attended my Mind, that Friends may dig deep, may carefully cast forth the loose Matter, and get down to the Rock, the sure Foundation, and there hearken to that Divine Voice which gives a clear and certain Sound. And I have felt in that which doth not deceive, that if Friends who have known the Truth, keep in that Tenderness of Heart, where all Views of outward Gain are given up, and their Trust is only on the Lord, he will graciously lead some to be Patterns of deep Self-denial, in Things relating to Trade, and handicraft Labour; and that some who have Plenty of the Treasures of this World, will example in a plain frugal Life, and pay Wages to such whom they may hire, more liberally than is now customary in some Places. The Prophet, speaking of the true Church, said, _Thy People also shall be all righteous._ Of the Depth of this Divine Work several have spoken. _John Gratton_, in his Journal, p. 45, said, "The Lord is my Portion, I shall not want. He hath wrought all my Works in me. I am nothing but what I am in him." _Gilbert Latey_, through the powerful Operations of the Spirit of Christ in his Soul, was brought to that Depth of Self-denial, that he could not join with that proud Spirit in other People, which inclined them to want Vanities and Superfluities. This Friend was often amongst the chief Rulers of the Nation in Times of Persecution, and it appears by the Testimony of Friends, that his Dwelling was so evidently in the pure Life of Truth, that in his Visits to those great Men, he found a Place in their Minds; and that King _James_ the Second, in the Times of his Troubles, made particular Mention in a very respectful Manner of what _Gilbert_ once said to him. The said _Gilbert_ found a Concern to write an Epistle, in which are these Expressions; "Fear the Lord, ye Men of all Sorts, Trades, and Callings, and leave off all the Evil that is in them, for the Lord is grieved with all the Evils used in your Employments which you are exercised in. "It is even a Grief to see how you are Servants to Sin, and Instruments of Satan." See his Works, Page 42, _etc._ _George Fox_, in an Epistle, writes thus: "Friends, stand in the Eternal Power of God, Witness against the Pomps and Vanities of this World. "Such Tradesmen who stand as Witnesses in the Power of God, cannot fulfil the People's Minds in these Vanities, and therefore they are offended at them. "Let all trust in the Lord, and wait patiently on him; for when Trust first broke forth in _London_, many Tradesmen could not take so much Money in their Shops for some Time, as would buy them Bread and Water, because they withstood the World's Ways, Fashions, and Customs; yet by their patient waiting on the Lord in their good Life and Conversation, they answer'd the Truth in People's Hearts, and thus their Business increased." Book of Doctrinals, Page 824. Now Christ our Holy Leader graciously continueth to open the Understandings of his People, and as Circumstances alter from Age to Age, some who are deeply baptized into a Feeling of the State of Things, are led by his Holy Spirit into Exercises in some respect different from those which attended the Faithful in foregoing Ages, and through the Constrainings of pure Love, are engaged to open the Feelings they have to others. In faithfully following Christ, the Heart is weaned from the Desires of Riches, and we are led into a Life so plain and simple, that a little doth suffice, and thus the Way openeth to deny ourselves, under all the tempting Allurements of that Gain, which we know is the Gain of Unrighteousness. The Apostle speaking on this Subject, asketh this Question; _What Fellowship hath Righteousness with Unrighteousness?_ 2 Cor. vi. 14. And again saith, _Have no Fellowship with the unfruitful Works of Darkness, but rather reprove them_, Ephes. v. 11. Again, _Be not Partaker of other Men's Sins, keep thyself pure_, 1 Tim. v. 22. Where People through the Power of Christ are thoroughly settled in a right Use of Things, freed from all unnecessary Care and Expence, the Mind in this true Resignation is at Liberty from the Bands of a narrow Self-Interest, to attend from Time to Time on the Movings of his Spirit upon us, though he leads into that through which our Faith is closely tried. The Language of Christ is pure, and to the Pure in Heart this pure Language is intelligible; but in the Love of Money, the Mind being intent on Gain, is too full of human Contrivance to attend to it. It appeareth evident, that some Channels of Trade are defiled with Unrighteousness, that the Minds of many are intent on getting Treasures to support a Life, in which there are many unnecessary Expences. And I feel a living Concern attend my Mind, that under these Difficulties we may humbly follow our Heavenly Shepherd, who graciously regardeth his Flock, and is willing and able to supply us both inwardly and outwardly with clean Provender, that hath been winnowed with the Shovel and the Fan, where we may _sow to ourselves in Righteousness, reap in Mercy_, Hosea x. 12. and not be defiled with the Works of Iniquity. Where Customs contrary to pure Wisdom are transmitted to Posterity, it appears to be an Injury committed against them; and I often feel tender Compassion toward a young Generation, and Desires that their Difficulties may not be increased through Unfaithfulness in us of the present Age. CHAPTER II _On a_ SAILOR'S LIFE In the Trade to _Africa_ for Slaves, and in the Management of Ships going on these Voyages, many of our Lads and young Men have a considerable Part of their Education. Now what pious Father beholding his Son placed in one of these Ships, to learn the Practice of a Mariner, could forbear mourning over him? Where Youth are exampled in Means of getting Money so full of Violence, and used to exercise such Cruelties on their Fellow Creatures, the Disadvantage to them in their Education is very great. But I feel it in my Mind to write concerning the Seafaring Life in general. In the Trade carried on from the _West-Indies_, and from some Part of the Continent, the Produce of the Labour of Slaves is a considerable Part. And Sailors who are frequently at Ports where Slaves abound, and converse often with People who oppress without the Appearance of Remorse, and often with Sailors employ'd in the Slave Trade, how powerfully do these evil Examples spread amongst the Seafaring Youth! I have had many Opportunities to feel and understand the general State of the Seafaring Life amongst us, and my Mind hath often been sad on Account of so many Lads and young Men been trained up amidst so great Corruption. Under the humbling Power of Christ I have seen, that if the Leadings of his Holy Spirit were faithfully attended to by his professed Followers in general, the Heathen Nations would be exampled in Righteousness. A less Number of People would be employed on the Seas. The Channels of Trade would be more free from Defilement. Fewer People would be employed in Vanities and Superfluities. The Inhabitants of Cities would be less in Number. Those who have much Lands would become Fathers to the Poor. More People would be employed in the sweet Employment of Husbandry, and in the Path of pure Wisdom, Labour would be an agreeable, healthful Employment. In the Opening of these Things in my Mind, I feel a living Concern that we who have felt Divine Love in our Hearts may faithfully abide in it, and like good Soldiers endure Hardness for Christ's Sake. He, our blessed Saviour, exhorting his Followers to love one another, adds, _As I have loved you_. John xiii. 34. He loved _Lazarus_, yet in his Sickness did not heal him, but left him to endure the Pains of Death, that in restoring him to Life, the People might be confirmed in the true Faith. He loved his Disciples, but sent them forth on a Message attended with great Difficulty, amongst Hard-hearted People, some of whom would think that in killing them they did God Service. So deep is Divine Love, that in stedfastly abiding in it, we are prepar'd to deny ourselves of all that Gain which is contrary to pure Wisdom, and to follow Christ, even under Contempt, and through Sufferings. While Friends were kept truly humble, and walked according to the Purity of our Principles, the Divine Witness in many Hearts was reached; but when a Worldly Spirit got Entrance, therewith came in Luxuries and Superfluities, and spread by little and little, even among the foremost Rank in Society, and from thence others took Liberty in that Way more abundantly. In the Continuation of these Things from Parents to Children, there were many Wants to supply, even Wants unknown to Friends while they faithfully followed Christ. And in striving to supply these Wants many have exacted on the Poor, many have enter'd on Employments, in which they often labour in upholding Pride and Vanity. Many have looked on one another, been strengthen'd in these Things, one by the Example of another, and as to the pure Divine Seeing, Dimness hath come over many, and the Channels of true Brotherly Love been obstructed. People may have no intention to oppress, yet by entering on expensive Ways of Life, their Minds may be so entangled therein, and so engag'd to support expensive Customs, as to be estranged from the pure sympathizing Spirit. As I have travell'd in _England_, I have had a tender Feeling of the Condition of poor People, some of whom though honest and industrious, have nothing to spare toward paying for the Schooling of their Children. There is a Proportion between Labour and the Necessaries of Life, and in true Brotherly Love the Mind is open to feel after the Necessities of the Poor. Amongst the Poor there are some that are weak through Age, and others of a weakly Nature, who pass through Straits in very private Life, without asking Relief from the Publick. Such who are strong and healthy may do that Business, which to the Weakly may be oppressive; and in performing that in a Day which is esteem'd a Day's Labour, by weakly Persons in the Field and in the Shops, and by weakly Women who spin and knit in the Manufactories, they often pass through Weariness; and many Sighs I believe are uttered in secret, unheard by some who might ease their Burdens. Labour in the right Medium is healthy, but in too much of it there is a painful Weariness; and the Hardships of the Poor are sometimes increased through Want of a more agreeable Nourishment, more plentiful Fewel for the Fire, and warmer Cloathing in the Winter than their Wages will answer. When I have beheld Plenty in some Houses to a Degree of Luxury, the Condition of poor Children brought up without Learning, and the Condition of the Weakly and Aged, who strive to live by their Labour, have often revived in my Mind, as Cases of which some who live in Fulness need to be put in Remembrance. There are few, if any, could behold their Fellow Creatures lie long in Distress and forbear to help them, when they could do it without any Inconvenience; but Customs requiring much Labour to support them, do often lie heavy on the Poor, while they who live in these Customs are so entangled in a Multitude of unnecessary Concerns that they think but little of the Hardships which the poor People go through. CHAPTER III _On_ SILENT WORSHIP Worship in Silence hath often been refreshing to my Mind, and a Care attends me that a young Generation may feel the Nature of this Worship. Great Expence ariseth in Relation to that which is call'd Divine Worship. A considerable Part of this Expence is applied toward outward Greatness, and many poor People in raising of Tithe, labour in supporting Customs contrary to the Simplicity that there is in Christ, toward whom my Mind hath often been moved with Pity. In pure silent Worship, we dwell under the Holy Anointing, and feel Christ to be our Shepherd. Here the best of Teachers ministers to the several Conditions of his Flock, and the Soul receives immediately from the Divine Fountain, that with which it is nourished. As I have travelled at Times where those of other Societies have attended our Meetings, and have perceiv'd how little some of them knew of the Nature of silent Worship; I have felt tender Desires in my Heart that we who often sit silent in our Meetings, may live answerable to the Nature of an inward Fellowship with God, that no Stumbling-block through us, may be laid in their Way. Such is the Load of unnecessary Expence which lieth on that which is called Divine Service in many Places, and so much are the Minds of many People employ'd in outward Forms and Ceremonies, that the opening of an inward silent Worship in this Nation to me hath appeared to be a precious Opening. Within the last four Hundred Years, many pious People have been deeply exercised in Soul on Account of the Superstition which prevailed amongst the professed Followers of Christ, and in support of their Testimony against oppressive Idolatry, some in several Ages have finished their Course in the Flames. It appears by the History of the Reformation, that through the Faithfulness of the Martyrs, the Understandings of many have been opened, and the Minds of People, from Age to Age, been more and more prepared for a real spiritual Worship. My Mind is often affected with a Sense of the Condition of those People who in different Ages have been meek and patient, following Christ through great Afflictions: And while I behold the several Steps, of Reformation, and that Clearness, to which through Divine Goodness, it hath been brought by our Ancestors; I feel tender Desires that we who sometimes meet in Silence, may never by our Conduct lay Stumbling-blocks in the Way of others, and hinder the Progress of the Reformation in the World. It was a Complaint against some who were called the Lord's People, that they brought polluted Bread to his Altar, and said the Table of the Lord was contemptible. In real silent Worship the Soul feeds on that which is Divine; but we cannot partake of the Table of the Lord, and that Table which is prepared by the God of this World. If Christ is our Shepherd, and feedeth us, and we are faithful in following him, our Lives will have an inviting Language, and the Table of the Lord will not be polluted. SOME EXPRESSIONS OF JOHN WOOLMAN IN HIS LAST ILNESS. _LONDON_: Printed by MARY HINDE. SOME EXPRESSIONS, &c. Being in the Course of his religious Visit at _York_, and having attended most of the Sittings of the Quarterly-Meeting there, held in the Ninth Month, 1772, he was taken ill of the _Small Pox_, in which Disorder he continued about two Weeks, at Times under great Affliction of Body, and then departed in full Assurance of a happy Eternity, as the following Expressions, amongst others, taken from his own Mouth, do plainly evidence. One Day being asked how he felt himself, he meekly answered, "I don't know that I have slept this Night: I feel the Disorder making its Progress, but my Mind is mercifully preserved in Stillness and Peace." Some Time after he said, "He was sensible the Pains of Death must be hard to bear, but if he escaped them now, he must some Time pass through them, and did not know he could be better prepared, but had no Will in it." Said, "He had settled his outward Affairs to his Mind; had taken Leave of his Wife and Family, as never to return, leaving them to the Divine Protection:" Adding, "And though I feel them near to me at this Time, yet I freely give them up, having an Hope they will be provided for." And a little after said, "This Trial is made easier than I could have thought, by my Will being wholly taken away; for if I was anxious as to the Event, it would be harder, but I am not, and my Mind enjoys a perfect Calm." In the Night a young Woman having given him something to drink, he said, "My Child, thou seemest very kind to me, a poor Creature, the Lord will reward thee for it." A while after he cried out with great Earnestness of Spirit, "Oh! my Father, my Father, how comfortable art thou to my Soul in this trying Season." Being asked if he could take a little Nourishment, after some Pause he replied, "My Child, I cannot tell what to say to it: I seem nearly arrived where my Soul shall have Rest from all its Troubles." After giving in something to be put into his Journal, he said, "I believe the Lord will now excuse me from Exercises of this Kind, and I see no Work but one, which is to be the last wrought by me in this World; the Messenger will come that will release me from all these Troubles, but it must be in the Lord's Time, which I am waiting for." He said, "He had laboured to do whatever was required, according to the Ability received, in the Remembrance of which he had Peace: And though the Disorder was strong at Times, and would come over his Mind like a Whirlwind, yet it had hitherto been kept steady, and center'd in everlasting Love." Adding, "And if that's mercifully continued, I ask nor desire no more." At another Time he said, "He had long had a View of visiting this Nation; and some Time before he came, he had a Dream, in which he saw himself in the Northern Parts of it; and that the Spring of the Gospel was opened in him, much as in the Beginning of Friends, such as _George Fox_ and _William Dewsbury_; and he saw the different States of People as clear as ever he had seen Flowers in a Garden; but in his going on he was suddenly stopt, though he could not see for what End, but looked towards Home, and in that fell into a Flood of Tears, which waked him." At another Time he said, "My Draught seem'd strongest to the North, and I mentioned in my own Monthly-Meeting, that attending the Quarterly-Meeting at _York_, and being there, looked like Home to me." Having repeatedly consented to take a Medicine with a View to settle his Stomach, but without Effect, the Friend then waiting on him, said, through Distress, "What shall I do now?" He answered with great Composure, "Rejoice evermore, and in every Thing give Thanks." But added a little after, "This is sometimes hard to come at." One Morning early he brake forth in Supplication on this wise; "Oh Lord! it was thy Power that enabled me to forsake Sin in my Youth, and I have felt thy Bruises since for Disobedience, but as I bowed under them thou healedst me; and though I have gone through many Trials and sore Afflictions, thou hast been with me, continuing a Father and a Friend. I feel thy Power now, and beg that in the approaching trying Moments, thou wilt keep my Heart steadfast unto thee." Upon his giving the same Friend Directions concerning some little Matters, she said, "I will take Care, but hope thou mayst live to order them thyself;" he replied, "My Hope is in Christ; and though I may now seem a little better, a Change in the Disorder may soon happen, and my little Strength be dissolved, and if it so happen, I shall be gather'd to my everlasting Rest." On her saying, "She did not doubt that, but could not help mourning to see so many faithful Servants removed at so low a Time," he said, "All Goodness cometh from the Lord, whose Power is the same, and he can work as he sees best." The same Day, after giving her Directions about wrapping his Corpse, and perceiving her to weep, he said, "I had rather thou wouldst guard against Weeping or Sorrowing for me, my Sister; I sorrow not, though I have had some painful Conflicts; but now they seem over, and Matters all settled, and I look at the Face of my dear Redeemer, for sweet is his Voice, and his Countenance comely." Being very weak, and in general difficult to be understood, he uttered a few Words in Commemoration of the Lord's Goodness to him; and added, "How tenderly have I been waited upon in this Time of Affliction, in which I may say in _Job's_ Words, _Tedious Days and wearisome Nights are appointed unto me_; and how many are spending their Time and Money in Vanity and Superfluities, while Thousands and Tens of Thousands want the Necessaries of Life, who might be relieved by them, and their Distresses at such a Time as this, in some degree softened by the administring of suitable Things." An Apothecary who attended him of his own Accord (he being unwilling to have any sent for) appeared very anxious to assist him, with whom conversing, he queried about the Probability of such a Load of Matter being thrown off his weak Body, and the Apothecary making some Remarks, implying he thought it might, he spoke with an audible Voice on this wise: "My Dependance is in the Lord Jesus Christ, who I trust will forgive my Sins, which is all I hope for; and if it be his Will to raise up this Body again, I am content, and if to die I am resigned: And if thou canst not be easy without trying to assist Nature, in order to lengthen out my Life, I submit." After this, his Throat was so much affected, that it was very difficult for him to speak so as to be understood, and he frequently wrote when he wanted any Thing. About the second Hour on Fourth-day Morning, being the 7th of the Tenth Month, 1772, he asked for Pen and Ink, and at several Times, with much Difficulty, wrote thus: "I believe my being here is in the Wisdom of Christ; I know not as to Life or Death." About a Quarter before Six the same Morning, he seemed to fall into an easy Sleep, which continued about half an Hour, when seeming to awake, he breathed a few Times with more Difficulty, and so expired without Sigh, Groan, or Struggle. * * * * * _Note_, He often said, "It was hid from him, whether he might recover, or not, and he was not desirous to know it; but from his own Feeling of the Disorder, and his feeble Constitution, thought he should not." FINIS THE TEMPLE PRESS, PRINTERS, LETCHWORTH 
42164	----	generously made available by the Google Books Library Project (http://books.google.com) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 42164-h.htm or 42164-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/42164/42164-h/42164-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/42164/42164-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through the the Google Books Library Project. See http://www.google.com/books?id=iHg4AAAAMAAJ Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals. [Illustration: ELI JONES.] [Illustration: SYBIL JONES.] ELI AND SIBYL JONES: THEIR LIFE AND WORK. BY RUFUS M. JONES. "Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them Thine." _In Memoriam._ PHILADELPHIA: PORTER & COATES. COPYRIGHT, 1889, BY PORTER & COATES. TO THE SWEET AND SHINING MEMORY OF PLINY EARLE CHASE, WHOSE SCHOLARSHIP AND CHRISTIAN MANHOOD INSPIRED YOUNG MEN TO RICHER AND PURER LIVES, AND WHO AS TEACHER POINTED STUDENTS TO THE GREAT MASTER, THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY HIS PUPIL. PREFACE. In our busy and material lives we all need to be reminded at times that there have been and still are among us those who have deadened love of self, whose struggle on earth, far from being to amass any kind of treasures, is to bring before as many human beings as possible the great plan of salvation, the means of elevation from degradation to lofty Christian individuality, and the source of a power and a love which are making all things new in proportion as submission is given thereto. We are not always conscious of the strength exerted around us by seemingly trivial forces, but their work is no less important in the development of the globe than the violent upheavals which overawe us by their stupendous might. So, often, quiet lives extend a wider permanent influence for the welfare of man than do those of men and women who receive the unstinted praise of their contemporaries. ELI and SYBIL JONES have done valuable service, and have lived lives full of teaching to those who wish to enter upon a course of devoted obedience to the same Master. I have prepared this sketch of their lives and work from the love which I feel for them, and in the hope that it will interest and profit others. I am conscious that the stamp of youth is on the work, but I am certain that it has been undertaken and accomplished in the spirit of sincerity. The visit to Liberia was wonderful in many ways, and should have been published after their return, so that their work might have brought forth more decided fruit. The letters from Palestine and Syria were written for the _Friends' Review_ by Eli Jones and Ellen Clare Miller (since Pearson). Extracts have been chosen to give their descriptions of the country and the nature of their work there. The book has been prepared in the midst of other work, and that must in part be the apology for its imperfections. Having as a young man received invaluable help from these two Friends, and feeling that their words and lives have done much to throw light on the true path which broadens into the "highway of holiness," it is my hope that this simple recital may in a measure repay what I owe them and find a place of usefulness in the world. 3d mo. 13, 1889, FRIENDS' SCHOOL, Providence. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGE EARLY YEARS, 9 CHAPTER II. AT SCHOOL AND AT HOME, 18 CHAPTER III. MARRIAGE WITH SYBIL JONES, 27 CHAPTER IV. FIRST VISIT, 40 CHAPTER V. EAST, WEST, AND SOUTH, 54 CHAPTER VI. VOYAGE TO LIBERIA, 60 CHAPTER VII. WORK IN ENGLAND AND IRELAND, 108 CHAPTER VIII. NORWAY, GERMANY, AND SWITZERLAND, 127 CHAPTER IX. WINTER IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE, 141 CHAPTER X. IN THE MAINE LEGISLATURE, 160 CHAPTER XI. IN WASHINGTON, 169 CHAPTER XII. MISSION-WORK, 185 CHAPTER XIII. LETTERS FROM SYRIA, 199 CHAPTER XIV. SECOND VISIT TO THE HOLY LAND, 251 CHAPTER XV. SYBIL JONES: HER LIFE-WORK AND DEATH, 268 CHAPTER XVI. ALONE AT HOME, 285 CHAPTER XVII. LATER VISITS TO THE EAST, 292 CHAPTER XVIII. AS A FRIEND, 299 CHAPTER XIX. HIS PLACE AS A WORKER, 307 ELI AND SYBIL JONES. CHAPTER I. _EARLY YEARS._ "Man is the nobler growth our soil supplies, And souls are ripened 'neath our northern skies." The man whose early life was passed in the isolation of primeval forests, and who grew to manhood carrying on an unceasing struggle to turn the rough, uncultivated soil into productive fields, gardens, and pasture-lands, has worked into his life something which no coming generation can inherit or acquire. He has missed the broad culture of the schools and universities, he cannot gain the intellectual skill which long study gives, but he has had a training which lays a foundation for the keenest judgment and for prompt decision in complicated circumstances, and his soul in solitude has taken in truths of God which often escape men lost in the tumultuous world of business and pleasure. The men who were born during the first quarter of a century after our national life began have nearly all been characterized by special traits which will perhaps not appear again in the more developed growth of the nation. It has not astonished us to see a man leave his little cottage after twenty-five years of toil and go through all the grades of honor, reach a position from which he could hardly go higher, and finally depart from a life unspotted, respected by mankind. But in this development there is no chance: he mounts by a law which, if we knew it, is as unvariable as that of gravitation. The powers of the mind and soul seek a field in which they may be put to work at profit. It cannot be uninteresting to follow the course of a man who has shown--at least to those who have known him well--that there was something in him of value to the world. In measuring the worth of any man, we must not be dazzled by the glare of earthly glory, but calmly inquire what he has done that has built itself into other lives, and we must look beyond outward things to see in how far he has been the honored tool of the Supreme Worker. The family of Jones is a large one, and its genealogical table would make a long story. Welsh John succeeded Welsh John, and was called John's son until time wore the name down to Jones. Generation after generation they held their place and did their work among the Welsh hills, until one of them was called upon to steer the Mayflower with its precious load to Plymouth. Eli Jones writes in a letter dated 1st mo. 9th, 1888: "I have been reading Bonvard's _Plymouth and the Pilgrims_, from which I learn that Isaac Robinson, son of the Rev. John Robinson, pastor of the Pilgrim Fathers, was an early settler at Plymouth, and that he became a Quaker. Our grandmother Jepson was a Robinson, and, for aught I know, great-great-great-grandniece of this very Isaac Robinson. The captain of the Mayflower was a Jones. With him we claim kindred, and that claim is readily allowed. Now, if our great-great-great-grandsire was the venerable patriarch who led in prayer and gave the memorable parting charge[1] to the Pilgrims, and if his son, our great-great-greatuncle, was, as history relates, a trading man in the colony and a 'convinced Friend,' it is certainly fitting that we should take a lively interest in what occurred among our kin in 1620." [1] John Robinson's charge is as follows: "I charge you, before God end his blessed angels, that ye follow me no further than ye have seen me follow the Lord Jesus Christ. The Lord has more truth yet to break forth out of his holy word. I cannot sufficiently bewail the condition of the Reformed churches, who are come to a period in religion, and will go at present no further than the instruments of their reformation. Luther and Calvin were great and shining lights in their times, yet they penetrated not into the whole counsel of God. I beseech you remember it--'tis an article of your Church covenant--that you be ready to receive whatever truth shall be made known to you from the written word of God." Much later, after many settlements in different parts of New England had failed, and the Pilgrim and Puritan colonies were in prosperous growth, three brothers bearing the name of Jones came to this continent. One of them found a forest home on the bank of the Androscoggin River, six miles from Brunswick, in the township of Durham and District of Maine. Quite a large number of friends collected here, and a meeting-house was built not far away. There was a large Friends' meeting at Deering, near Portland, and the name of Jones was common among its members. The monthly and quarterly meetings at each place were frequently visited by Friends from the other, necessitating a foot-journey of fully forty miles through almost pathless woods. The house is still standing in which Abel Jones was born. He determined to leave his home and go farther north. He travelled on horseback up the Kennebec River as far as Vassalboro', and then rode ten miles east to the north-eastern end of what is now China Lake, in earlier times often called the "Twelve-mile Pond," because it is twelve miles from Augusta, the State capital. His young bride, Susannah Jepson, rode on horseback from North Berwick, a distance of one hundred and fifteen miles. She was attended by her brother alone, and brought only what a pair of saddlebags could hold. Here in a little house, in the year 1807, their first child was born and named Eli. A letter was at once sent to the young child's grandfather and grandmother at Durham. The letter came to the nearest post-station, twelve miles away, and was taken in charge by an elderly Friend who lived there. He volunteered to start out at once to carry the letter to its destination, thinking it might contain valuable information. As he listened to its contents at the end of his journey he made the significant remark, "Is that all there is in it?" and jogged back home. One's first thought would be that if a child was to be brought up in the Maine woods, it would make very little difference in what part of the State the spot happened to be; but it is not at all so. As a young life is very susceptible to outward scenes and every-day events, we can hardly estimate the moulding influence of little things. The life of the few families in the early history of China would be exceedingly interesting if we only had a graphic sketch from the pen of one of its settlers. Owning the acres they cleared and tilled and the houses in which they dwelt, they called no man master, but they bowed in reverence before their heavenly King and obeyed His commandments. They did their day's work week after week, little thinking that a generation would come which would wish to follow the story of their trials and triumphs, their joys and sorrows; and now almost all that is left us is the inherited strength from their sturdy lives and a few stories of their sufferings. Without doubt, nothing in nature had more influence on the bent of Eli Jones's mind than China Lake and its beautiful shores. A boy placed on the bank of a lake stretching off seven miles becomes inheritor to a domain more vast than the acres of water it contains. He feels that he owns so much of this world's glory, and this feeling of ownership lifts him out of the common, dull round of life. Year by year he owns more in proportion as his soul expands and he sees more of God's work and God's love in the painted sunsets beyond the western shore and in the forests above and below the placid waters. No one who has not experienced it can appreciate the worth of a lake to a boy. It is not simply because he can fish there, or can swim there, or can make a rude boat and so float on its surface. That is its chief worth to the thoughtless boy, but it was not all to the keenly perceptive child who was father to the man Eli Jones. It was his great playmate whom he loved. It was at the same time his teacher, whose "various language" spoke a Father's presence and His love. It is very monotonous toil changing a rough forest to a productive farm, but a youth becomes a familiar friend to stumps, hillocks, and rocks; to him the mounds are Indian graves, the tall stones mark the final resting-places of mighty chiefs, and his imagination fills the round of work with marvellous scenes. Very many, doubtless, see only their work and the fruit of it, but there are a few who see mysteries and learn lessons wherever they are placed, so that monotony is changed to endless variety. Eli Jones was one of those boys who make gain from ethereal things. The spot which Abel Jones chose for his home had many of the characteristics of a scene in Maine. Hills were backed by other hills, and not far in from the lake was a mile-long "horseback."[2] The trees were not pigmies in those days, but giant oaks and pines, "Whose living towers the years conspired to build, Whose giddy tops the morning loved to gild." [2] These ridges are very abundant in Maine, and are supposed to owe their origin to glacial action. There were dense forests of cedar, and the scattered bass-woods made the whole place fragrant in the spring. Never had an axe swung in these solitudes, and the mighty power of the ages was felt as these stout pines met the breeze. It was no small privilege to be canopied with such a tent as their meeting tops made. "Whoso walks in solitude And inhabiteth the wood, Choosing light, wave, rock, and bird Before the money-loving herd,-- Into that forester shall pass, From these companions, power and grace. On him the light of star and moon Shall fall with purer radiance down; All constellations of the sky Shed their virtue through his eye. Him Nature giveth for defence His formidable innocence. The mounting sap, the shells, the sea, All spheres, all stones, his helpers be." China had first been settled in 1774 by a family of Clarks. There were four brothers, two of whom were Friends. They cut the first tree that a white man's axe had ever felled in the township, and began to survey the land for homes. The two Friends chose the eastern and the others the western side of the lake. Life in the midst of the Maine forest implied struggle, and these families were courageous. No report of possible gold-mines or other hidden wealth drew them and those who followed them, but the desire to seek out quiet homes for themselves and their children where the temptations to a life of uselessness would be few. Trials they expected, and they were not spared. It was a hand-to-hand contest with want. At one time a cow was nearly the only valuable possession of the little company, and this was accidentally shot for a deer. The men went often ten miles through the woods, by the aid of "spotted" or "blazed" trees, to get their corn ground. We are told that in one case the mother was forced to put stones, in lieu of potatoes, in the hot ashes to induce her crying hungry children to go to bed until they should be called, and often the potatoes which had been planted were dug up to be eaten. Indians and the wild animals were around them, continually causing fear. In a cove at the south-western shore of the lake is a large heart, called the "Indian's heart," cut in a huge boulder, and in spring nearly covered by water. This marks the encampment of a tribe of Indians naturally friendly to their white neighbors, but exceedingly treacherous. On one occasion they visited the settlers in a body, and while the latter were unsuspiciously entertaining them they threw water on the guns of the white men, and only the darkness of the night saved these from destruction. Gradually one family after another was added to the community, and as they all came for the same purpose, the settlement was composed of strong characters. These farmers had the idea that it should not be the chief aim of those who till the soil to grow rich, or to fill the market with choice vegetables, or to gain an easy livelihood, but rather to send out from their households sons and daughters marked by strength of character and able to do manly and womanly work in the various spheres of the world. Their visible workfield may have seemed narrow and roughly hedged in, but they felt the needs of the future, and did their best to raise a tower of strength in the land by properly training their successors. The horizon which shuts in their real domain expands as the times grow riper. The first Friends' meeting in China was held about 1803, in a private house two and a half miles from the south end of the lake. Abel Jones was married to Susannah Jepson in this house in 1806, and about seven years later a meeting-house was built, to which Eli was taken even before it was wholly finished. This building was heated by a wood-fire under an iron kettle, and in every particular it was plain and rough; but no more sincere praises to the Lord have risen through the arches of marvellously wrought cathedrals than in this forest meeting-house. Eli Jones's grandfather on his mother's side was the first acknowledged minister in this meeting. Eli first heard the gospel preached in this house, and here he saw the occasional visitors from afar. Each year, which added its natural increase to the boy's stature, was marking a no less evident growth of mind and vigor of spirit. His mother taught him that "serving God and keeping His commandments was the whole duty of man." He was shown by the quiet example of both parents that honest work in the right spirit is an essential part of pure and undefiled religion, while the lives of Joseph, Samuel, David, and Daniel were put before him, showing him the justness of God's dealing in the different ages, both in rewarding righteousness and in punishing unrighteousness. Those heroes of faith of the Old Testament made a deep impression on him, as they must on every young person whose mind is not corrupted by the unnatural and impossible fictions of the present day; but the pages which told of Christ's work and words, His life and death, were so fixed in his mind and heart that the great Master early began to shape and strengthen the character of His chosen disciple. CHAPTER II. _AT SCHOOL AND AT HOME._ "My mind, aspire to higher things-- Grow rich in that which never taketh rust." PHILIP SIDNEY. The opportunities for study in China were not enough to satisfy a boy with even a moderately strong desire for knowledge. Books were as rare as in the days before John Gutenberg, and Eli Jones has often said that if he had been asked ten times a day what he most wished for, he would have answered each time, Books. The fact that he longed so to read, and that he was almost entirely confined to the Bible, resulted in his becoming thoroughly familiar with the different parts of that great Book. It furnished him his poetry, his history, and his ethics; it was his reading-book and his spelling-book. Joseph in his coat of many colors and David with his sling were as much acquaintances of his as were the few boys he played with. David's lament for Jonathan and Deborah's song of triumph, the spiritual melody of the Psalms and Isaiah's rapt words, made him feel the power of Hebrew poetry, while the New Testament was helping him to know the manliness and divinity of Christ. What boys acquired in those days was well acquired, and if they did not have as much learning, they often were imbued with a better learning than at the end of the same century. It is certain that Eli had the spirit to learn, and did what he could to lay a proper foundation. While he was still very young he came with his father and mother to live at the south end of the lake, and there was built the house which has been the birthplace and home of so many of the Jones family. During the years of political excitement and fierce war against the mother-country--the years between 1812 and 1815--hardly a rumor of the outside strife had penetrated the long line of unbroken forests. While men were dying daily to force England to respect American rights, and while Europe was united to crush Napoleon, the citizens along China Lake were building brick-kilns to make material for the chimneys of their houses, doing their every-day work without knowing, perhaps, that Bonaparte was in the world, and having no fear that a war-cloud might break over them. Thus the future lover of peace dwelt in peace, and he did not need to learn the horrors of war by experience to hate it. A schoolhouse was built just over the hill north of his home, and thither he went to be taught; but the terms were very short, and the teachers only knew a few first principles, though they faithfully labored to fix these in the minds of their pupils. One teacher, after working two days on a problem in long division, gave the result to Eli Jones, saying, "I know that is right now, but I can't explain it to you or tell you why it is done that way." Eli had an exalted opinion of one of the teachers who held sway in this little house, and has often spoken of him with affection. He spent a whole winter teaching his older pupils to spell ordinary English words correctly, and took Eli through the spelling-book until all the words in it were fixed visibly in his brain, where they have since remained; and in all his teaching since spelling has been one of the branches which was not elective in the course. During the winter of 1827 he had the benefit of the charitable fund at the Friends' School in Providence, R. I. He divided the half year with another scholar, so that he had only three months, but he was prepared to make the most of this opportunity. He took ship-passage from Bath to Providence. The first night after his departure from home his mother passed in walking the floor and worrying for her boy tossed on the sea, as she supposed, but he was quietly sleeping all the while in his berth on the ship, which had anchored in the harbor on account of fog, and sailed the next morning. Friends' School, which had been opened at Portsmouth in 1784, was in its second organization less than ten years old when he came to it, but it was firmly established, and was often visited by its foster-father, the venerable Moses Brown. The institution consisted of one tall, massive brick building looking toward the south, and two lower transverse wings, to which successive additions have been made to meet the needs of the times. In front and rear of the buildings were extensive grounds divided into yards, lawns, and groves of oak and chestnut trees, then in their youth, now majestic with the increase of half a century. Beyond the boundary of the school property, toward the river which Roger Williams had crossed in his search for a peaceful abode, were great forests of ancient maples, oaks, and chestnuts, with hillsides of towering hemlocks, and swamps where the boys, who did not study botany, sought for little beyond the extermination of a marvellous race of black snakes. From the cupola of the middle building was a prospect of wide extent, showing to the new-comers the whole State at a glance, and placing before their eyes the waters of Narragansett Bay. Enoch Breed--called universally "Cousin Enoch"--was at the head of the school as superintendent, while his wife, "Cousin Lydia," was the matron. She was a sweet, lovely lady, and her presence was felt by all in the school. "Cousin Enoch" was not an educator, but he was a kind, fatherly man, a shrewd manager, a good farmer, and an exemplary character. He always wore his broad-brimmed hat, and was never seen outside of his private room with it off; the boys looked upon him as their patriarch, and, indeed, it is said that on one occasion he was asked if he were Methuselah, and dryly answered, "No, I am Enoch." Isaiah Jones taught the mathematics, and was considered a very successful teacher. The other instructors were David Daniels, who taught what Latin was then required; George Jones, Moses Mitchel, Abigail Pierce, and Mary Almy. Reading, spelling, and grammar were the only classes which recited; all the other work of the school was done privately, each student being independent and going as slowly or rapidly as his brain-power and ambition prescribed. Mathematics was the important branch, and each boy copied problems and their solutions into interminable copy-books. The school-room was small and lighted by tin oil lamps on the desks. In this room there were often one hundred and fifty boys: a number of these were appointed as monitors to report all disorderly conduct to the teachers. The meetings were held in the building in an upper chamber, where boys and girls and teachers sat in the same room. These were generally silent meetings, but occasionally William Almy or Doctor Tobey came to give them counsel. Among the schoolmates of Eli Jones were James N. Buffum, since ex-mayor of Lynn, Mass., and Peter Neal, also since ex-mayor of the same city, now on the committee of the school. The latter relates that Eli Jones received the "christening" always given new boys in those days, and his remark on that occasion was characteristic of him. The old students were put in line at night on the play-ground, and among them stood the newcomer. A "dummy" with swollen cheeks came to each boy in turn, and was answered by all, "Um!" until he reached Eli, who, as instructed beforehand, said, "Squirt," when suddenly his face was filled with water. Instead of the attack which the boys expected, Eli quietly remarked, "_That was cleverly done_." Peter Neal remarks that if he had been known as he was a month later, he would have received no christening. His schoolmates relate that he was a good boy, and that he was generally liked. In his youth he was much troubled by an impediment in his speech, and he early resolved to remedy it as much as possible. He was the only one of scholars or teachers in the boarding-school who was accustomed to speak in the Friends' meeting. He had already begun to speak at home, and, notwithstanding the trial which it was to him as a young man, he stood up among the boys and forced his voice to say what was in his heart. Few who heard him on those occasions are alive now, but these few remember how it impressed them to see one who played with them on the campus and sat with them in classes speak so earnestly before them and all the rows of solemn Friends. They respected his message, for his life was pure. He had a dread of the nursery, and resolved to keep out of it, but he was taken with typhoid fever, and after vainly fighting it off at last succumbed to be doctored in the vigorous way of those times. He had a long, hard siege of it, and lost a number of weeks from his brief term; but this short break from his usual life and the intercourse with cultivated teachers and scholars could not fail to leave its impress. It lifted his aspirations and widened somewhat the course of his thoughts, giving an impulse to his future life more valuable than mere knowledge. While it is to be regretted that so short a time was given him for satisfying his longings for a higher education, we rejoice that he knew so well how to school himself and to be a teacher to himself. He was a good mathematician, and his copy-books show that he was no tyro at figures; but he affirms that his drill in the old spelling-book was of far greater worth to him than his higher mathematics. When he reached home from Providence, he found a young brother twenty-one years younger than himself. This was Edwin, the youngest of the family of eleven, and to him fell the homestead and the care of the father, mother, and sister Peace. There is still standing a little red building, about one mile from South China, called the Chadwick Schoolhouse, in which many a man has laid his ABC foundation. Its external and internal appearance would not lead one to suppose that this was a "temple of learning" or any other kind of a temple, but not a few successful men look back to it with a feeling of reverence, and the near presence of a yard where many others of its day tenants of earlier time lie under toppling stones, just carved enough to tell the names and some of the virtues of those beneath, gives somewhat of a sacredness to the little building. It was in this house that Eli first opened his mouth to speak in the assemblies of the people. He was quite young, less than fourteen, when he arose in a meeting in that house and said, "Behold the Bridegroom cometh; go ye out to meet him." On their way home his grandfather asked who had spoken in the "body of the meeting," but the grandmother checked her husband with a slight nudge and answered the question by a motion of her finger. A few years ago a very aged man came up to Eli Jones and said, "I remember the first time you ever spoke in meeting, and I know what you said." From this time on he was often heard briefly in religious assemblies, and he was encouraged by older Friends to be faithful in delivering his message when impressed. After his return from Providence School, Eli Jones began to be a definite worker for the bettering of the world, and the seeds he then planted have brought forth the blade and the ear, and now the full corn is in the ear. He and a few others organized a temperance society of which he was the secretary; and many meetings were held in China and the adjoining town. Essays were written and speeches were delivered against the use of intoxicating drinks. This organization was made two years before the Washingtonian movement was started, and its influence in the State was great, aiding undoubtedly the enactment of the "Maine Law" which has made itself felt in all our States and in many of the other countries. The same winter he was one of a small company which met to start a public library. They formed a successful library association. Books soon began to come in, and from that day Eli Jones has not wanted for reading matter. With few exceptions, when absent doing higher work, he has attended the meetings of this association and aided it by his zeal and counsel. It is a matter of interest to notice a young man who had just barely become a full-fledged citizen turning his mind so strongly toward enlightening those near him, and that, too, in a community where he did not have the example of any predecessor to arouse him and spur him on. He was travelling a new road, and building as he went. The secret of it all was that there was something in him which forbade rest and inaction. In early years he saw fully that the part of man which ate and slept was not the important part, but that there was something within him which could span space and time, and which was spoken to by the whisperings of the Spirit of the eternal Ruler. At the present time biographies are within the reach of all boys, and they can see how great men and good men have made their lives complete--how they shaped their course, what goal they set before them, and what lifted them to the mark. In his youth, Eli Jones had almost no possibility of knowing from the record of other lives how best to build in youth. His father was a righteous man, whose actions were living epistles, and his mother was a living, teaching Christian. From both he inherited much and learned much; but "there is a divinity that shapes our ends," and, once in the hands of the great Potter, there is a marvellous shaping of the clay. Biographies, all good books, and directions in the right way are helps, but submission to be trained and then used by the Master Builder, is infinitely more of a help in the making of a right man. Great men of all ages have recognized a power, a daimon, an ecstasy--or, better, a Spirit--inspiring them, urging them to seek truth and beauty, to live lives of truth and beauty and goodness, and to shun as their greatest enemy everything that distorts and ties weights to their flying feet. Everything teaches the man who is to be wise; but most of all the Spirit teaches those who give ear unto Him; and if any one thing has made the life of Eli Jones a success, it is that he listened actively to the voice which said, "Give me thine heart." CHAPTER III. _MARRIAGE WITH SYBIL JONES._ "I see in the world the intellect of man, That sword, the energy his subtle spear, The knowledge which defends him like a shield-- Everywhere; but they make not up, I think, The marvel of a soul like thine." BROWNING. In 1833, Eli Jones was married to Sybil Jones, the daughter of Ephraim and Susannah Jones. Susannah was the daughter of Micajah Dudley, son of Samuel Dudley, a great-grandson of Samuel Dudley of Exeter, N. H., the eldest son of Gov. Thomas Dudley, the pilgrim of Plymouth, said to have been descended from the lineage of the earls of Leicester. Both Sybil Jones's parents and grandparents were Friends, and her grandfather and great-grandfather Dudley were preachers of fine talents and high character. Ephraim Jones was a "noble man" and a strong character. He was often deeply lost in thought, to such an extent that many anecdotes are related of his absent-mindedness which are very amusing. He did not want in vigor of mind, and he was one of the marked men of the town. Some are still alive who remember him as he stood up at quarterly meeting and took his text, "If thou hast run with the footmen, and they have wearied thee, then how canst thou contend with horses? and if in the land of peace, wherein thou trustedst, they wearied thee, then how wilt thou do in the swelling of Jordan?" He was a man who left a remembrance behind him, and the strength of his life has not been lost. His wife Susannah lived to the good old age of ninety-four, and was loved by all who saw her. "Grandmother Jewel" was her name in her old age. Eli's mother, who was nearly as old, was also named Susannah, and it was a memorable day for the grandchildren when these two grandmothers talked together of the olden time. "Grandmother Jewel" was very deaf, but otherwise she was a vigorous woman as long as she lived, and, ripe with years and blessed with the fruit of those years, she passed from this world a few months before her daughter. It is told that when Eli Jones visited Sybil Jones with the purpose of asking her to become his life-companion, the latter, not suspecting the weight of his mission, took down the Bible to read a chapter, as was always customary in those days before visitors returned home. On this occasion Sybil Jones opened to the twentieth Psalm, beginning, "The Lord hear thee in the day of trouble; the name of the God of Jacob defend thee, send thee help from the sanctuary and strengthen thee out of Zion; remember all thy offerings and accept all thy burnt-sacrifices; grant thee according to thine own heart, and fulfil all thy counsel." The mission was accomplished successfully, and for forty years the lives of Eli and Sybil Jones were linked together by the bonds of deep and pure love, while their aims, longings, and desires were merged into the one purpose of showing to the world that there is a love which transcends all earthly affection, and that God's love is an unbroken canopy which shelters the races of the round globe. Herein was their love continually made more perfect. I may quote as applicable to them the beautiful words of Izaak Walton, written to express the regard between the saintly George Herbert and his wife: "For the eternal Lover of mankind made them happy in each other's mutual and equal affections and compliance; indeed, so happy that there never was any opposition betwixt them, unless it were a contest which should most incline to a compliance with the other's desires. And though this begot, and continued in them, such a mutual love and joy and content as was no way defective, yet this mutual content and love and joy did receive a daily augumentation by such daily obligingness to each other as still added such new affluences to the former fulness of these divine souls as was only improvable in heaven." Sybil Jones was born at Brunswick, Me., in 1808. Her birthplace was very near the early home of Abel Jones. Only her youngest years were spent here, but she always had a love for her first home, and one of her early poems, written at about the age of twenty-one, speaks of it with fondness. Her early life was spent at Augusta, "which was the birthplace of those deep religious impressions that formed the motive power of a life pre-eminently consecrated to the service of her Redeemer and the human race." She often felt that the sermons and exhortations to which she listened during her early years were not of such a nature as to bring her to a saving knowledge of the sacrifice and love of Christ. Perhaps too little care was taken in those days to fulfil the Lord's command, "Feed my lambs;" and it is possible that our Society would have been more strongly built up if those good men who preached zealously to _edify_ the _Church_ had done so more effectually by taking the little ones by the hand and pointing them to the Source of satisfying life. A good Methodist minister at Augusta spoke kindly to Sybil Jones of her highest welfare, and she was very much helped and instructed by him in the way of life. She came to realize that she must be born again, and she accepted Christ, by whom alone she could become a child of God. Her love for the Methodists became very strong, and it was a most humiliating cross to her to obey her father's will that she should show her Quakerism by wearing a Friend's plain bonnet. There is a true anecdote which may properly be told, since it shows what her will was by nature, as we shall see later what power she had when it was in harmony with God's will. She was to attend China monthly meeting with her father, and he insisted that she should wear the "plain" bonnet. His request conflicted very much with her determination, but it was not possible to move him from his purpose. There was no course which could be taken to avoid wearing it, but she put it on bottom side up, and rode with it so from Augusta to China. But she fortunately saw and felt the simplicity and sincerity of Friends, as well as the spirituality of their faith, and she became firmly fixed in the belief that to be a true Quaker was to be a genuine Christian, a faithful follower of Jesus as he and his apostles marked out the road; and I must believe that if we all looked to the same source for light and guidance, and if we strove as earnestly to walk closely in His footsteps as she did, we should have little need of apologies and defences for our simple faith. In 1824-25 she attended the Friends' School at Providence, and for the next eight years she was engaged in teaching. She felt a deep interest in all that concerned her pupils, and it was the beginning of her efforts to open to the eyes of the young a new world of knowledge, beauty, and truth. One who has taught with a heart in the work will never cease to look upon children with loving eyes; and they were always the especial objects of her regard irrespective of their race or color. While still a teacher her father took her one day to attend Sidney monthly meeting, across the Kennebec River, about twelve miles from China. Lindley M. Hoag, then a young man, was at the meeting. He felt called to deliver a message to some one in the women's meeting, and an opportunity was given him to accomplish his purpose. He went to the women's side of the house and powerfully and clearly set forth the state of mind of some one present, and with prophetic words he pointed out the future course of this young Friend if she should be fully faithful to her inward promptings. Sybil Jones knew that he was laying open her heart, and she was much moved. When her gift as a minister was acknowledged, and she went out to hold meetings, she found Lindley Hoag present at the first one she attended, and for some time it seemed to her that she could not speak before him; but she overcame the feeling and was well favored to speak. This guidance from ministers who were moved to speak to her case, and the power given to her to declare the condition of others, were strikingly illustrated during her whole life. During these years of teaching she was much given to writing, and she not only copied many of the poems of her favorite authors, but she composed numerous poems on various subjects, and wrote short maxims for the rule of her conduct and life. It is very striking and touching to see how she regarded the brevity of life, for almost all that is left of her compositions is tinged with thoughts of death and the grave. One poem is written "To Consumption," and she seems to have been impressed with the feeling that her days were to be few, but she hails with joy the beginning of another life and the freedom from the cares and troubles of this present world. After saying how soon "life's sickly dream" will be over she writes-- "Oh may my future hours be given To peace, to virtue, and to Heaven, My hopes retain immortal birth, My joys ascend above the earth, My steps retrace the path they trod, My heart be fixed alone on God!" While still young she burned most of her prose and poetic compositions, partly because she was so often forced to read them aloud to company, and very little from those years remains. The following short poem may be as interesting as any, as her early wish here expressed was so perfectly fulfilled in the character of her accepted life-companion: "What! shall a face, then, win my heart, Mere symmetry of form? Such thrilling raptures _this_ impart With _love my bosom_ warm? As well might ocean's billow heave When not a wind did rise, As Fancy thus my heart deceive And fix my wandering eyes, No; 'tis the beauty of the soul That could my bosom fire; This would my tenderest thought control, And love and truth inspire." The thoughts expressed in some of her maxims show the bent of her mind, whether they are original or not. For example: "If you are told that another reviles you, do not go about to vindicate yourself, but reply thus: My other faults, I find, are hid from him, else I should have heard of them too;" "Fix your character and keep to it, whether alone or in company;" "No man can hurt you unless you please to let him; then only are you hurt when you think yourself so." Whatever her early attempts may show, Sybil Jones was certainly of a highly poetic nature. Her whole organism was so delicate that musical tones proceeded from her at the slightest touches from within or without. Melodious words came almost unsummoned to her lips as she plead with sinners to come to the waters of life and "drink without money and without price." John Bright told the present writer that it was always a delight to him to listen to her, and that he regarded her as a poet of high degree in her thought and expression. So with her daily duties and her thoughts of life and the future she developed from girlhood to womanhood, and at the age of twenty-five became the wife of Eli Jones. The joy and fruit resulting from their union show unmistakably how fully they were suited for each other, and they gave each other mutual help and inspiration. Their married life was begun at South China upon a farm which has since been divided into a number of smaller ones. The young wife was very careful in her expenditures, and an accurate account of all their expenses and their income was minutely kept by her. The Friends' meeting-house was three miles away at Dirigo. Thither they rode through the long, quiet woods every First and Fifth day to take their places among the rows of Friends waiting upon the Lord. Few houses made with hands have received more devoted worshippers, and few places have been more hallowed by the presence of pure souls met with one purpose, that of honoring the Ruler of the universe and learning from His Holy Spirit. Here, in the presence of sympathizing listeners, the voices of these two young Friends were often heard, and they were early enrolled among the ministers of the Society. The phrase of the early Friends was truly fitting in their case: "Their gifts were acknowledged." The men and women of China meeting made it their greatest endeavor to serve God acceptably in the path of daily duty and self-denial. One by one their beautiful lives have ended; happily, a few of them are yet left as examples, but a Quakerism--or rather a Christianity--which could round and perfect such characters had no earthly origin. China meeting at this time did not abound in powerful ministers, but its members were men and women whose lives were transparent and pure. They were "diligent in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord," and they lived sermons. There has almost always been in this community one or two Hymenæuses and Philetuses who have drawn creeds for their private guidance and who have severely troubled the Friends; but such disturbances have generally resulted in the exaltation of the true faith, and as in the natural world the struggle to overcome hindrances to growth adds strength and vigor, so a wolf in sheep's clothing within the fold increases the vigilance of the spirit and the dependence on the great Shepherd. There were many intricate questions now and then arising for discussion which gave valuable instruction to the young ministers, and they were gradually being prepared for useful service. Those of other denominations who know only of a training in a theological seminary as a fitting for preaching and teaching cannot understand how they were being taught in this remote country village; but "by the Spirit's finer ear" they were hearing truths of life and immortality, and on the Rock they were building characters of gold, silver, precious stones. Eli Jones was a hard-working man, not only doing his farm-work, but at different times owning shares in mills at Albion and in China and assisting in the work of running them. After living a few years at South China he removed to Dirigo and settled on a farm near the Friends' meeting, where he lived until 1886. * * * * * While Eli Jones was in London in 1875 he wrote to Sarah Fobey, a lifelong friend of his beloved wife, for her recollections of their school-days together, and her thoughts as to Sybil Jones's spiritual exercises then and since. She wrote from Montreux, Switzerland, as follows: "My mind is filled with sweet and precious memories of the dear one. She and I met at Friends' School in Providence in 1825. We met as strangers, but a feeling of sympathy which is not easily explained soon drew us together, and our intercourse there was the commencement of one of the most delightful friendships that in all this changing scene grew stronger and brighter with every passing year. I remember her as one of the most studious pupils in the school, always coming to her class with her lessons fully prepared and reciting them in a manner that gained the admiration of her classmates. She had great love for the beautiful, and a keen enjoyment of beautiful language whether poetry or prose, and committing to memory, as she did, with ease, her mind thus early became stored with much that was an enjoyment to her in after years. In our Scripture lessons we made our own selections, hers were always the most beautiful portions of the Bible, often from Isaiah and the Psalms, a long chapter thoroughly committed to memory, and recited in a manner which showed she appreciated the truths it declared. "To her schoolmates she was most kind and affectionate, and by her readiness to assist them in their lessons and in every way to do them good gained their universal love and esteem. "She had a great flow of animal spirits, and entered with warmth and interest into all our innocent pleasures and amusements; but such was her sense of justice and of right that she would never overstep the bounds of order nor disobey the regulations of the school. Of her religious feeling and experience at that time I cannot speak. It was not the custom then, as now in our Society, to speak of conversion or to tell what God had done for our souls; and I had supposed that it was not until after her return home that she gave her heart to Jesus and became fully and entirely a child of His, ready to do His bidding, and desiring above every other consideration to follow Him in the way of His leading. How faithfully she did so, going from place to place, from city to city, from State to State, finally from continent to continent, declaring the unsearchable riches of Christ! One of the most affectionate and loving of mothers, she counted nothing too near or too dear to part with for His blessed name's sake. "How many sinners she has warned! how many inquirers she has pointed to Jesus, the door of hope! how many mourners she has comforted! She faithfully obeyed the injunction, 'Sow ye beside all waters,' and the seed thus sown has taken root, and will continue to bear fruit long after we shall have gone to join the dear ones who earlier than we have entered into their Master's rest. Who can calculate the amount of good that one such life of dedication and devotion has accomplished? It seems to me that a faithful record of it should be an incentive to others to seek to follow her as she followed Christ. To me she was the most remarkable woman I have ever met, and I feel it to have been a peculiar blessing to have known her so long and loved her so well. Now, as I write, 'Memory opens the long vista of buried years,' and my heart travels through them all. I linger around sunny spots, happy hours, days of delight, seasons of sweet spiritual communion, in which she related to me the wonderful dealings of her heavenly Father toward her, and the remarkable manner in which she was often supplied with means to accomplish the service she believed He required of her--how when there seemed no way for her to move He made a way. "She always seemed to me to be so spiritually-minded, and to live so near her Saviour, as to be led and guided in a remarkable manner by Him. I remember her when she opened her prospect to go to Europe for the last time. She rises before me now, as she has often done, as I saw her then. Soon after the meeting of ministers and elders assembled Doctor Tobey arose and said, 'If there is a subject of particular interest and importance to come before the meeting, this seems to be the proper time.' "She had not expected to present it at that sitting, but, as she afterward told me, she said to herself, 'That surely means me.' "She sat a little, while a feeling of great solemnity overspread the meeting. She then arose with the most beautiful and heavenly expression of countenance, her whole soul filled with the engrossing subject, and with a grace and elegance of manner of which she was entirely unconscious told us in beautiful and touching language what she felt called to do in the service of her Lord, gratefully acknowledging His many mercies thus far in her journey of life, and her unshaken confidence and trust in Him for all that was to come. The meeting was greatly moved and she was liberated with entire unity. "How lovely and sweet she was! and, though she lived so many years and did so much good in them all, it always seems to me that she died 'in the midst of her years.' "Oh, we should have liked to keep her longer, the dear one! But He who seeth to the end knew when to close the strife-- 'Knew when to loose the silver cord, To break the golden bowl, And give to her that richest gift, Salvation of the soul.'" CHAPTER IV. _FIRST VISIT._ "He who in glory did on Horeb's height Descend to Moses in the bush of flame, And bade him go and stand in Pharaoh's sight-- Who once to Israel's pious shepherd came, And sent him forth his champion in the fight,-- He within my heart thus spake to me: 'Go forth! Thou shalt on earth my witness be.'" SCHILLER. In the autumn of 1840, Sybil Jones was liberated by her Friends to attend meetings and do religious work in the provinces, Nova Scotia, and New Brunswick. In this work she was attended by her husband, and they passed through many trying circumstances; but, being sustained from above, they came home bringing sheaves with them and feeling that they had been instruments in God's hand of doing good. A brief account of this journey was kept by Sybil Jones. It has never been published, but is full of interest to all those who love to follow the steps of devoted servants of the Lord. During the first winter of the Revolutionary War, Benedict Arnold and a band of soldiers forced their way over almost insurmountable obstacles through the Maine woods to capture Montreal, Quebec, and the other Canadian strongholds. Historians have followed their track, carefully noting every detail of their march, recording what they suffered and what injuries they inflicted, and that, too, though the expedition failed of its end and many a fair young life was lost in vain. Certainly, we can well afford to follow the pilgrimage of two soldiers of the cross fully as heroic, carrying to those otherwise perishing the news of life and salvation. Sybil Jones was thirty-two years old when she made this visit; she was in delicate health, and obliged to leave her two young children, James Parnell and Narcissa, behind; but her whole soul was in the work, and she writes as she would have done when years had fully developed her. In this and her other diaries there often occur expressions which to the frequent readers of Fox and the early missionary Friends may sound stated and formal, but there is a life pervading the whole which shows conclusively to a thoughtful person that these phrases are not forms, but words clearly expressive of what she felt burning in her heart, and they add to rather than detract from the weight of her account. There is a wonderful depth of meaning and originality in the expressions of Friends which unfortunately is lost sight of by continual use, just as in all language word-metaphors which subtly picture thoughts become cold by use and lose their picturesqueness. In reading the pages recording the earnest labors of long ago let us read in them all that was put there by looking for the feeling and life under the words: "Left home with a certificate from some of my friends to visit some of the British provinces, the 23d of 8th mo., 1840, in company with my husband. He also has a certificate for said service. Being disappointed in a female companion, we had either to resign the prospect of a visit this season or proceed with no other company than our dear friend Daniel Smiley, who, with a minute from his monthly meeting, concluded to accompany us to Nova Scotia. It was a trying case, but, feeling as though the present time was the right time, we informed the committee appointed by the monthly meeting for the purpose of providing us with suitable company, how it was with us. They met with the elders, and informed us of their conclusion, which was that they thought best for us to proceed if it seemed like the right time, as we had informed them. We had to proceed on the prospect of apprehended duty under discouraging circumstances, yet I trust with a humble reliance on Him who hath said, 'I will be a defence unto Israel.' Being favored to resign ourselves to His direction and protection, we felt our only strength to be in Him, feeling, too, the consoling assurance that our dear friends we have left behind will travail in exercises with us for the Truth's honor and our preservation from every hurtful thing. We leave our dear children in the best place we could find.... Above all, we have felt a humble trust that He who never slumbers will keep them; and in remembrance of the blessed promise, that all things shall work together for good to them that love and fear God, I have been enabled under multiplied discouragement to adopt the language, 'Thy will, not mine, be done.' Blessed be His name for ever who has been with me in six troubles, and has given me assurance that He will not forsake even in the seventh if my place is where Mary's was of old. "We attended two meetings the day we left--one in Windsor, the other in Whitefield--which were very trying meetings.... "_Second day, 31st._ Arrived at Joseph Ester's in Calais; had a favored meeting this evening in the Calvinist Baptist meeting-house. The people here are so attached to Friends that they think it a privilege to let us have a house for a meeting. The Baptists claimed the privilege, and we thought best to improve it. After meeting I took cold from the damp air so frequent in this place, and was confined to the house till 9th mo. 4th. Proceeded to an appointment at St. Stephen's (English side), First day, 9th mo. 6th, at two P. M., at the Methodist house, which was a humbling season to the poor creatures, but the eternal truth reigned over all, and I hope the 'blessed Master of assemblies' had the honor, for it was by the might of His power that the tall cedars of Lebanon bowed and the oaks of Bashan bent. Nothing is too great for Him to do for us when our trust is in Him. May it ever be placed there! Second day, 7th, had a meeting at St. Stephen's in a Baptist house; put up at Ruggles's temperance house; felt quite at home here; they were an interesting family. We sat with the family before leaving them, and divine ability was given to speak in the language of encouragement to them, assuring them that a _little_ with the incomparable blessing of a peaceful mind was better than hoards of gold obtained in a way to injure our fellow-creatures. The demoralizing effects of the sale and use of ardent spirits were lamentably felt here. The landlord told us that he was once in the habit of keeping them for travellers and others, but became convinced that it was wrong. It brought him into a close trial, he told us, for this was the chief source of income. He said he prayed to his heavenly Father to direct him what to do, and the answer was that he must carry on the baking business. He accordingly entered into it, and with the assistance of two or three daughters he made a good income. Oh that all would go and do likewise who are in this iniquitous practice, that must surely prove, if persisted in, their condemnation! "_8th._ Parted from several of our dear friends who came to bid us farewell, and proceeded on our journey; came about noon to Oak Bay, parish of St. David's, a small village. Here we paused a little, but proceeded. My mind became distressed for leaving the place without trying to have a meeting, which I kept to myself until we had travelled about two and a half miles, when I was obliged to request our dear friend to turn about; which was crossing to us all, feeling very anxious to get along, having been detained from my ill-health, meetings, etc. beyond our expectations. But on turning toward the place I think we all participated in the reward of peace. We stopped at William Josling's, who met us with tears of joy. Oh may we omit nothing required of us, but be willing to do and suffer His will who will do all things well! This evening had a meeting in the Baptist house. It was a solemn season, and to the honor of truth, I trust. Lodged at William Golding's, who was in a tried state of mind owing to entanglement with the doctrine of predestination. He spoke of the circumstance of Pharaoh where the Lord said, 'For this same purpose I have raised thee up;' also named the passage from the apostle, 'Hath not the potter power over the clay, of the same lump, to make one vessel for honor and another for dishonor?' He said that he considered it as a temptation of the enemy, but at times could hardly keep it out of his mind. As the subjects opened to my mind I endeavored to explain them.... He seemed satisfied, and said he had never had so clear an explanation before. Not feeling clear of the place without trying for another meeting, we accepted the Methodist house, which was kindly offered. A Universalist encountered me after meeting. I endeavored to keep near best help. He became silent, and I think the truth sank deep in his heart. We parted in mutual love and good feeling. He was a member of the legislative council, a man of talents. We called on the Methodist minister and his wife, who received us gladly; we thought them sincere-hearted followers of Christ. Parted under a feeling of holy relationship. Left this place for Tower Hill, in the parish of St. David. Arrived in a lonely-looking place, very desolate, where were a few inhabitants and a schoolhouse. There are few here who reflect, I think, that they must die, and that it is needful to prepare for that solemn event. We left them under serious impression, I think. We called on a woman apparently dying, who said she was not prepared to die; her sins were not forgiven. The family and several neighbors present were in great distress. I felt moved to call her attention to Jesus, who alone could help, reminding her of the penitent thief upon the cross. Surrounding beholders were warned to seek the Lord while in health, and not put it off till a dying bed, as the pains of the feeble body were enough to bear, without the indescribable pains of a wounded conscience. We called again on the sick woman, who seemed a little revived. I felt drawn to impart some words of encouragement, also to supplicate our heavenly Father on behalf of all present. My dear husband imparted some words of encouragement to her. We then left her bedside, where extreme poverty and want were strikingly apparent, with some assurance that she would find forgiveness and go in peace. We proceeded to meeting. A large number of thoughtless mortals were assembled. We had to travail in deep exercises for the awakening of life. Dear husband supplicated for divine aid, which was mercifully granted. Truth finally obtained the victory. It is the Lord's doing and marvellous in our eyes. "_15th._ Had a meeting at Bearing in a schoolhouse at the fourth hour, and one at Mehanas, parish of St Stephen's, at seven--the last a truly contriting season. I proceeded, accompanied by my dear husband, to visit some public-houses and places where liquor is sold, and to visit some serious people. This work of apprehended duty was most humiliating to the poor creature, but cheerful submission clothed my mind with sweet peace. We were treated kindly by all, and all expressed their thankfulness to us for calling, and received civilly what we had to deliver to them, saying they knew the right, but were unwilling to do it. Not feeling clear of these parts without a meeting with the Congregationalists at Calais, though I thought it probable that they would not grant it, I informed our company of it, who encouraged me to attend to the opening. Accordingly, a messenger was despatched, and returned word that they were expecting to meet in the evening for a prayer-meeting, and would cheerfully give up the meeting to us without a single objection. The Lord will make a way where there appears to be no way. In the evening we met with them, and had a good meeting, mutually satisfactory. "_17th._ Sat down at the house where we were staying with the family at meeting hour. Our little number with the family were enough to inherit the Saviour's blessed promise, 'There will I be in the midst of them.' We gave no notice, but two or three neighbors somehow got information and joined our company. At first it was a stripped season. The cloud as big as a man's hand was hardly discernible, but in the Lord's own time He blessed us indeed. His power arose to the contriting of all present. It was truly a refreshing time, in which we could say, 'The Lord is my goodness and fortress, my high tower.' "_18th._ Had a meeting at the Ledge in St. Stephen's at two o'clock. Some of the true wrestling seed were present, who were visited in their low dwelling-place and refreshed with the circulating influence of divine love, which spread even to the skirts of the assembly. I am ready to say, 'The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.' 'He brought me into his banqueting-house, and his banner over us was love.' "_26th, which was First day._ Had a meeting in the city of St. John, in the Methodist chapel in Germania street, at 2 P. M., and one at 6 o'clock in the parish of Portland, in the Methodist house. Several thousand souls met with us this day, and the Lord blessed us abundantly to the refreshing of the weary traveller toward the city of rest. Lodged at the Methodist preacher's, William Temple, who was truly hospitable. On the morning of the 28th went to the steamboat bound to Annapolis, but, it being stormy, the captain deemed it improper to put out to sea. Having our horses and carriage put on board at high tide, and could not get them off until tide served again, we felt some anxiety, fearing we had not done right in this procedure, as the elements seemed against us. We met with a man named Abial L. Brown on board, who kindly asked us to go home with him and remain until the boat should go. We gladly accepted his invitation and went to the house, where the family received us with affection, set some refreshments before us, of which we gladly partook, not having taken any breakfast and having walked some distance in the wet and cold. After being thus refreshed and having warmed ourselves, we felt inclined to assemble the family for a religious opportunity, which was gladly acceded to on their parts. The season was a truly comforting one. Afterward we inquired for a woman who had spoken to us the evening before after meeting and manifested a great desire to have an interview with us. From our description one of the daughters kindly offered to try to find her, though they could not tell her name. She made a successful attempt, and soon came with Elizabeth Girard, as she said her name was. She was a Friend in principle, though belonging to the Methodists. She lamented much the extravagant conformity to the vain fashions of the world, which is at enmity to Christ--said they had sorrowfully departed from the simplicity which marked the members in their rise in Wesleyan days. She spoke of the spiritual worship very clearly as that which was alone acceptable unto God. The storm subsided at about ten o'clock. We left, accompanied by E. G., who went to the steamboat with us. After our imparting some advice to this dear friend, she left. At about one o'clock we left St. John's City, and in twelve hours were across the Bay of Fundy at Annapolis. I was not very seasick; He who holdeth the waters in His hand preserves us yet. Little vital religion is felt in this part of the heritage. The people here have many advantages for a livelihood. The land has a rich soil, and the Annapolis River flowing through it in the midst of an extensive valley, where many of its farms stretch along its banks, the rich products may be borne through the river into the Bay of Fundy to distant parts. Thus was a kind Providence bountifully blessed, but a worldly spirit is prevailing among them. "_14th._ Held a meeting at Granville, and on the 15th went over Young's Mountain. Again not feeling clear, had a meeting in the evening, a memorable season of humbling contrition to most present. A young man named James Van Blarcum, being at this meeting, was convinced of the truth. May the Lord give him strength to suffer for His cause, which will no doubt be the case if he proves faithful!"[3] [3] James Van Blarcum was at work on a house when the notice was given for this meeting. On hearing that a woman would preach, he said he would go and hear what these heretics had to say. It was a revelation to him; his eyes were opened, and the whole course of his life changed. A few years after this he came to China, so that he might know more of Friends and their principles. At first his family were so displeased at his becoming a Quaker that he was forced to leave his home, though he was afterward highly respected by them all. He became a powerful minister in the Society, and was for a number of years connected with Oak Grove Seminary. He was married to Eunice, sister of Eli Jones. Eli and Sybil Jones attended many more meetings in the provinces, among them Annapolis, Wilmot Mount, Wolfville, Falmouth, Pictou, and Truro, making many weary journeys, some days riding as much as forty-three miles to hold a meeting. These long rides were attended with many discomforts, as it was the eleventh month, and the weather extremely raw and cold. The roads were in poor condition, and the mud oftentimes almost impassable. Sybil Jones describes the difficulties encountered in making their way to Truro: "Coming to two roads about noon, we inquired of an innkeeper the direct road to our destination. We followed his directions, found excellent roads, but, being through a thick forest, it was rather lonely. The weather being cloudy, night came on early, without discovering any opening in the dense forest that encompassed us. The thought did not occur that we might be on the wrong road until the horses began to wade very deep in mud. My husband sprang out of the carriage to lead the horses. After proceeding a few steps, the mire growing deeper, he ordered the carriage stopped, and after travelling around some time in the dark he exclaimed that we were on the wrong road--that we had come to the end of a road. Our feelings can better be imagined than described. Strangers in a strange land, in a vast wilderness at the end of our road, and the night being without even starlight, I shall never forget my feelings. We found our carriage was fast in the mire. After unharnessing the horses, which with some difficulty leapt out on hard footing, the men soon pried the carriage out and harnessed to return, while I stood on a dry spot where my dear husband had placed me. I was afraid that we had been directed there for a wicked design, when these words came to me: 'Judah's lion guards the way, and guides the traveller home.' After going back about fifty rods we discovered a light, and, going to it, found that it proceeded from a little hut. The people said that we could get across the woods, to the right road by going a quarter of a mile, and kindly offered to go with us and show us the way. We followed through the roughest road I ever passed. One had to hold the carriage behind to keep it from upsetting. We arrived safe on the road, happy and thankful." They had many "opportunities" in family circles, which they always found refreshing. They met with great kindness, although in many places they were greatly grieved to find that the spirit of the world held sway over the people. In many cases a great controlling power was felt, and they left believers much strengthened in the Lord to cope with the adversary. Owing to the inclemency of the weather they deemed it expedient to return to their homes. The homeward journey was long, and they were often able to get but scanty accommodations; but they ever found the "Lord a covert from the storms," and proved Him to be "as the shadow of a great rock in a weary land." They were greatly cheered on retracing their steps to find that the seed scattered on their journey of love had fallen in good ground. The tavern-keeper with whom they had labored so lovingly had given up his sinful business, and was now keeping a strictly temperance house. Indeed, there was now no rum sold in the town. With deep interest and love for the dear people in the field in which they labored, and looking to God to bless their labors, they took their way to the home where were the dear children whom to leave was so hard. It was the beginning of winter before they prepared to return, so that it was impossible for them to use the carriage with which they made the journey, and it was finally decided to put the carriage on runners, and in this way the long return journey was made. Some years later they went over the same ground by carriage on a second visit to the provinces. In one place, as they were driving along through a long wood, they were met in the road by a huge bear, which stood its ground for some time, but finally retreated and allowed the Friends to go on their mission. Soon after this visit Eli Jones felt that it was his duty to go over the meetings of Canada and to speak to the Friends there, both in the different assemblies and by their firesides. His dear wife in the mean time was making a tour through New England, doing the work which was laid upon her. It was a trial for them to be so widely separated, but each was in the proper place. Sybil Jones was brought low with sickness and forced to hasten home. Eli Jones came from his field of service, and called on his friend Daniel Smiley, where he found his wife very ill; but recovery was granted, and they came rejoicing to the family at home. CHAPTER V. _EAST, WEST, AND SOUTH._ "I have always been thinking of the different ways in which Christianity is taught, and whenever I find any way that makes it a wider blessing than any other, I cling to that: I mean to that which takes in the most good of all kinds, and brings in the most people as sharers." After their return from this last visit they passed a few years in quiet work at home, often attending the different quarterly meetings in New England, and generally taking an annual trip to Newport to be present at the yearly meeting, which was occasionally attended by Friends from the West and from Great Britain, bringing thither knowledge of far-off lands where the whitening fields called for more laborers. In 1845 they felt called to go over the meetings of Friends in nearly all parts of the United States, and this and the next year were mostly taken up with that work. Eli Jones has since travelled over this ground many times, and has often visited the different yearly meetings of America, but always with quite different feelings from those which were in their hearts at the first extensive visit. John Wilber had been "disowned" by the Friends only two years before, and his upholders who had separated from the Society were in many of the meetings which they visited. There was a general feeling of sorrow that a second unhappy division should appear in the midst of peaceful neighborhoods and the animosity arising from fruitless argument had weakened the loving spirit and dampened the zealous ardor of many who should have been the unbiased spokesmen of the gospel of Christ. Eli and Sybil Jones endeavored to draw the two parties together into the house of faith and true belief. It is almost impossible in the midst of church differences for any one who is interested to be unprejudiced in his judgment. Bitterness shows itself in the hearts of the most loving. Differences are exaggerated and words are misunderstood for things. The main body are over-eager to win back those they are losing, while they are inflicting deeper wounds by their too hasty blows at what seems the heresy of their opponents, and the latter cherish a feeling of glory in the size of the rent they are making. These two Friends tried sweetly and gently to persuade those differing with them that the ancient Rock was the only foundation for their building. They visited the families of nearly all the meetings and impressed their thoughts on the individual members. If perhaps they accomplished little in cementing the two bodies, they did much to strengthen the weak and to point the unsheltered to a Tower of safety and defence. It may be interesting to follow them in a few extracts from Sybil Jones's journal: "Left home 9th mo., 1845, with a certificate to visit in the love of the gospel the yearly meetings of Ohio, Indiana, Baltimore, and North Carolina. We took passage on the steamer John Marshall from Augusta to Boston, and from there by cars to Lynn, where we attended their quarterly meeting. Friends in this meeting are brought under deep exercise on account of the attendance of a committee from the Separatists and John Wilbur in person. They took full liberty to throw out their sentiments and bore very hard on Friends, all of which Friends were mercifully favored to bear with true Christian patience. After being detained seven hours the meeting adjourned until nine the next morning, at which time they convened without interruption and were greatly refreshed together. "From Lynn we went to New Bedford, where a small meeting of the Wilburites is held, some of whom we called to see and were treated kindly, but were painfully afflicted in spirit under a sense of their alienation from the unity of the Spirit by which we are called. Friends here are not numerous, but upright standard-bearers. In the morning attended Newtown meeting, which was also attended by the Separatists (a few being here). After a time of solemn retirement before the Lord truth rose into dominion and a contriting time it was." They went on by boat to New York, and from there to Philadelphia and Baltimore, where John Meader, Thomas Willis, Richard Carpenter, and others met them to go in their company farther west: "We reached Mount Pleasant the day previous to select meeting, which began the 8th of 9th mo. The spirit of bitterness has made sad havoc here. The four visiting Friends were duly proved in suffering with the suffering. No notice was taken of any certificates on their minutes. The servants of the Lord in attendance were of one heart and one mind, and there were times amid the conflict that the gracious ear, I doubt not, inclined to the fervent petition, 'Lord, save us or we perish.' A calm stole over the troubled waves, and ability was vouchsafed to proclaim the unsearchable riches of Christ. "The meeting closed on the 12th of the month, and the next morning we proceeded on our way to Cincinnati. We took the steamer New Hampshire, and were more than five days on the Ohio River. The water was low, so that we were often aground some hours. We had a meeting on board with the passengers, and it was crowned by the presence of Him who holds the waters in the hollow of his hand and causeth the mountains to flow down at His presence. We were treated with great kindness and respect. The first part of our passage I noticed some playing cards, which brought me under great exercise, and after carefully examining the subject I thought it my duty before retiring to rest to walk to the table and express my feelings. Asking leave of them, I proceeded to relieve my mind, which was received kindly, and I saw no more card-playing afterward. I felt great peace in taking up this cross. May I always be willing to do His will who leadeth safely and sustaineth the soul amid every conflict! "We arrived in Cincinnati on the 18th. After our arrival I informed a Friend that the subject of visiting families had rested with great weight upon my mind; which he communicated to some of the select members, and it resulted in an opportunity with all of them. I opened the subject before them, and a sweet cementing season of divine approval was graciously afforded. They fully and feelingly united with us and encouraged us to proceed therein." They visited nearly all the families in that region, and felt encouraged in the labor. She writes: "I believe it is the design of the Head of the Church to pour out a rich blessing on this part of His inheritance; indeed, He seems turning His hand upon the little ones, and will, I believe, raise up valiants among the youth, who will publish with the voice of thanksgiving and tell of all His wondrous works." Having done much work in Ohio and Indiana, they came over the Alleghany Mountains, and revisited Baltimore, forming many pleasant acquaintances with the Friends in that city, and holding meeting for public worship, as well as visiting the families for more quiet work. They next turned toward the South, and reached North Carolina in time for the yearly meeting. There was much feeling here in regard to the separation, and an epistle from the Separatists was rejected at this yearly meeting. In regard to the slaves, she writes: "Vital religion is very low. Truth has fallen in the streets, and Equity cannot enter in some places. Here is a suffering seed in many portions of this land of slavery. Friends have borne in meekness a noble testimony against its iniquity, and, though they often feel disheartened at the shadowy prospect, I believe their upright example has had, and will still have, salutary influence. The Lord has inclined His gracious ear to the multiplied cries of the oppressed, and those who suffer for them as being bound with them, and will hasten the blessed day when Ethiopia shall stretch forth her hand unto God and the oppressor shall no more oppress. "There are so many rents and divisions throughout Christendom that many are crying, Who shall show us any good? I earnestly desire that these overturnings and siftings may tend to draw the people to the living eternal Substance, to build on the ancient Foundation of all the holy prophets and apostles. There is great need of more dedication and a stirring up to greater diligence in this land." The work and service in Carolina were carried on in great bodily weakness, and often Sybil Jones was compelled to remain at home while Eli Jones and the Friends with them attended the meetings. At the beginning of the new year they returned to their Maine home to pass a few quiet years before undertaking a still more extensive journey. CHAPTER VI. _VOYAGE TO LIBERIA._ "Be sure they sleep not whom God needs, nor fear Their holding light his charge, when every hour That finds that charge delayed is a new death, * * * * * * * So intimate a tie connects me with our God." BROWNING. There is wonderful harmony in God's work in the different kingdoms and sub-kingdoms of His domain. When His method of working is resisted, there is always harsh conflicting, and finally He removes the obstacle; but wherever we look, so long as there is a submission to His plan, there is never a jar, never a halt on the road to the great end which He has in view, be it in the growth of a tree, in the motion of a world through space, in the maturity of animal or human life, or in the development of spiritual being. But the first rule that must be fulfilled before He can rightly use any of His intelligent creations is that they fully submit themselves to Him to be trained and used. Just as the brook yields strict obedience to the gentle impulse which moves it from its source on through its winding channel to its home in the great ocean of waters, so all who are to be the servants of the Most High must be _willing_ to become the instruments through which He works, and must let Him flow through unhindered. Those whom He will use He prepares just as much, and in a higher sense, as He makes the lily grow--not by any toiling and spinning on its part, but by putting a life within it which animates and builds up the whole structure; and as the lily adorns the spot in which He puts it, so His workmen should beautify the vineyard where He sets them. It is a very marked fact in the lives of the two of whom I am writing that they not only gave themselves up to be prepared by Him who was to use them, but they also waited until He showed them where they should work. There is work everywhere which is waiting to be done, nor does any one do well who idly sits still until he is told just where to begin, but God has His chosen workmen fitted on purpose for a special place, as much as an earthly master-builder, and the time comes to every one when it is imperative for him to hear the order which he is to execute. The Lord spake unto Moses often, and He who made known His ways then has power to tell His will to whom he wishes now, and the proper messenger does not embark before the message comes. I find in the earlier life of Eli and Sybil Jones that their great, absorbing wish was that they might be in full harmony with Him whom they served. They looked up to be taught, and He gave just the right service to enlarge and strengthen their powers, so that they might be prepared for the more difficult undertaking which now presented itself. No one who reads the journal which follows will think they went to Liberia prompted by their own feelings, but the service was evidently _laid upon them_. To understand properly the struggle through which Sybil Jones passed before leaving her home, it will be necessary to picture to ourselves the circumstances surrounding her nearly half a century ago. She had grown to womanhood in a little town in Maine, having exceedingly limited opportunities for obtaining a knowledge of the world and the ways of men and women; she was now the mother of five children, who needed their parents' care; she had just undergone the sorrow of seeing many dear to her pass from earth, while still others of her family were already on deathbeds: and now she was to go from all that earth held dearest to her, perhaps never to see even her own country again. To-day to travel is the ordinary course; fifty years ago it was a rare and momentous event for one to go far from home. It would seem most hazardous to a frail woman to go from Maine to Baltimore, there to embark, not in a steamer with modern conveniences, but in a sailing-packet with rough passengers and still rougher crew, for the west coast of Africa. Let us not wonder as we read her account that she waited long and counselled earnestly with her own heart, for if she should go self-sent only perils insurmountable would be before her, but on God's errands, sent by His command, she knew of nothing to fear. The _Friends' Review_ for 6th mo. 28, 1851, has the following paragraph: "In the meeting of ministers and elders of New England Yearly Meeting on Seventh day, 14th, our dedicated friend Sybil Jones opened a prospect of an extensive religious visit to Great Britain, Ireland, some parts of the continent of Europe, Sierra Leone, Liberia, and some islands on the west coast of Africa and in the West Indies; and her husband, Eli Jones, informed the meeting that he believed it his duty to bear her company in this extensive and arduous engagement. The subject obtained the weighty and feeling consideration of the meeting, and, though Friends were fully sensible to the magnitude and importance of the undertaking and of the apparently inadequate state of her health, such a current of unity with the prospect was experienced that all doubt of its propriety was taken away; and they were accordingly liberated for the service. The sympathy and prayers of their friends will unquestionably follow them." As the most of the following year's work was in Liberia, it may be well to speak briefly of the position and condition of that country. Liberia is a negro republic on the west coast of Africa. Its length along the coast is about three hundred and eighty miles, and its entire area about twenty-four thousand square miles. Sierra Leone, the country to the north of Liberia, was colonized by colored men from Great Britain, assisted by such men as Grenville Sharp, Wilberforce, and Clarkson, the first settlement being made in 1787, and composed partly of negroes who had served in the British army during our Revolutionary War. This and successive colonies were terribly weakened by the death-stroke of the African fever, but they were finally successful; and American philanthropists, who were eager to help an unfortunate race, founded here in 1822 a colony of freedmen who might enjoy the political and social privileges denied to them in the United States. The town of Monrovia was founded and named after James Monroe, then President. They landed in the midst of heathendom, and the first years were years of struggle; but these colored men showed that they could govern themselves. They drew up a constitution much like the American, the first article of which read, "All men are born equally free and independent, and among their natural inherent and inalienable rights are the rights of enjoying and defending life and LIBERTY;" and the fourth section, "There shall be no slavery within this republic." The republic has a President, Senate, House of Representatives, and a judicial department, so that good laws are passed, explained, and enforced. In 1847 the republic declared its independence, and was finally in 1861 recognized by the United States as a sovereign state. The Methodist Church established a mission here in 1833; the Presbyterian Church followed this example, and sent J. B. Penny into the field the same year. The American Episcopal Church was at work in the republic as early as 1836, while the Baptists turned their attention there in 1845, so that it was in fact a "missionary republic." The present population of the republic comprises about 18,000 civilized negroes, chiefly of American origin, and 1,050,000 half-wild natives, who are gradually adopting a settled life and conforming to the habits of their civilized countrymen. Professor David Christy said in a lecture in 1855: "If a colony of colored men, beginning with less than a hundred, and gradually increasing to nine thousand, has in thirty years established an independent republic amidst a savage people, destroyed the slave-trade on six hundred miles of the African coast, put down the heathen temples in one of its largest districts, afforded security to all the missions within its limits, and now casts its shield over three hundred thousand native inhabitants, what may not be done in the next thirty years by colonization and missions combined were sufficient means supplied to call forth all their energies?" It was during this visit to Liberia that Eli Jones first felt his heart fill with zeal for missionary work. One day, going to pay a visit to President Roberts, he found a large band of fierce natives assembled in the President's room to have him arbitrate their quarrel. The dispute being settled peacefully, the President introduced Eli Jones, asking a noble-looking chief if he would like to have this man go with them to talk about God to their tribe. The prompt and earnest answer was, "Yes, and we will build him a house if he will come and stay." At once he saw in mind the needs of these and the thousands of other human beings waiting for some one to bring to them the fuller teaching of the way to a higher Christian civilization, and from that date he was more than ever desirous to be an instrument of help. The following poem was written by Elizabeth Lloyd[4] on the departure of Eli and Sybil Jones for Africa: [4] Afterward Elizabeth Howell. She is the author of the beautiful lines entitled "Milton in his Blindness." THE GOSPEL MESSENGER. "Behold, I will send my messenger." Dedicated to a service high and holy from above; Guided by the inward teaching of a heavenly Father's love, Listening to the soft monitions whispered in her spirit's ear, Answering to the call like Samuel, "Lo, my Father, I am here," Child-like in her meek submission, His appointing to fulfil, Trusting in His strength for safety, she went forth to do His will. Bearing up His "ark of promise," she the weak became the strong, In her heart a hymn of praising, on her lips a triumph song; "Thou hast vanquished, O my Saviour--Thou who bore my sins for me; Sanctify with thy anointing sacrifices made for thee. As of old Thou ledst Thy children, showing them the cloud by day And by night the fiery pillar, so lead me along my way. "If I falter, if my heart be tempted by its doubts and fears, If my eyes, to heaven uplifted, see Thee only through their tears; If the clinging of love's tendrils bind my thoughts to things of earth, And between me and my duty come the dreams of home and hearth,-- Oh have pity on me, Father, and if I should go astray Let Thy angels, Faith and Patience, point me to the narrow way. "Clear before me let the shining of Thy holy light arise, Far behind me cast the shadow of my own poor sacrifice. Can I doubt when I remember how the sea was cleft in twain, And, a wall of waters rising, left a valley in the main That Thy people might pass over on the golden-sanded path, So to sing their song of triumph, safe from the pursuer's wrath? "Can I fear when I remember Thou didst feed them day by day, With thy manna, that like hoarfrost round the tents of Israel lay; In the wilderness wast with them till their tarriance was o'er, Sweetened Marah's bitter fountain, opened Horeb's rock-bound door? Nay, Thy power and might, as ever, all omnipotent shall be: 'Rock of Ages,' what can move me if I lean my soul on Thee?" Where the palms of Afric gather up the tropic heats by day, Where the jerboa and the lion in their evening shadows play, Where the streams are coral-bedded and the mountains gemmed with gold, She is bearing forth a treasure human heart alone may hold-- Oil to pour on troubled spirits, seed to sow in barren place, Soothing balm of consolation, knowledge of anointing grace. "Ethiopia and the islands," far away her mission lies: From the sweet New England homestead underneath her native skies, To Liberia's dark-browed children, Sierra Leone's struggling band, She has messages from heaven, guided by the Father's hand. She is pointing out salvation: "Christ has no partition-wall; We are children of one Father, and His love redeemed us all." Oh, the fettered slave may hear it, sinking 'neath his weight of woe; In the northland, in the southland, streams of gospel love may flow. Not a partial gleam, a star-ray, gilding but a single night, Was God's thought in His creation when He said, "Let there be light;" Not a single soul's redemption when that piercing cry went up, "Eloi lama sabacthani!" ere He drank death's bitter cup. But a world-illuminating flood of radiance was born When the angels sang rejoicing o'er the earth's baptismal morn, And the souls of all created, and the souls of all to be, Are partakers of redemption by that death on Calvary, That divine self-abnegation of the holy Son of man-- Thought sublime in its expansion, theme beyond our finite scan. Oh, the human heart a temple for the Saviour's love may be In all nations, in all climates, on the land or on the sea: Sect or color bars not entrance; only Sin her watch may set, Keeping Him without the portals till with dew his locks are wet; But He ceases not from calling, "Garnish and make clean for me; Drive away the money-changers, in their place let angels be." Through His instruments He calleth, humble tho' they be and weak, That the deaf ears may be opened and the sealed lips may speak, That the maimed may halt no longer, and the blinded eyes may see, And the lepers, healed and cleansed, glorifying God may be. Ignorance and sin are blindness, but as morning after night Is the heart's regeneration when God says, "Let there be light." The following account has been selected from Sybil Jones's journal. It was written to be published soon after their return, but publication was delayed, and now for the first time it is made public. It will show, as few other writings, the emotions and strivings of a sincere seeking soul. Her journals speak little, especially in her earlier visits, of natural surroundings and ordinary events, for her spiritual work seemed so weighty that nothing was allowed to turn her eyes from that: * * * * * SO. CHINA, _12 mo., 1850._ Painful are the baptisms that my poor trembling soul tries to endure patiently. Forgive me, most gracious God, if I dare repine. Death seems again lingering on our borders, and the remnant of a once large family must soon diminish. My worthy father seems drawing near the silent grave, but full of bright hopes of a mansion in the eternal city. Though well knowing that the "Judge of all the earth" will do right, yet sad is the thought that soon we must lose his cheerful society and instructive counsel. Oh that this deep affliction may prove a salutary cup to the soul, though very bitter to the taste! I learn many awful lessons while sitting by his bedside. It is a foretaste of heaven sweetly blended with a hope of reunion around the throne. My soul is weighed down with the prospect of more extended service in the cause of our holy Redeemer, and lingers tremblingly on Jordan's banks. Oh, this Jordan seems awful, but I must descend to its bottom, and may the eternal God be my refuge, and underneath the everlasting arms! The billows overwhelm, and I sink in deep mire where there is no standing. My health is frail and my spirits flag. But amid all, the unchanging Rock is my support. _1st mo., 1851._ With the unity of my friends I performed some errands of love in some portions of our own yearly meetings. I went forth in fear and much weakness, but through abounding mercy the peace of God fills my heart. In the course of this visit I had a very interesting public meeting in Nantucket. My spirit had long lingered around that little island of the sea, and sweet was our communion together in the love and power of truth. Dear father met me joyfully and expressed great thankfulness for being permitted to meet me again below. He said his soul was filled with a Saviour's love, and he longed to go home to his heavenly rest, to join with saints and angels in singing the song of Moses and the Lamb for ever and ever. It was a time of blessed communion. My mind is deeply impressed with the language uttered frequently in my inward ear: "Go offer a sacrifice similar to my servant Abraham's;" which causes great fearfulness to come upon me, and a sense of utter unworthiness and inability for such a momentous work, feeling the least and last of those who name the great Name. _2d mo._ Dear father seems near his eternal joy. He told me to-day that he had been thinking I had a prospect of some service in a distant land, and wished to know if I thought of such a thing. As I had not named it to any one, and felt restrained from speaking of it, I hesitated, but at length opened my feelings, at which he seemed introduced into much sympathy, and desired me to be faithful, and then placed his hands upon me, and poured out a fervent prayer to our Father in heaven on my behalf for His holy presence to go with me, and His almighty power to keep me from all evil. It was a solemn season, for the painful and yet happy thought mingled in this communion that when my frail bark must venture on dangerous seas his would be for ever anchored on the shore of immortal joy. This day I have been summoned to my sainted father's bed of death. He was happy, full of heavenly peace, and, resting his ransomed spirit on his Saviour's breast, there breathed his life sweetly away. Our loss is great, but his gain glorious. _2d mo._ We have conveyed his cherished form to its last resting-place, and Jesus was with us and presided over all. Oh let his name be praised and his matchless goodness be adored. _3d mo._ My dear brother Augustine, whose health has been declining for some years, seems rapidly following father, at which our hearts are so stricken that sorrow's bitter tears, fast falling on a sainted father's grave, are even shared by our dearest brother, on whose cheek flushes the crimson hectic omen of dissolution. The painful thought of the departure of our dear brother, the last earthly prop of the family, seemed agonizing to our hearts. While these afflictive dispensations are meted out, my spirit dwells in the great depths of self-abasedness, and bears upon it too the burden of a Saviour's love to sinners in a far-distant land. Oh fix the trust of my tempest-tossed soul immutably upon the unchanging Rock! To-day I have returned from visiting my sweet brother. He thankfully acknowledges the mercy of being so calm and comfortable, though rapidly hasting to the silent grave. Soon after the Lord saw fit to plunge his soul into deep baptism for its purification. His distress seemed entirely indescribable, but, being encouraged to believe it was a refining process, though thus painful, to prepare him to partake more fully of the joys of God's salvation, his faith seemed strengthened to hope for mercy and deliverance in the Lord's time; which time at last came, and ushered in the dawn of a glorious morning without clouds. His heart was full of songs of joy. His constant theme was the unsearchable riches of Christ. One day when I entered his sick-room, he exclaimed, "Dear sister, I am glad to see thee: I want to tell thee the joy of my soul. I have heard the language, as intelligibly as anything I hear with my outward ear, 'Speak comfortably unto Jerusalem, cry unto her that her warfare is accomplished, her iniquity is pardoned, for she hath received at the Lord's hand double for all her sin;' and, though I am most unworthy, I believe this is applied to me, for my peace flows like a river." He lived about five weeks from this time, and had indeed no more conflicts; not a doubt or a cloud obstructed the continual shining of the glorious Sun of Righteousness. He often said that he was as full of songs of joy as his poor heart could hold. Deep baptisms abide me, and such a painful sense is given me of my own inability and nothingness that I am ready to shrink from attempting to open the subject to my friends. My poor tempest-tossed soul dwells near the valley and shadow of death. Liberia seems to press upon my mind, but can all this be called for at such weak hands? I have omitted to mention in its place a testimony of my dear brother's to me a short time before his death. In an interview together he thus expressed himself: "Dear sister, I have thought for some time past that the Master had a service for thee in distant lands across the ocean, and I have this to say to thee: _Go_ with thy life in thy hand. It should not concern thee whether thou sees thy native land again or not: heaven is as near there as here. Go and tell the sinner of a Saviour's love; bear the good tidings to lands afar off. I wish you to make timely arrangements, so as to move along quietly." I replied: "Dear brother, I do not wish to repine at my lot, but I have been thinking that thou art soon to be released from the conflict, and that I must remain still longer in the field, and may make some misstep and never reach thy glorious home." To which he replied, looking at me most impressively: "The dear Saviour will never leave thee; He will never leave thee, but when thy work is finished he will bring thee to meet me in heaven." This seemed a renewed evidence that the service was required, but so deep was my sense of frailty and entire inability to do the work that I could not believe that the Master would select me to go on such an important embassy, a service of such vast moment. The evidence had been very clear, but the feeling of unfitness for the work seemed to hedge up the way entirely, and I thought unless some person would come to me and tell me the Lord required it and would fit me for the work, I would not take a step. I thought I could not receive it but from some one clothed with gospel authority; and in looking over this class I selected dear Benjamin Seebohm, who I knew was somewhere in America. I was very much reduced in health, attributable to painful watchings and partings, for I slept little and had little appetite for food. Our monthly meeting day arrived, and, though my health was so frail that I had gotten out to meeting but little for some time, I felt an almost irresistible impression to go. I accordingly went. As I entered the door almost the first person I met was Benjamin Seebohm. I could not have been more surprised at the appearance of any person. In a moment my request rushed into my mind, and thought I, "I am caught now; I have done wrong in asking this sign, and may the Lord forgive me and in mercy overlook this presumption, and not grant the request unless it is His will, in condescension to my low estate." The meeting gathered under a great solemnity. It seemed to me that this weighty service fell upon it, and after a time of very solemn silence dear Benjamin arose and took up an individual case, and so exactly described my feelings and the service that no doubt remained but the Most High had sent him with this message to me. My soul was poured out like water and all my bones shook. I thought all present knew it was I, though not one but my husband had been apprised of it (it having been to me too sacred a thing to speak of). Indeed, I thought I was a spectacle for men and angels, while the thoughts of my heart were revealed before many witnesses and the work of the Lord proclaimed in demonstration of the Spirit and with power. He spoke most cheeringly--explained feelings of poverty as preparatory to this work, that the creature may be laid low in the dust and the blessed Name alone be magnified; said the Lord would abundantly furnish for every good word and work; that he reduced the creature that all dependence on itself might be entirely removed, and our confidence firmly fixed on Himself, who is the eternal foundation of wisdom and knowledge. I did not see Benjamin again until the day after my dear brother's funeral, when he came to our house and lodged. He had a meeting in the place, and precious and heart-searching was his gospel message. He likewise had a sweet opportunity with the mourners at the house of my lamented brother's widow. Long will this beloved Friend and his consoling heavenly testimony be remembered. _5th mo., Seventh day._ To-day is our select meeting, and my trembling spirit is loth to fly, and yet afraid to yield. Who, indeed, can know the agony of my spirit, save "He who rolls the planets in their spheres And counts the lowly mourner's tears?" I thought it best to name my prospect to my two oldest children, a son sixteen and a daughter twelve. The reply of both was, "Go, mother," though their full hearts would hardly allow utterance until tears lent relief. With me words were nearly lost in feeling as I stood on Jordan's bank again to tempt its fearful tide and deeper tread beneath its wave. I had sat down to compose my thoughts for meeting, with my grief-worn mother, by the side of the cradle where lay (all unconscious of the deep pangs that rent our hearts) my dear little Grelet, about ten months old. The rest had all come in and were seated around, when my dear James Parnell, as if fully conscious of what was passing in his mother's heart, took a book and commenced reading the following lines: "FORWARD AND FEAR NOT. "Forward and fear not; the billows may roll, But the power of Jehovah their rage can control. The waves are in anger, but their tumult shall cease; One word of His bidding will hush them to peace. "Forward and fear not; though trials be near, The Lord is thy refuge; whom shouldst thou fear? His staff is thy comfort, thy safeguard His rod; Be sober, be steadfast, and hope in thy God. "Forward and fear not; though false ones deride, The hand of the Highest is with thee to guide; His truth is thy buckler, His love is thy shield; On, then, to the combat--be sure not to yield. "Forward and fear not; be strong in the Lord, In the power of His promise, the trust of His word. Through the sea and the desert thy pathway may tend, But He who has saved thee will save to the end. "Forward and fear not; speed on the way, Why dost thou shrink from thy path in dismay? Thou tread'st but the path that thy Leader hath trod; Then forward and fear not, but trust in thy God." So appropriate and touching were the sentiments that we were brought into tenderness. I have had many fears that the weight of the important visit will not be fully valued by all my dear friends. My earnest prayer has been that they may feel its weight as I have done, if it is of the Lord; if not, that they may see it right to take the burden and release me. I have this day ventured in great fear and much trembling to open my prospect in the select meeting, and, to my trembling admiration, it fell with solemn weight and awfulness upon the assembly. The great Head of His own Church dispensed His holy power and presence and condescended to be a Spirit of judgment to those who sat in judgment, and an entire unity prevailed and cemented our hearts together in the strong bonds of gospel fellowship and love, and the great Name was held in reverence by those about Him. I feel somewhat relieved, and, having cast the burden upon my friends, the return of evening finds me trusting in my Saviour in sweet peace. To-day is our monthly meeting, my health very frail, and my spirit awfully bowed before the Most High. A sense of utter inability to proceed in this momentous subject brings my soul into the dust of death, but "I will look unto the hills from whence cometh my strength." I was unable to attend the first meeting, and in great bodily infirmity went to the last meeting to attend to the business before me. I was strengthened to stand up and to open to my dear friends the service on my mind for the Lord my God in a distant land. It fell with great impressiveness, and yet as the gentle dew, upon the solemn assembly, and all present seemed to have a sweet feeling of unity and sympathy. The mountains indeed flowed down at the presence of the Lord, at the presence of the God of Jacob. To-day our quarterly meeting convened, and it was signally owned by the holy Head. In and over the first meeting was a sweet solemnity, which lost none of its sweetness after separation to transact the weighty business of the Church, which to me never seemed more weighty. I was mercifully helped again to spread the important prospect before the Church, which received its full and cordial unity, and many living testimonials were given forth to the power and goodness of Him whose ways are not as our ways. My heart was reverently bowed before Him who makes a way through the roaring billows of discouragement and causeth the mountains to flee away at His presence before the footsteps of His little ones. _6th mo., Newport._ Arrived on the island last evening, and to-day I have to bring my prospect before the Church in its select yearly meeting capacity. While I have not a doubt but the great Master requires me to make the sacrifice of laying the burden upon my friends for their disposal, I feel a fervent desire that we may not be permitted to proceed unless it is the Lord's will. May it please Him in whom are the treasures of wisdom and knowledge to dispense the spirit of wisdom and judgment to the Church, and may the awfulness of the service, with a sense of His dread majesty, power, and holy cementing love, mantle the whole assembly! I took my seat with my friends as a weaned child, passive in His holy hands whose will only I wished to know and do, with great fear upon my spirit. The Lord helped me to declare unto the Church what seemed to be His holy will who declareth unto man what are His thoughts, who maketh the morning darkness and treadeth upon the high places of the earth. The Lord, the God of hosts, is His name. A solemn awe pervaded the assembly, and at the place of prayer each spirit seemed to wait until a door of communication was opened by Him who openeth and none can shut. The mind of the blessed Head through the eternal Spirit was given forth in many living testimonials. Great unity prevailed. The prophetic declaration seemed applicable: "God came from Teman and the Holy One from Mount Paran; His glory covered the heavens, and the earth was filled with His praise." My soul returns unto her rest with songs of joy. The endorsements placed upon our certificates by the select meeting of ministers and elders have been read to-day, which brought the subject again before the meeting, and it proved the calling of a solemn assembly and the charge reposed in the Church. Our beloved Benjamin Seebohm expressed, near the conclusion, that he had never seen the trust of disposing of these weighty affairs better redeemed than in the present instance. The convocation was concluded in reverent, fervent supplication by dear Lindley Murray Hoag, wherein near access was granted to the mercy-seat. We were committed to the holy keeping and safe guidance of the blessed Shepherd when we should be in distant lands across the great deep, and a rich heavenly blessing was implored upon our tender children, whom for Jesus' sake we must leave behind. This evening we had a youth's meeting, which, as it reflected no glory upon the creature, may have brought honor to the Creator. Our yearly meeting was highly blessed with the holy Presence, which continued through its several sittings. On leaving the island the language of my heart was, "Thou, O my Father, hast dealt very graciously with the last and least and most unworthy." But now comes the bitterness of death, to leave all most dear in this life and go with our lives in our hands at the bidding of the blessed Master; but my earnest prayer is that we may be cheerful givers, for the Lord loveth such. Every step thus far has been taken in the ability which He gives us. As He has ordered our steps, so may we be fully His. After reaching home we began making arrangements for embarking. It seemed best to break up the family, as no suitable person could be found to take care of the dear children, and we desired in this thing to be directed by Him who hath called us to His work. Our eldest son intends going to Haverford, a Friends' college in Pennsylvania, with which we are well satisfied. As he is at the tender age of sixteen, we had felt much solicitude as to his place and associates, and this prospect seems favorable, as he will have good company, and dear Marmaduke and Sarah Cope of Philadelphia have most kindly offered to take particular charge of him. Many have been the marks of divine regard to us and ours. We had often thought of Liberia on the western coast of Africa as our first step, but thought we must of necessity go by way of England; but in the midst of our arrangements we received intelligence that the Liberia packet was daily expected from the coast, and would return soon--that it was the safest and most comfortable conveyance, and that it would stop for a few days to two weeks at most of the principal ports on the African coast, so that we could lodge on board every night; which was, with little exception, an entire protection from the acclimating fever so dangerous to the life of a Northerner. We sought in this exigency divine direction, as we must leave so much sooner than we had planned. This brought the final parting so near that heart and flesh seemed to fail, and the dear children seemed much grieved and cast down at this sudden wrench, as it were, of heart from heart in the most tender and endearing relations. Our dear brother Cyrus seemed on the verge of eternity: we had hoped to have seen him quietly at rest ere we left our native land, and to have more time to visit our other beloved relatives. We were brought very low, even into the deeps, before the most high God, and there in fervent supplication raised our hearts to heaven in this our hour of need; and the watchword was, "Gird on thy sword, take thy helmet and march; the Lord hath need of thee now, for the enemy mustereth his host, and my soldiers must be in readiness." Impalpable mountains seemed to intervene, and high and fearful swelled Jordan's deep waves. In this great strait the language was intelligible: "Stand still and see the salvation of God." _7th mo. 14th, Second day._ We received a telegraphic despatch that the ship would sail the 20th, which would occur the next First day. Our time seemed limited indeed. To-day our monthly meeting occurred, and it was the greatest solemnity, I think, ever witnessed there. Then came the pangs of parting; the ties of consanguinity and gospel fellowship were being suddenly and unexpectedly torn asunder; we might meet again, but probably it was a final separation to some present. Our hearts were poured out like water before the Lord and for each other's welfare. Several touching testimonies were given forth--I might safely say as the Spirit gave utterance. Dear James Owen from Indiana delivered a solemn and pathetic message touching the case of our immediate departure. Our prayers were that our departure from those with whom we had so long endeavored to labor faithfully might stimulate them to greater dedication and faithfulness. _17th._ Making arrangements for our expedition, believing it to be a divine opening for us, entirely without our aid or concern. This P. M. we must leave and proceed as far as Vassalboro' to take the cars to-morrow morning. What tongue can tell my soul's anguish as the tears flowed fast from each child's almost bursting heart? Had it not been for the gentle accents of a Saviour's love, "It is I, be not afraid; leave thy children with me," I could not have left them. We took our dear children to the home of dear husband's father, two of whom--viz. Sybil Narcissa and Richard Mott--we intended to take to Providence School. There we must bid adieu to dear brother Cyrus, father and mother, brothers and sisters, and friends who had collected to take their leave. Here we had concluded to leave our little Susan Tabor, about three years and a half old, who would often look in my face and exclaim with a touching look that reached my very heart, "Don't leave me, mother, thy little daughter; I will be a nice little lady; thee won't leave me, will thee?" The strength of Israel was my confidence at that moment. Our dear brother took our hands, and after pronouncing the words, "The Lord be with you!" he whispered the last and sad farewell while all around were weeping. We then took an affectionate leave of all present, and left the sweet scenes of childhood for perhaps many a year. Then proceeded to our friend Daniel Runnel's, where was our Eli Grelet, not quite a year old. My heart yearned over this lovely boy, whom I must cast from me. Then we separated, taking the train for Providence School and dear James Parnell, who was to take us to the cars. We arrived at our esteemed friend Alton Pope's, where many Friends had collected, among whom were the Indiana Friends and dear John D. Lang and wife. We sat down together for a little time, and great tenderness and solemnity prevailed. I have lost two dear brothers and five sisters and an estimable father, but never did such hallowed, solemn, and unearthly feelings steal over my overcharged heart as on this memorable day. We rose early in the morning, and after taking leave of our much-loved friends, Alton and Theodate Pope, hastened to the cars. Dear James seemed more cheerful than I supposed he could be. At length we reached the dépôt, and the painful moment came to bid adieu to our dear child; his bosom swelled with emotion and fast fell the bitter tears. With a full heart I pronounced my last parting blessing: "Dearest boy, farewell; God bless and keep thee! I make this request as though it were my last: give thy heart to thy dear Saviour now in thy youthful days; He will comfort thy heart when we are far away." We arrived at New Bedford the same evening. On our way we paused a few minutes at Portland, met our dear friends R. and Sarah Horton, had a parting opportunity at the dépôt. Next stopped a few minutes at Lynn, and several friends accompanied us to Boston, where we had to wait about an hour, which was very pleasant, as the company of those dear friends was very cheering to us. They brought us several packages of useful and interesting things for our comfort on board of the ship. Our hearts were touched with grateful feelings for their Christian kindness. At New Bedford lives my only sister; her health is so frail it is not probable (should we return) that she will survive till that time. _18th._ This morning we took the cars for Providence. The children seemed to forget their trouble in their interest in new objects. We stopped about four hours in Providence, where we left the children and parted with our friends Joseph and Sybil Estes, who had accompanied us from Vassalboro'. We took our leave of the dear inmates of the Friends' school in a collective capacity--a very solemn season, our two little ones being with them. We bowed before the Most High and commended them to the care of Him whose mercy endures for ever. The dear children, with several others, went with us to the dépôt, where dear Samuel Boice and wife joined us. We gave a farewell glance to all. The dear little ones' faces were bathed in tears. Here it would be proper to say that we received the kindest attention from the superintendents, Silas and Sarah Cornell, and many others. These dear friends exerted themselves to procure some more needful things for us with great interest. Having so little time, and going by the way of Africa, we were lacking in some things which they most kindly supplied. May Heaven's blessings rest upon them! _7th mo. 20th, 1851, Chesapeake Bay, on board Liberia packet._ We arrived in Baltimore about ten o'clock last evening, and found the ship had left the wharf and stood off about eight miles waiting for us, and that we should be expected to be on board this morning. Having taken a solemn and affecting leave of the last familiar face in our native land, we retired to our room, and, though now separated from all most dear, we felt the loving presence of our Saviour. _21st._ Made some arrangements to fit up our little "floating home" to make it as agreeable as possible. Captain and officers very kind, and all seem inclined to try to make us happy. _22d._ Retired to our cabin after breakfast to read a portion of Scripture and to wait upon the Lord. I felt drawn to supplicate the throne of grace for all on board our frail bark, that the God of our lives would keep us in safety and bless and protect our precious children in our absence. Our time is mostly taken up in writing, as the pilot will return at the capes. Dear Eli is engaged a part of the day in teaching the emigrants to read, cipher, etc. We have some interesting conversation with them, and find them as a whole rather intelligent, and even pious. _24th._ Calms and head winds seem to be our daily portion, but the heavenly Pilot holds the ship and the winds in His holy hands. Teaching the emigrants and writing to our friends keep us busy; health comfortable. _26th._ To-day brisk wind; we expect to pass the capes. At six o'clock the pilot-boat came alongside and took off the pilot and a large package of letters. We shall not hear from home or have any means of sending intelligence until we reach Africa. _27th._ We behold another morning in safety. It is First day, but fearful has been the night. We had a thunder-shower with furious winds. The rain fell in torrents and the thunder rolled deep, while the vivid lightning seemed to envelop the ship in liquid fire. Our trembling vessel would dash into ocean's depths apparently, and then rise upon the mountain wave. We were brought to test ourselves whether we were willing to make our graves in the caverns of the deep or gird on the armor for the Lord's battles. To-day we entered the Gulf Stream. We are making ten miles an hour. We are so enfeebled with last night's rolling that we are neither of us able to sit up. The approach of night again fills us with apprehension. The night again stormy. We looked up in that hour of dismay and found an eye to pity and an arm to save. _29th._ Stormy night, exceedingly rough; not safe to stay in our berths. With loss of appetite we are somewhat reduced. Felt somewhat as Noah's weary dove that found no place of rest above the cheerless waters. _30th._ Boisterous weather still, but we are rapidly nearing Africa's distant coast. Our helpless souls hang on Thee. _31st._ Rather more calm. My dear Eli is improving, though still feeble. A number of sweet little birds cheered us to-day, following the ship some distance. I think that they deserve a better name than "Mother Carey's chickens." At eleven o'clock we took our seats in our cabin (it being meeting-day at home) to try and worship Him who remains with them. Our spirits refreshed in blessed communion. At the evening sacrifice we had a fresh assurance of the angel of the Lord's presence. Delightful evening, every sail spread with fair wind. At twelve o'clock, 1360 miles from Cape Henry. We feel our infirmities, but can sing of the Lord's judgement and mercies. _8th mo. 2d._ We have proceeded rapidly since leaving the capes; this is the seventh day since leaving them, and we have gone two thousand miles. Providence has sped us on our way. We find some very interesting persons among the emigrants, with whom we converse freely; we find them engaged to serve their God with diligence and love. _First day._ A most charming morning. At eleven o'clock we sat down in our little meeting. We have felt a very painful exercise since being on board this ship. Our souls have been lifted up to God alone, that He would order our service for Him among the inmates of the ship, and the time, not daring to move (whatever we may suffer with the burden upon our spirits) until the command is given: for this we wait in watchfulness and prayer. After meeting it seemed best to us to try for a meeting, and, no obstacle appearing, at the time appointed nearly all assembled, and the short silence was blessed with His presence who is invisible. With awfulness and fear we ventured to make known our requests, and our dependent souls were made joyful in the house of prayer. Great solemnity pervaded the assembly, and these desperate spirits seemed contrited and made to fear. We were comforted with the spirits of a little band of humble followers of the Lord in this meeting, whom doubtless the Saviour loves. So great was my relief after this meeting that the language of my soul was, "Return unto thy rest, for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee." Last night seemed sweet and peaceful. We heard neither oaths nor imprecations, with which our ears had been saluted many painful nights before our meeting. Fearfulness came upon us often when we heard the great Name blasphemed, and such angry threats that we thought there was great danger of their killing each other. A great change is apparent, especially with the captain. May the Ancient of Days be honored for His power! _5th._ This morning the ocean is very smooth, scarcely a breath to ruffle the blue. We have made little progress for two days. A sail has been just in sight since First day P. M. We have been a little suspicious of it. This morning we discovered a small boat approaching; there was considerable conjecture with regard to the business of the little messenger. She came alongside, containing six men, one of whom tremblingly ascended the side of the ship, assisted by a rope. He looked around, apparently with mingled emotions of hope and fear; his first idea must have been that we had a cargo of slaves. He was met with looks of kindness, and informed us that the first mate was ill and that he came to obtain some assistance. It seemed they had been as shy of us as we of them, but at length necessity had driven them to the hazardous attempt. We had a colored physician on board, but he seemed very unwilling to go with them, still fearing that some trick might be played upon us. My husband offered to go with them, for which my heart rejoiced, for I had felt a secret distress for them, and thought we might be becalmed for some good to them. The little boat left the ship, and had not rowed half the distance before a brisk fair wind arose and filled our flagging sails, and away we made for the disturbed vessel, and soon came alongside. The boat returned for medicine, etc. It afforded my dear Eli great satisfaction to give them a little assistance from our small stock of comforts. To nearly all of us it seemed a providential interposition. A strong breeze now wafts us on with thankful hearts, I trust. The ship proved to be a whaler from Provincetown, out seven months. They wished for some books, and we had the pleasure of furnishing them with several interesting books, tracts, and papers, with which they seemed delighted. To-day we take the trade-winds, so that we have a fair prospect of a quick voyage; for this we feel we depend on Him who commands the wind. It seems that all hearts on board try to manifest their kindness and respect. _6th._ Every sail filled with a delightful breeze. Were greatly refreshed together in reading and meditation upon Him who is our only crown of rejoicing in our low estate. Ability was granted to ask a blessing on the dear children. We have a very pleasant company--have not heard a profane word since the meeting. I never saw so great a change in a ship's crew. It is indeed the Lord's doings. Saw a nautilus to-day. It spread its thin sail to catch the rising breeze. The sailors call it a "Portuguese man-of-war." Dear Eli is quite seasick to-day. At eleven o'clock sat down with as many emigrants as could be comfortably seated in our cabin, to try to worship Him who graciously sustains us upon the rolling deep. It proved a season of heavenly communion. _8th mo. 3d, Sixth day_, lat. 33° 53' N., long. 36° W. A school of porpoises played round the ship for some time this morning. They seemed delighted at amusing us, jumping several feet out of the water and darting to and fro. We seemed nearing the shores of such intense interest to most on board, and, though a sea-life is not desirable, I do not feel anxious about reaching Africa. Great and fearful is our responsibility, and dangers seen and unseen are in this untrod path. May the God of our salvation have mercy upon us and direct our every step! _First day, 10th._ Unable to sit up this morning. Dear Eli sat by my birth during meeting-hour, and our hearts were raised in aspiration heavenward. P. M. Able to sit up toward evening, and we concluded that it would be best to try for a meeting, which collected a little after sunset under a clear sky and a full moon, all canvas filled. The moon shed a mild intermingled gleam through the shrouds of our gallant ship, and delightful indeed were our meditations. The silence was at length broken by dear Eli in a feeling testimony to the universality of divine grace. The people were encouraged to forsake their sins and come to Jesus the Saviour of the world. It was a sweet, heavenly season. We felt to tell them that it was not a light thing to be thus remembered by Him who rolls the planets in their spheres. A great change is apparent in all on board. Everything is almost as we could wish, compared with what it was when we came. May we do nothing to diminish the reputation of our beloved Society! The captain says that we are about six hundred miles from the coast of Africa in a straight line. _14th of 8th mo._ Saw a whale to-day: shall pass the tropic of Cancer to-night; chilly. About two days' sail from Cape Verde. _17th._ Cool and pleasant, very different from expectation in a tropical climate. I have been ill to-day; dear Eli somewhat better. It being First day, we were present in spirit with our friends at home in their meeting. Spoke a ship, and the captain and dear Eli took boat and went off to her. She proved to be the St. Paul, bound to Cowes. We sent a few lines home by her. _20th._ A dreadful storm is on the main, and our ship is like a leaf in the winds. Several sails are split, and we may lose all before morning. _21st._ My dear Eli is not able to sit up much, which saddens me. _25th._ But little progress. I do not feel much anxiety but for my dear Eli, who seems failing every day from loss of appetite and want of things to make him comfortable, and for the poor emigrants, many of whom suffer from the same causes. _26th._ This evening there is quite an excitement on board. My Eli discovered land; the captain thinks it may be Grand Cape Mount. The captain just called us on deck and a novel scene presented itself. Our ship seemed gliding through a stream of liquid fire, while each crested wave shed a beautiful silver light amid sparkling gems that bespangled the whole face of the deep. Thinking we might soon reach land, it seemed right to have another opportunity with the emigrants, which we obtained this P. M. We felt an impression that some one present would soon be taken home to rest in Jesus. It proved a satisfactory season, thankfully received by them. _28th._ This morning early we were saluted with the joyful intelligence that we were near Cape Mesurado. We hastened on deck, and once more beheld the "dark green robes of earth," which never seems so lovely as after a sea-voyage. The noble promontory is nearly covered with a thick forest, interwoven with luxuriant vines that hang in rich drapery from the branches of the trees, and the stately palm tree rears its lofty head high in air, like some tall cliff. It was Nature in her chastest charms arrayed. Soon my thoughts were diverted from this deeply interesting scene to one as novel as can well be imagined. The native canoes appeared, manned by natives without clothing. Soon the water seemed almost alive with them, and the air rang with strange sounds. We made ready to go on shore. I cannot describe my feelings at this moment, but, like Peter, I thought that I must call nothing common or unclean that God had cleansed. The captain, dear Eli, and I were soon seated in one of our boats manned by natives, and in a few minutes passed the bar in safety and reached the city of Monrovia, just in rear of the cape, and with grateful emotions set our feet on the shores of Africa. B. V. R. James welcomed us to the shore, and kindly invited us to go to his house and refresh ourselves. We proceeded up a gentle ascent through the city as far as his house--were pleasantly received; took breakfast and dined with them. Called on President Roberts and his wife, who received us cordially; delivered our papers and letters; they kindly invited us to call again and make our home with them if agreeable. Called also at James B. McGill's, a very interesting family, and returned before nightfall to our floating home. It has been a fine day, though in the midst of the rainy season. _29th._ Just returned from shore; had a pleasant day and a delightful walk. Took breakfast at James McGill's, who with his pleasant wife entertained us very cheerfully. Dined with Beverly Wilson, a Methodist minister, who with his wife interested us highly. Visited the Alexander high school, B. V. R. James teacher. It contained seventy scholars, fifty of whom were present. They reflected credit on their competent teacher by their advancement and circumspect demeanor. We thought them as good scholars as those of the same age in America. We imparted some religious instruction and suggested some trifling improvements, with which the pious teacher and pupils seemed pleased. One is our Master, even Christ, and all we are brethren. _30th._ Morning rainy; dear Eli has been ashore; thinks the place increases in interest every time he visits it. He has made two appointments for to-morrow, one at the Methodist and one at the Baptist house. _31st, First day._ Morning rainy, but we thought best to try and meet our appointments. Arrived in time, but got somewhat wet; changed clothes. We felt it to be no ordinary occasion as we passed through the throng to our seats and then mingled in sweet and sacred communion for the first time with dear brethren and sisters in a distant land, for whose souls we had long borne the burden of a dying Saviour's love. The silence was impressive, and the streams of that river that gladdens the heritage of God circulated sweetly through the assembly. The holy fervor of gospel love filled our hearts to the great abasedness of the creature. Ability was given us to show forth that living faith that works by love to the purifying of the heart, and to point out the difference between this saving faith and a dead faith that the world and its spirit will overcome. We were melted together as the heart of one man. The Lord reigned gloriously. At the close of this solemnity the people wished to get our hands, giving demonstrations of great joy at meeting us, and bidding us welcome to their shores with great blessing. Dined at James B. McGill's. Our afternoon meeting was increasingly interesting. We were led to explain the nature of that worship which only can be acceptable to God. Returned to our ship with the testimony sealed upon our heads. Not unto us, but unto Thy great Name, be all the honor. _9th mo. 1st._ Morning rainy; had to remain in the packet; evening more pleasant. Passed our time in writing, reading, etc. _9th mo. 2d, Third day._ Morning rainy; dear E. went ashore. He seems quite improved, which is very cheering. We feel quite at home on board, though far away dwell the hearts bound to us by the tenderest ties. _3d._ We went on shore and called on Sarah Smith, a pious colored woman who keeps a place of refreshment; then called on President Roberts and wife, and had a very interesting conversation on several subjects relative to the interest and welfare of the republic. The President was truly courteous and affable. In his manner there is an elegant simplicity adorned with Christian piety. He said, "I am truly thankful the Lord has sent you here, and for your prayers for us in your native land." His wife's highest ornament is piety, which is sweetly cherished in her gentle heart. After dinner, accompanied by the President and his wife, we repaired to the Presbyterian place of worship (a previous appointment). The house was crowded, but orderly and still. It was given us to deal very plainly with the people. _4th._ Raining; dear E. went on shore and visited a native town, with which he was much interested. I felt the privation of remaining in the ship; I was somewhat impatient at being confined in my cage-like cabin. The deck being very wet, I was somewhat circumscribed, but in settling up the day's accounts I did not feel fully satisfied, and my earnest prayer is that I may keep my mind stayed on the Lord. _5th._ Just returned from shore; have enjoyed the day much. Visited a private school taught by Georgianna Johnson, and suggested some improvements. Called on President Roberts and wife (they being directors of two or more female benevolent societies) to obtain their consent to meet those societies at their own time and place. We met them the following day, and had a very interesting conference. Suggested some improvements, such as ameliorating the condition of those immigrants, many of whom are destitute of employment or not willing to work, who lead a wretched life of indolence and consequently vice. The President said that it was a source of much solicitude to himself; he was fearful of the continuance of this state of things. We suggested a house of industry. This struck him pleasantly as the very antidote needed. Called at George R. Ellis's, who is a magistrate. We were kindly received. _6th._ Went on shore; had a very interesting opportunity with the Ladies' Association (some of the most intelligent females in Liberia). They managed their business in a correct and orderly manner, and by their records and accounts show that they are doing much for suffering humanity here. The emancipated slaves are sent here nearly penniless, except their portion of land, which is an unbroken forest, and six months' provisions, which are exhausted during the process of acclimating. The fever reduces them much. It is the judgment of the most intelligent residents of Liberia that it is best for the immigrants soon after their arrival to take up their farms and work a small portion of each day, clearing their land and planting sweet potatoes, and with the abundance of fruit growing around them they could live comfortably. This has been tried by some, and far less die. With the fever much depends on keeping up the courage; there is but little chance for those who abandon exercise. _7th._ We went on shore at an early hour; took breakfast at Uriah McGill's. Went to a First-day school containing ninety-four children, twenty-five of whom are natives; the latter are not able to read the Bible. At half-past two attended a meeting for the children. The Baptist house, being the largest, was selected, and was well filled; they were orderly and attentive. I trust impressions were made that will never be effaced. _8th._ E. went on shore. In the afternoon he returned with our valued friend James B. McGill and two colored ladies, with their servants, the latter going to Greenville, Sinon county. We left the shores of Monrovia with a comfortable evidence that our labors were acceptable to Him who had sent us forth. We were quite cheered with the prospect of saying that we had personal acquaintances in Liberia. _9th._ Anchored in Bassa Cove. Thank God for the blessings and mercies that have attended us on this embassy of love! _11th._ Came to anchor off Greenville. _13th._ Went on shore and made arrangements for meetings--in the morning at the Baptist house, in the afternoon at the Presbyterian. The Methodist minister cordially invited us to attend the afternoon sitting of the quarterly meeting, saying the meeting should be at our disposal to worship in our own way. We were refreshed in the Lord. _First day, 14th._ Had good meetings. At the Presbyterian house many stood about, not able to get inside. We were blessed together in heavenly places. Dined at Judge Murray's. _Second day, 15th._ Set sail for Cape Palmas; anchored on account of head winds. I fear we cannot visit the town, Settra Kroo. _16th._ We are in sight of Settra Kroo still. May the Lord keep us in safety! _17th._ At anchor off Nasma Kroo; went on shore; called at the only two colonist houses there, then visited the native village. Here a strange scene presented itself: the females were entirely naked, except a small covering about the loins, mothers with their naked infants on their backs, from one month old and upward; lasses with their skin painted indelible black and shining with palm oil, with which they are besmeared, came in crowds and surrounded us, gazing at me, crying, "White mammy;" others ran from us with fear. We gave the mothers some crackers, and soon every one that could get a child (sometimes quite as big as the pretended mother herself) had one packed on her back to get a cracker also. They are a very shrewd people--fine forms and well-proportioned. We visited the queen, who has a separate room in the king's house. He was absent; she received us quite graciously: her body was striped with white paint. We thought best to try for a meeting. The king's house was selected. One of the natives undertook to notify the meeting. He passed on before us, stopping at each house, and very soon the people might be seen running from every point toward the house where they were to have a "God palaver," as they call it. A number gathered. A native named Giando undertook to interpret for us. They were attentive--promised with clamorous acclamation that they would do as we told them. The meeting was relieving, and we have great cause for gratitude. Before we left the village several females had painted their faces white, which made them look ridiculous in the extreme. _18th._ Set sail for Cape Palmas again. Came to anchor after sunset. _19th._ Went on shore; called at Dr. McGill's; they received us pleasantly. He occupies the vacancy made by the lamented death of Governor Rupworm. Dined at F. Burns's, the Methodist minister. We were interested in the information they gave us of the colony and natives. The latter have three villages very compact, and with all the heathen customs, the most disgusting of which is their unclad forms that are seen in every direction, forming a striking contrast to the neat dwellings, decent clothing, and intelligent countenances of the colonists. On the outermost point of this high promontory is a lighthouse, and about it the colonists' houses stand surrounded with fine gardens and the beautiful African fruit trees. Made an appointment at the Methodist house for to-morrow. _20th._ We have not been able to meet our appointment, the swell is so great. We have been somewhat disappointed in not getting to town, but are sure that all is well under the supervision of Him who commands the elements in His own consummate wisdom. _21st, First day._ Beautiful morning; got safely on shore, and had a large meeting in the Methodist house. In the sweet covenant of peace and joy the meeting closed. _22nd._ Got on shore, and rode in a small carriage drawn by natives about two miles into the country, accompanied by Dr. McGill and his amiable wife. Delighted with the scenery. The dwellings of the colonists are comfortable, but most of their farms are uncultivated; very rich soil. We have a strong apology to make for the indolence in Africa: most of the settlers hitherto are emancipated slaves, worn out with hard service in the land of oppression, from which they have been sent after their spirits and strength are wasted by unrequited toil. Then they meet this enervating climate. A number of energetic husbandmen should be sent out with every colony to inspire them. Manual-labor schools would doubtless succeed here, but the present operations must fail to arrive at the happy results anticipated by the philanthropists. _23d._ Went on shore and had a most interesting meeting with the children. Many youthful eyes were bedewed with tears as they heard the glad tidings of a Saviour's love. _24th._ Had a meeting at the Episcopal house. The Lord was with us. We gave books and tracts. _25th._ We were saddened by the conviction that some of us would meet no more on earth. We left Cape Palmas with an additional interest for Africa. We feel that we are only the pioneers--that the Lord will send yet more honorable members of his household to this land. _27th._ Very weak. Came to anchor off Sinon. My E. went on shore, but I thought best to remain, write, and arrange for to-morrow. E. returned wearied, but much delighted with his excursion into the country. _28th._ Went early on shore, and, taking our vessel's boat and crew, proceeded up the Sinon River about two miles to a colonist settlement. Our meeting was well attended and the word was heard with gladness. We walked in a footpath some distance in a smart shower, and were wet and much fatigued. Rested and dried our clothes a little before the meeting. The people more industrious than any we have seen before in Liberia. _30th._ Went on shore; had a meeting in the Baptist house. It was a final parting and a heavenly season. No doubt that we shall have the prayers of these dear people. _10th mo. 3d._ Anchored this P. M. off Bassa. _4th._ Went on shore, but with much difficulty, it being the worst bar on the coast. We proceeded along the coast until we found a place to land in safety. The natives managed with great skill, and as soon as we came near land they sprang into the water and caught me, and in a minute set me down high and dry, seemingly highly gratified, exclaiming "Mammy no wet." We called at a little cabin and got a cup of tea made, and when the rain subsided we proceeded to the town. Beautiful country, covered with orange trees and guava, but farms sadly neglected. I think the plough is needed as much as missionary labors, for without the former the latter cannot accomplish much. P. M. Very rainy; had a ride in a hammock, or rather a substitute for one--a piece of native cloth with the ends fastened together with ropes, and a pole passed through loops; the poles rested on the natives' shoulders. It was placed on the ground for me to step in and lie down, but I begged the privilege of walking, which was refused, as it would injure my health, for the rain was pouring. I did not like it, although I did not get wet. The idea of a bier was constantly presenting itself, together with the fear that it was too great a burden for the poor natives. A terrible storm came up on our way back to the ship, and we nearly lost our lives in the angry waves. _5th, First day._ Had a meeting in the evening on board, as it was very rainy. In retirement this day we could say with the Psalmist, "How precious are thy thoughts unto me!" _7th._ Went ashore and had a meeting at Edina, on the north side of the St. John's River. It proved a memorable solemnity. _8th._ Went on shore and had a meeting on the south side of the St. John's, at Bassa. The blessed Head of the Church was pleased to feed the hungering multitudes through His poor instruments. A number collected to witness our departure, and we took an affectionate leave of them, mingled with sadness, on our final departure from Bassa Cove. Set sail about five o'clock with a brisk wind, which would take us to Monrovia by sunrise, but it soon became calm, and we came to anchor. The Lord knows what is best. _9th._ We are quite anxious as we approach Monrovia, for here we must decide whether to remain in Africa and wait a passage to England (should none offer before the packet leaves), or return to Boston and thence embark to Liverpool. I trust we are resigned to either as the Lord wills. _10th._ Anchored off Cape Mesurado. Dear Eli went on shore and found letters from home. We read them together with much joy, as they contained intelligence that all was well with the dear children and those at home. Boundless is our debt of gratitude. One of the immigrants who was in good health at the time of our last meeting on board is dead. We learned that she died in peace, but was cruelly treated by her husband. _11th._ Went on shore accompanied by the President's wife. I took a bundle of tracts and visited all the sick and infirm, distributing tracts and imparting such messages of gospel love as were given me. _First day, 12th._ Went on shore quite comfortably, although it was wet, and attended a meeting at the Baptist house. Our meetings here have been signally blessed. Truly the Lord's name is great in Zion. _13th._ Rainy, but got on shore, and made calls and distributed tracts. No way opens yet for Sierra Leone. We are wholly dependent on Him who makes a way. _14th._ Called at U. McGill's, J. B. McGill's, Beverley Willson's. I then distributed tracts, and I think that I never saw so much gratitude manifested in any part of the world I ever visited. As I passed their little cots they followed me in numbers; even children joined, holding out their hands begging for a tract. At length all were gone, but a few more on board. _15th._ Dear Eli went up the river St Paul, and visited New Georgia, Upper and Lower Caldwell, Virginia, and Kentucky. I spent the day making calls and giving tracts. _17th._ It is a time of seeking the Lord among the people. The youth are flocking to the Saviour. May a glorious accession be made to the militant Church from Africa! _19th._ Went on shore, and had a meeting at the Methodist house, and it was a solemn occasion, as it was our final meeting. _20th._ Went on shore for the last time, as the ship would sail at three o'clock. Made several calls, one on a sick immigrant from Antigua. Has been sick seven months, reduced to a skeleton; said he had a wife and two children in his native land. As he spoke of them his eyes filled with tears, and "God's will be done!" fell from his trembling lips. I went with some ladies to the highest point of this commanding promontory. Had a fine view of the town and mountains toward the interior. We met many a smiling face and heard many a "Thank you" as we stopped at the little cots to distribute tracts. The Liberians are very anxious to get these little messengers, and read them with interest. We hope they may be a blessing to them. I handed one to an aged woman, who clasped it to her bosom and exclaimed, "The Lord bless you! I will keep it to read while I live, and when I die I will have it put into my coffin." We have left Monrovia, and as the land recedes from view the pangs of separation from many, if not all, are keenly realized, not only by us, but by the group on shore. But as the clouds dispersed around the setting sun his last sweet rays rested upon the rich foliage, and then, veiling his face in a mantle of crimson clouds, withdrew. We leave Africa with sheaves of peace. _21st._ Made little progress to-day. Though our returning in the ship is very unexpected, yet all is peace, and it seems to us to be in the will of Him who brought us in safety across the mighty deep. No way has opened for us to go to Sierra Leone or England. We intend to return to America (if no new opening appears) and embark at Boston for Liverpool. In this way we may see our little ones; which seems almost too great a favor. We have thoughts of stopping at St. Thomas, and thence prosecuting our contemplated visit among the islands, if we can make an arrangement with the captain that will answer and it seems right. _22d._ Delightful weather. This morning in silent waiting before the Lord He gave us to feel His holy presence near, and an assurance that He would still lead us and instruct us. _23d._ The captain concludes to leave us at St. Thomas if we desire it. We had looked toward home, but the prospect seems somewhat like closing up. The will of the Lord be done! Some swallows appeared this morning and flew into the cabin. They lingered about all day. They may be emigrants from cold New England's clime. They brought with them sweet thoughts of scenes and lands far over the blue depths of ocean. _28th._ Clear weather. Think it may be best to abandon the thought of returning home, and stop at St. Thomas, one of the West Indies, and commence our next labors. This seems a favorable opening, for a Northern tour will be too great a change of climate. My health seems greatly improved by a warm climate. _30th, First day._ We sat down for meeting together, it being meeting-day at home. We felt as the disciples journeying toward Emmaus; we felt our hearts warmed and tendered together. _31st._ St. Thomas is in our minds' view, but whether we shall get there or not lies in the bosom of futurity. It will probably take two weeks longer to reach there if the ship touches it. Our daily prayer is to be directed aright. _11th mo. 1st._ Dear Eli is much better, and my health is quite good. The cook is quite sick; I fear he will not recover. He is in great distress both of mind and body. How wise to prepare for such an awful time in health! _2d._ Last evening we read a chapter by the bedside of the distressed sailor. My heart was poured out in prayer. _3d._ We are sailing ten knots an hour toward our native land. The captain does not think, on further reflection, that he can consistently stop at St. Thomas. We had given up to go if the way had been clear, and therefore think the hand of the Lord is in it. He will accept the will for the deed. The cook seems recovering, and truly penitent. He told me that a testimony delivered at our last meeting on board was for him. He has been previously a very profane and wicked man. This is a fresh instance of the mercy and longsuffering of the Lord. _6th._ We are approaching our native land with the sheaves of peace, but feeling still bound to the work, not knowing the things that may await us there. May my whole life be dedicated to His service who has so remarkably blessed my going out and coming in! _20th._ The captain concludes to set his course for Baltimore, hoping to reach Cape Henry before our stores fail. _9th._ About ten o'clock a pilot-boat came alongside and left a pilot. Providence permitting, we may soon set our feet on the wharf at Baltimore. Soon we must bid adieu to our home upon the ocean. We are encouraged with the regular and sober deportment of all on board, and, though our passage has been a protracted one, we do not regret it, while we have beheld with thankfulness the operation of the Lord's hand upon the crew of our brave ship, to which, with its inmates, we shall now bid adieu with emotions of gladness and regret. Oh may all that have sailed together here anchor at last in the kingdom of God! Farewell! * * * * * Soon after their return Eli Jones wrote an article for the _Friends' Review_ setting forth the conditions of this African colony, and recommending that some more work be done to help these enterprising freedmen and the less enlightened native tribes within the republic of Liberia. The article was reprinted, and was read by many. Still later, while at work in North Carolina, he received a call from the president of the African Colonization Society to attend one of their meetings in Washington, which he accordingly did. As he entered the hall where the exercises were being held a gentleman was delivering a discourse in which he endeavored to show the impossibility of an equality between negroes and white men, and consequently the hazardousness of the experiment of allowing them to rule themselves. The chairman then announced that the next speaker was to have been Eli Jones, but that he had not yet seen him. To his surprise, a man rose in the back of the hall, threw off his overcoat, and came to the platform. He gave his name as the one called for, and began to give his knowledge and opinion of Liberian colonization. He took as his text the remark of the former speaker, saying that he as a landowner and tiller of the soil went from Maine to Liberia, where he stood on an equality with the landowners there; but as he came in the presence of President Roberts there was not an equality, since he, the white man, stood below the vigorous, wise, strong-minded colored President of the republic. From that he spoke for an hour feelingly and emphatically on the excellence of the work going on in Africa, at the same time impressing the need of further aid. CHAPTER VII. _WORK IN ENGLAND AND IRELAND._ "Their single aim the purpose to fulfil Of truth from day to day; Simply obedient to its guiding will, They held their pilgrim way. Yet dream not hence the beautiful and old Were wasted on their sight Who in the school of Christ had learned to hold All outward things aright." WHITTIER. Eli and Sybil Jones reached Baltimore in the middle of winter, and experienced the joy of being once more among Friends and in their own loved country. Having been kept and continually supported to accomplish their work, they now were filled with thanksgiving to Him whose pillar of cloud and fire had gone before them by day and by night, and they were prepared in spirit for the still longer journey which was before them. They visited friends and relatives on their way to Maine, and were everywhere joyfully received. Their children had all passed the time of their absence pleasantly, and had gained in mental and physical growth. It was an interesting sight when their townsmen met to welcome them home. One can see them in the monthly meeting, which was held at this time. Many who came but seldom, rode over the hills that day to sit down on the unpainted seats and listen if they did not worship, and an unusually large number were present when the hushed stillness told that meeting had begun. One father and the mothers of the two ministers were there, brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts; many who had always known them, and some who had never seen them,--all bowed their heads before the Mighty One, and "Low breathings stole Of a diviner life from soul to soul, Baptizing in one tender thought the whole." Even the cold-hearted felt a warmth steal in, and the low-spirited were exalted in their minds. No one who sat under that silence doubted that the Lord was speaking to "the spirit's finer ear;" and when the seal was broken and the moved lips opened in vocal thanksgiving many hearts rose in harmony. A brief, quiet prayer from a full heart, when the spirit of the whole meeting rises with it, reaches where eye cannot see, and comes not back void. Words are human, but power is divine. We can see Eli Jones rise from his wonted seat and slowly speak his text: "When the poor and needy seek water and there is none, and their tongue faileth for thirst, I the Lord will hear them, I the God of Israel will not forsake them. I will open rivers in high places, and fountains in the midst of the valleys. I will make the wilderness a pool of water, and the dry land springs of water." His companion sees many before her who have grown cold while they have been answering the call from Ethiopia, and sweetly she asks them to whom they will go if they forsake Him who alone has the words of eternal life. Together they sound the alarm and call upon their friends and neighbors to stand firm and quit them like men while they go out again to reap in other vineyards. At the close of this day Sybil Jones could say, "He brought us unto his banqueting-house, and the banner over us was Love." Once more they separated from home-friends and took their little children to West Hill, N. J., the lovely home of Eliza P. Gurney, who had asked that the two youngest boys, Eli Grelet and Richard Mott, might be left with her during their parents' absence.... On First day they attended the meeting at Burlington, and sat in company with Stephen Grelet and Richard Mott, for whom the boys had been named. Stephen Grelet, that great apostle, who had given messages from the King of kings to potentates and princes in all the countries of Europe, who had shown men's equality by holding his finger to the Pope's extended finger, and who was now waiting to be ushered into another and a higher court, addressed them thus: "The Lord has provided for your children in your absence, and thus given striking demonstration of His love to you; and now this testimony is applicable to you, my dear friends: 'I will be with thee whithersoever thou goest, and will guide thee with mine eye, and afterward receive thee into glory;' so go, dear friends, cheerfully, for the Lord will be your all-sufficient Helper." After visiting their other children, at Haverford College and at Providence, they finally sailed from Boston the 31st of 3d mo. on the steamer "Niagara" for Liverpool. A goodly company of Friends from Lynn and elsewhere were on the wharf to wave them adieu. It was an uneventful passage, except that an iceberg was discovered exactly in their course just in time to turn the ship from the danger. Sybil Jones writes of it: "I got on deck while it was in full view, and gazed with wonder and delight upon this magnificent frosty traveller from the frigid North to milder skies. It seemed like an island all of light consolidated into form, or as a cathedral whose stately spires pierced the eternal sunshine. The first rays of the morning sun gave to its pure, spotless whiteness a brilliancy and beauty that seemed almost of heavenly extraction. It reminded us of the infinitely more splendid and soul-ravishing charms of nature's God and heaven's eternal King, of whose mercy it seemed the white-robed harbinger." On their return voyage, the ship, sailing at a rapid rate in a dense fog, found itself almost upon a gigantic iceberg, a mighty pyramid of ice. It seemed to all on board that the ship must be crushed. An infidel who was a fellow-passenger hurried on deck and cried out, "In an hour we shall all be lost, but let us die like philosophers."--"No," said Sybil Jones, rising to her feet; "if we are to meet death, let us do it as Christians." In God's goodness all were spared. They were delighted with their first sight of England, to find such abundant verdure instead of the snow and ice which they left on the hills of New England, and they were more delighted still to find warm hearts waiting for them, among whom was Benjamin Seebohm, who had been a former messenger of good to them. It was nearly time for Dublin yearly meeting to begin, and they crossed over to Ireland to attend it. This was an occasion of great interest, and the two American Friends had weighty service to perform; but Sybil Jones was taken ill with severe irritation of the spine while the meeting was still in session. She finally found relief for that time, and was able to attend some of the meetings. Their friend Mary James Lecky was always ready to attend to their comfort, and they did not want for pleasant homes. Their visit to Balitore is thus described: "We left for Balitore in the comfortable coach of our dear friend Mary J. Lecky. Our route was most pleasant and interesting--beautiful groves, rich fields of waving grain, with herds and flocks scattered over the flowery lawns; stately dwellings and white cottages, with now and then some ancient castle in ruins, wearing a vesture of deep green woven by the evergreen ivy, which flourishes in rich foliage on its time-beaten walls and dilapidated towers. The golden furze may be seen in abundance on hill and dale, and is a lovely ornament to the variegated scene. The hedges that skirt the way are bespangled with yellow and crimson primroses, bluebells, violets, and many other little wild flowers, forming a radiant wreath entwined with the graceful ivy. We admired the scene, and talked much of Erin, the green isle of the ocean. At one o'clock we arrived at Balitore, or, as it is sometimes called, the 'Classic Vale.' Dear Elizabeth Barrington--the 'Princess Elizabeth,' as she is sometimes called--gave us a cordial welcome. The charms of this little village, loveliest of the plain, are sweetly enhanced by the memory of departed worth, talent, genius, virtue and piety which once flourished here."[5] [5] It was at Balitore that Edmund Burke received his early education, at the Friends' school conducted by Richard Shackleton, to whom he often wrote and attributed much of his careful training. Day after day they attended meetings and visited families, though Sybil Jones was in such a state of health that it was merely her will which kept her from bed; she continually spoke of the "frailty of the tabernacle," but the strength of the spirit forced the body to obey and do its part of the work; and as the time drew near for the London yearly meeting they turned thither. Everywhere they directed their eyes a new beauty of landscape, a majesty of mountain, or a charm of antiquity met them; but Sybil Jones was forced to close her eyes on all this outward loveliness, and as as she rode along, reclining on her seat, she comforted herself "in the presence of Him who verily knows what is best for us; health and life, with every other blessing, are in his hand." The meeting began on the 17th of Fifth month, and now for the first time in their lives they were sitting in the parent yearly meeting of the Society of Friends. For more than two hundred years the Friends of Great Britain have annually assembled in London, and the power of these meetings is wonderful. Some of England's greatest minds have sat in silent waiting there, and have raised their voices in regard to the proper ordering of the household of faith, and some of her lowliest sons and daughters have not been hindered from sitting in the same seat with these great lights, and their words have been listened to with equal deference. English conservatism has kept this meeting much as it was in earlier days, while broad ideas and liberal notions have been disseminated, so that no stiff cloak of formalism has settled over the body. The Spirit which giveth life is sought for, but the iron yoke of the letter does not rest upon them. The voices of "just men made perfect" have, in all the generations since George Fox, pleaded from full hearts that the Lord might have here a "peculiar people," separated from the world and satisfied with the one honor of being "fellow-citizens with the saints." Eli and Sybil Jones had many comforting sessions in this meeting, and they not only did the work which was in their hearts for the strengthening of those assembled, but they were themselves made more strong and more useful members of the Church for this work in the harmonious company of united English Friends. The effect of their utterances and the impressiveness of the gathering were beautifully and eloquently described by Elihu Burritt, who was present, and who was afterward associated with Eli Jones in the Peace cause. This passage is from his diary, dated the 21st of fifth month: THE QUAKER MEETING. "LONDON, May 21, 1852. "This has been a day of deep interest. In the morning I went to the meeting of public worship in the Devonshire House, which was filled to the utmost capacity by Friends from every part of the kingdom. As a spectacle no human congregation can surpass it in impressive physiognomy. The immaculate purity of the women's dresses as they sat a mountain multitude of shining ones, arising in long quiet ranks from the floor to the gallery on one side of the house, the grave mountain of sedate and thoughtful men on the other, presented an aspect more suggestive of the assemblies of the New Jerusalem than any earthly congregation I had ever seen. In a brief time the last-comers had found seats or standing-places, and then a deep devotional silence settled down upon the great assembly like an overshadowing presence from heaven. The still, upbreathing prayer of a thousand hearts seemed to ascend like incense, and the communion of the Holy Spirit to descend like a dove, whispering its benediction and touching to sweeter listening serenity those faces so calm with the breath of its wing; and out of the deep silence of this unspoken devotion arose one, with trembling meekness, to unburden the heart of a few brief message-words to which it feared to withhold utterance, lest it should sin against the inspiration that made it burn with them. From another part of the house arose the quavering voice of prayer, short, but full of the earnest emotion of supplication and humble utterance of faith and thanksgiving. Then moments of deeper silence followed, as if all the faculties of the mind and all the senses of the physical being had descended into the soul's inner temple to listen to and wait for the voice of the Spirit of God. How impressive was the heart-worship of those silent moments! There was something solemn beyond description in the spectacle of a thousand persons of all ages so immovable that they seemed scarcely to breathe. The 'Ministers' Gallery' was occupied by a long rank of the teachers, the fathers, and the mothers of the Society from different parts of the country, who seemed to preside over this communion like shepherds sitting down before their quiet flocks by the still waters of salvation. In the centre sat a man and a woman a little past the meridian of life, and apparently strangers in the great congregation. The former had an American look, which was perceptible even to the opposite extremity of the building, and when he slowly arose out of the deep silence his first words confirmed that impression. They were words fitly spoken and solemn, but uttered with such a nasal intonation as I never heard before, even in New England. At first and for a few minutes I felt it doubtful whether the unpleasant influence of this aggravated peculiarity would not prevent his words of exhortation from having salutary effect upon the minds of the listening assembly. But as his words seemed to flow and warm with increasing unction, little by little they cleared up from that nasal cadence and rounded into more oral enunciation. Little by little they strengthened with the power of truth, and the truth made them free and flowing. His whole person, so impassive and unsympathetic at first, entered into the enunciation of these truths with constantly increasing animation, and his address grew more and more impressive to the last. He spoke nearly an hour, and when he sat down and buried his fingers under his broad-brimmed hat, and the congregation settled down into the profound quiet of serene meditation, I doubted whether it would be broken again by the voice of another exhortation. But in the course of a few minutes the form of the woman who sat by his side--and it was his wife--might be perceived in a state of half-suppressed emotion, as if demurring to the inward monitor of the Spirit that bade her arise and speak to such an assembly. It might well have seemed formidable to the nature of a meek and delicate woman. She seemed to struggle involuntarily with the conviction of duty, and to incline her person slightly toward her husband, as if the tried attributes of her heart leaned for strength on the sympathy of his, as well as on the wisdom she waited from above. Then she arose calm, meek, and graceful. Her first words dropped with the sweetest enunciation upon the still congregation, and were heard in every part of the house, though they were uttered in a tone seemingly but little above a whisper. Each succeeding sentence warbled into new beauty and fulness of silvery cadence. The burden of her spirit was the life of religion in the heart as contrasted with its mere language on the tongue, or what it was to be really and truly a disciple of Jesus Christ. Having meekly stated the subject which had occupied her meditations and which she had felt constrained to revive in the hearing of the congregation before her, she said: 'And now, in my simple way and in the brief words which may be given me, let me enter with you into the examination of this question.' At the first word of this sentence she loosed the fastenings of her bonnet, and at the last handed it down to her husband with a grace indescribable. There was something very impressive in the act as well as in the manner in which it was performed, as if she uncovered her head involuntarily in reverence to that vision of divine truth unsealed to her waiting eyes. And in her eyes it seemed to beam with a heavenly light serene, and in her heart to burn with holy inspiration and meekness, and to touch her lips and every gentle movement of her person with an expression eloquent, solemn, beautiful as her words fell upon the rapt assembly from the heaven of tremulous flute-like music with which her voice filled the building. Like a stream welling from Mount Hermon and winding its way to the sea, so flowed the melodious current of her message, now meandering among the unopened flowers of rhymeless poetry, now through green pastures of salvation, where the Good Shepherd was bearing in his bosom the tender lambs of his flock; next it took the force of lofty diction, and fell, as it were, in cascades of silvery eloquence, but solemn, slow, and searching, adown the rocks and ravines of Sinai; then out like a sweet-rolling river of music into the wilderness, where the Prodigal Son, with the husks of his poverty clutched in his lean hands, sat in tearful meditation upon his father's home and his father's love. More than a thousand persons seemed to hold their breath as they listened to that meek, delicate woman, whose lips appeared to be touched to an utterance almost divine. I never saw an assembly so moved, but so subdued into motionless meditation. And the serene and solemn silence deepened to stillness more profound when she ceased speaking. In the midst of these still moments she knelt in prayer. As the first word of her supplication arose the men, who had worn their hats while she spoke to them, reverently uncovered their heads as she kneeled to speak to God. Long and fervent was her supplication. Her clear sweet voice trembled with the burden of the petition with which her soul seemed to ascend into the Holy of holies, and to plead there with Jacob's Father for a blessing upon all encircled within that immediate presence. She arose from her knees, and the great congregation sat down, as it were under the shadow of that prayer to silence more deep and devotional. This lasted a few minutes, when two elders of the Society, seated in the centre of the 'Ministers' Gallery,' shook hands with each other, and were followed by other couples in each direction as a kind of mutual benediction as well as a signal that meeting was terminated.--At this simple sign the whole congregation arose and quietly left the house. Such was the experience of a couple of hours in a Quaker meeting." The last day of the yearly meeting Sybil Jones spoke out her feelings in regard to total abstinence. She was probably the first person who publicly stated to an English audience the necessity of taking such high ground to overcome the evils of intemperance, and, though much sympathy was expressed, there was a deep feeling on the part of some against her expressed views. She writes: "This day has concluded the yearly meeting; my spirit was bound down under a weight of exercise, but divine help came and enabled me to testify the gospel of the grace of God in a way most humiliating to the creature; but some, it may be hoped, were led to examine how far their example of righteousness and temperance had reached to give a check to the crying sin of this nation, that not only their husbands and brothers be influenced by their example, but also their neighbors, and whether there was not something for them to do in this matter, even total abstinence if it may be required. When this was done my peace abounded, and I hope no harm was done. Many dear Friends seemed to feel much sympathy, and a precious solemnity came over us." For weeks after leaving London these "two recruiting-officers labored hard to enlist soldiers for their Captain" through the northern counties of Ireland. Not only Friends and other Protestants came to hear them, but often there were priests present at the meetings, and many Irish Catholics heard them preach the gospel. Sometimes Sybil Jones seemed to be "standing on the verge of eternity," but as the body grew frail it seemed the soul waxed strong and her messages became more impressive. All she saw as they rode from one village to another attracted her attention, and she rejoiced that the Creator had made the earth so fair, while she was brought into great sadness at the poverty and oppression of the unfortunate, and the lack of vital religion which was often found. There was great need of wisdom in telling the whole truth to her mixed audiences, to have it come to them as the one thing they needed to make their unhappy lives happy, and her soul went out in her utterances to their souls and stirred them to believe. There was hardly a town which they visited where error had not been taught and superstitions ruled the hearts of the people, and many who had suffered deep wrongs felt that there was no justice in the earth. To such it was announced, "Light is sown for the righteous, and gladness for the upright in heart;" but they felt that "nothing short of the omnipotent Arm could deliver these souls from popish thraldom and make them free through the power of Jesus Christ." Mary James Lecky continued to accompany them, and she was an almost indispensable companion, providing for their comfort and safety and opening ways for their service which to them alone would have been closed; and as Sybil Jones was under a daily weight of infirmity, she was a strong arm to lean upon, and encouraged her as a sister when her heart grew weak from the abundance of trial.[6] [6] Mary James Lecky filled her carriage with loaves of bread from the baker's, and as they drove along roads where poverty was everywhere terribly present, she distributed her stores for the bodily needs of the poor suffering peasants, while Sybil Jones earnestly told them of the Bread of life. In the original meaning of the word, "lady" is the _bread-giver_. Did ever two more worthy the name go out to fulfil the duties belonging to that title? A few passages from their journal will tell much of their earnest efforts and ceaseless longings to help this people, and also the difficulties with which they were beset. At Galway, once a famous seaport town on the west coast of Ireland, they write: "_9th mo. 15th._ Called at an early hour upon the vicar, an Episcopal clergyman, D'Arcy, who attended our meeting and kindly invited us to come to his residence and he would take us to the school and make way for any religious service to which we felt called. He received us heartily and entered into the plans we wished to execute. He accompanied us, with his amiable wife, to the asylum for aged females and to the school. We had service for Him who sent us, much to our comfort, and, we may trust, to their edification. The dear children listened with delight and interest to all that was offered, and many appeared tender. They are improving finely and getting a good knowledge of the Scriptures, which may be of lasting benefit to them; but oh the hunger and rags were apparent enough to pain the hardest heart. Our company distributed some relief among them as seemed most prudent; the evil might be wholly remedied by giving them work and a fair compensation. The Irish are not naturally idle; there is abundant proof to the contrary. "_16th, Fifth day._ This morning visited the poor-house and school connected with it; all neat and orderly, good improvement; about thirteen hundred inmates. We had the children collected for religious service, and it was a good time. They were mostly Roman Catholics. They were serious and seemed contrited." "_17th._ Two friends with my Eli called on the Roman priest and informed him of our intention to hold a meeting for the inhabitants; he was civil, but said none of his people would attend." At another time, while they were in the city of Galway, Eli Jones was told that he would be stoned by the Catholics if he attempted to preach. He at once called on the priest, told him that he was an American, and obtained a promise from him that his people should be allowed to come to the meeting that evening. Before a large audience of the most bigoted Roman Catholics he arose to preach the gospel of redeeming love. It was the part of wisdom to gain his hearers, for their souls could not be reached until the barrier of their prejudice was broken down. He began: "A virgin shall conceive and bring forth a son, and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The Everlasting Father, and the Prince of Peace;" "Hail, thou that art highly favored, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women;" "They found Joseph and Mary and the babe." After hearing these passages they were all ready to listen to him, and then, as he says, "I soon left the _mother_ and talked to them of the _child_." "_The 20th, at Conamarra._ People mostly in rags worn to strings, winter near, hunger everywhere; but a better time is coming, we hope. They seem emerging from the shades of superstition and moral darkness, having seen in some degree the light which enlightened the Gentiles and the glory of Israel. May the bright and morning Star shine in its resplendent beauty over this neglected land! May the labors of the faithful ministers of Christ be more abundant and their service for Him be crowned with cheering success! and may the seed sown, though often with weeping, trembling, and much fear, bring forth an hundred-fold! "_21st._ We arrived at Clifden in time for a meeting held in a courthouse. Many sober people came who seemed glad to hear of the way of life, but others, set on by the priests, disturbed the meeting, so that it was not a very comfortable time; but I secretly rejoiced in being counted worthy to suffer for His name's sake who sent us forth." On the 28th Sybil Jones was taken very ill with influenza. They were fortunately at Kilnock, among very kind friends. Here they were kept nearly a month. Eli Jones improved all the time, holding meetings almost continually, while his wife, confined to her room, "was in great peace" and the triumphal anthem was on her lips: "If Thou shouldst call me to resign What most I prize--it ne'er was mine-- I only yield Thee what was Thine; Thy will be done." After six weeks, nearly all of which had been weeks of illness and hence time taken from the work, she writes: "I like to note now and then the fleet footsteps of Time. I perceive he will not stay his rapid course for me, and therefore I most earnestly pray so to number my days and to apply my heart with diligence unto wisdom that each golden hour may bear upward the incense of a grateful, devotional spirit still more and more dedicated to the work and service, of so vast and infinite importance, that my heavenly Father has assigned to His poor, unworthy child, and that the holy discipline of the cross of Christ may nurture and increase every grace of the eternal quickening Spirit of my dear Redeemer. While the truth is indelibly stamped upon my spirit that I can do nothing without Him, I believe 'I can do all things through Christ that strengtheneth me.' May these afflictions of the shattered citadel, which now confine me to a lonely room and often a sleepless couch, be sanctified to the promotion of righteousness and true holiness in myself and others, that in every dispensation thanksgiving may arise to the blessed name of the Lord!" Near Lisburn she was again a prisoner from sickness for about four weeks, and earnestly she prayed for guidance and strength to bear whatever came for her. "_The 30th of 1st mo., 1853_. I think I have seen, by the light that has never yet deceived me, my path across the Channel to Liverpool--that if I trust in my Saviour alone for bodily and spiritual strength, it will be accomplished and marvellous deliverance wrought. This morning I mentioned my prospect to my dear husband of a speedy release from this place. He seemed doubtful of its practicability with safety to my health. I replied, 'Nothing is impossible with God. I believe He will bring us through this Jordan.' We thought of Third day, as a steamer would sail at 4 P. M., but it did not seem clear, and I was thrown into doubting and fear. After seeking divine direction I felt a blessed trust that on Fifth day we might with safety leave these shores. "_Third day._ My dear Eli mentioned a prospect of a public meeting at Carrickfergus, and this was a confirmation that our plan was right." On Fourth day they held a farewell meeting, and there was much expression of mutual love, and, the Irish Friends gave thanks for the long service which had been performed in their land. For almost a year the gospel had been preached over the island to high and low, to rich and poor. Eli Jones visited, with perhaps one exception, every meeting in Ireland, and met personally some members of nearly every Friend's family on the island. No suffering or other hindrance had kept these two servants from sowing seed in all kinds of soil, and they came from the field believing that their sowing would bring forth fruit after many days. Sybil Jones went to her train on a couch, and was obliged to make the whole journey to Liverpool in the same way, but she was soon at work again at Manchester. Here she rested while Eli Jones visited the surrounding meetings, and the prospect of still more extended work began to appear to them. Certainly, few laborers have gone out in a more determined spirit to overcome all obstacles to carry the gladdest of all news to ears as yet ungladdened by it. They visited the quarterly meetings at York, Leeds, Lancaster, Darlington, and Birmingham, and Sybil Jones rested while Eli attended Dublin yearly meeting. She was visited by Harriet Beecher Stowe, and they had a time of prayer together. There were many interesting incidents connected with their visits at the different cities and the various homes. Joseph Sturge came to talk with them of temperance and slavery, and told them he intended to contribute to the support of New Garden Boarding-school, where some of the children of the South might have the privilege of gaining better knowledge. CHAPTER VIII. _NORWAY, GERMANY, AND SWITZERLAND._ "A voice spake in their ear, And lo! all other voices far and near Died at that whisper full of meanings clear." WHITTIER. Eli and Sybil Jones attended the London yearly meeting of 1853, and were liberated to go to the Continent for gospel work in Norway, Germany, and France. Mary James Lecky was their companion, and was in all respects a most suitable person for this service. Unknown difficulties were before them; new races of people were to be touched through an unknown language; hard journeys were to be made by a feeble, almost invalid woman; still, they turned toward the shores of Norway, believing that He whose finger pointed the way would shield them with His hand. Once more they unquestioningly gave immediate obedience to the word of their great Captain, and they knew His ways well enough to be assured that the result would be the desired one. Joseph Crosfield offered to go as a caretaker for the little party, and he was of great help to them. When they arrived at Liverpool from Ireland, an elderly doctor was called to see Sybil Jones. After examining her trouble carefully, he said, "You know David had it in his heart to build the Lord an house. In his case the will was taken for the work; so it must be in yours. You must stop your work and go south, or go to your home at once." If this doctor had followed his patient, he would have found her in the northern latitude of Norway. The great Physician's order conflicted with that of the doctor, and there could be no doubt which was to be followed. On the 11th of 6th month they embarked on the steamer "Courier" for Christiansand, being joined by James Backhouse and Lindley M. Hoag, making a company of six. The passage was very rough, and all on board were brought low with sea-sickness, but the German Ocean was soon crossed, and they came into port at Christiansand, finding it light enough at midnight to read and write and to see the beautiful Norwegian scenery around them. The western coast of Norway is everywhere indented by arms of the sea called fiords; the coasts are rough and rugged, overhung with crags of rock beaten and worn by the age-long dash of these northern waters. Into these fiords has rushed the ship of many a bold seaman, and the shores are tilled by a hardy race, carrying in their veins the civilized blood of the old Norse warrior. These descendants of Northern mythology rejoice when messengers come to tell the simple way of life and joy through the Saviour, and their boats are ready to bear strangers from one promontory across the fiord to another. They come in crowds to hear of the better way, and yet in many places they have escaped the thraldom of Thor and Odin only to bow their necks to the yoke which the priests make them bear. "There are many flourishing towns and villages pleasantly situated on the fiords, easily accessible by boat. The scenery is grand and picturesque--lofty mountains, verdant lawns, and flowery vales, with now and then a beautiful cascade or mountain-torrent rushing and mingling its snow-white foam with the crystal waters below. Formerly the Friends' meeting was held at Stavanger Fiord, but there were numerous Friends scattered along the coast. "_6th mo. 25, 1853._ This day the Norway yearly meeting commenced at ten o'clock. A deep solemnity came over us. A few words with life and feeling from dear Mary J. Lecky opened the way for L. M. Hoag, who testified the gospel of the grace of God to a deeply interested assembly. In the afternoon we assembled for business, which was conducted under a good influence and very orderly. The subject of addressing King Oscar on account of the suffering of some of the members by the exaction of tithes was discussed and referred to a committee. Two persons were received into membership, and two more applied. The certificates of ministers present were read, after which several lively testimonies were borne and counsel offered, and all ended well." When the yearly meeting was finished the Friends held meetings with the prisoners and visited the different schools, holding meetings also at their hotels and once or twice in a barn. They went as far north as Bergen, where they had remarkable assemblies of people notwithstanding the fact that the priests spread the report that these Quakers were dangerous people and did not believe in God. They were refused permission to visit the prisoners; however, they sent Bibles and tracts to them, not being allowed to distribute them in person. The inhabitants of Bergen were highly displeased at the conduct of the ecclesiastics, and it seemed that many more came to hear the Friends for themselves on account of the unchristian spirit which was manifested toward them, and numbers came to their hotel to be instructed. It was very touching to their tender spirits to see an eagerness for better things so crushed out by so-called teachers. "The flock look up and are not fed." Having done what they could, they returned to Stavanger, and spent much time visiting families and holding public meetings. When they took the boat to leave this place the people wished they would send them more "good bodies" to teach them. They travelled all the way from Stavanger to Christiansand, a distance of ninety-four miles, in an open boat, walking across the isthmuses from one fiord to another and carrying the boat over with them. From Christiansand they went by boat to Christiania, where they had a meeting with the seamen, besides other public meetings, all well attended. Then they prepared to leave Norway for Kiel, Denmark, on their way to Germany, having travelled twelve hundred miles in Norway, mostly by boat, and having held fifty meetings, besides visiting many families; in all of which work they were wonderfully helped with strength, and the Spirit of the Lord was with them. The 16th of 7th month they left Norway, bound for Denmark. They sailed down by Jutland and entered the Cattegat. Along the shores they saw "highly-cultivated fields of grain, white for harvest, shepherds keeping their flocks beside the meandering streams, reposing beneath the shade, while the sheep were feeding in green pastures, which were interspersed with neat red-roofed cottages." They went directly to Minden, where most of the few German Friends live, who, unfortunately, are becoming fewer and fewer. After visiting these families and attending their mid-week meeting, they rode to Oberkirchen in Hesse. "Soon after reaching our hotel," they write, "we were visited by the police, who inquired our business, telling us we could not be allowed to hold any public meetings in the place--that it would be contrary to the law to allow any dissenter from the Lutheran Church to hold a meeting. We informed them we had no such purpose, but came to visit those who had left the public worship and professed with us. They then withdrew, appearing quite ashamed of their business; but after coffee, when we were engaged in prayer, they again appeared, telling us that if we intended to have a public meeting they must request us to leave the place. We told them again our intention, and they took our names and withdrew. We asked our landlord why peaceable American citizens were molested by the police and their business inquired into, assuring him that it was the first time in all our travels in various countries that we had been remanded before the authorities--that many of their countrymen came unmolested to our country and were treated civilly. He replied that the conduct of the police had highly displeased him, and on inquiring into the cause of it he found that the priests had sent them." From Minden, Eli and Sybil Jones went on to Pyrmont, where they attended the "two-months" meeting. They held a public meeting in the Friends' house, and some people of note came to hear them. One, a Russian noble of high birth; Dr. Menke, one of the privy council of the prince of Waldeck, who was said to be one of the most learned men in Prussia; also Frederick Fickenscher, the son of the dean of Nuremberg; besides many Jews, all of whom heard "Jesus Christ, and Him crucified," preached. Eli Jones had some opportunities for conversation with Fickenscher, and he impressed on him the importance of our opinions in regard to war, oaths, and other subjects, and he was urged to accept the gospel in all its fulness. Dr. Menke came to express to them his satisfaction with the meeting, saying that he _had_ thought that the views of Friends were rather _fabulous_, but he was now satisfied that they were evangelical, and he hoped what he had heard would be useful to him. They revisited Minden, and had much service among Friends and others, both publicly and in private. They held a large meeting in the Minden theatre, of which Eli Jones writes: "A full attendance, several clergymen present. Some Friends seemed to doubt the propriety of holding a meeting in a building usually applied to theatrical purposes; but, to my mind, there was a fitness in the place, that we might have an opportunity to speak to a class which we could hardly reach anywhere else." From Minden they journeyed by short stages south, stopping at Düsseldorf, where they visited the schools and charity institution; at Cologne, Bonn, Strasbourg, Basle. In Basle they held a meeting with sixty young men, students at the Basle mission-house, who were looking forward to becoming missionaries in the different parts of the world. A fellow-feeling led them to point these young men to the words of the Lord: "Without me ye can do nothing." They then took a carriage, going as far as the Lake of Geneva. It was so arranged that Sybil Jones could recline, being then far from well. Sybil Jones writes: "_10th mo. 8th._ This morning set off for Geneva by steamboat from Vevay. It being near the head of the lake, our starting-point was delightful, and our trip on the fair blue water interesting amid the grand mountains which encircle the lake. They rise like vast battlements above the clouds in some places. Mont Blanc, the monarch of mountains, was pointed out. We arrived at the ancient, interesting city of Geneva about four o'clock. From our room at the Hôtel du Rhône we have a fine view of the Rhone, which leaves the lake a few yards above and dashes by our windows, washing the basement story with its blue waters, hastening on to mingle with the great Mediterranean. "_9th._ The work never seemed more weighty and watchfulness and prayer more needful. Our company attended a meeting held by Merle d'Aubigné, the author of the _History of the Reformation_. He made a report of the proceedings of the Evangelical Alliance held at Berlin, giving interesting information of the state of feeling existing between the different religious denominations on the Continent, who find themselves more in unison than formerly. "_11th._ Held a large meeting in the Casino. The Lord was with us. Dear Christine Alsop interprets well; indeed, we lack nothing. "_12th._ To-day several serious persons have called, with whom we have had very interesting conversations about the things which appertain to eternal life. A very agreeable person came to offer his thanks for the privilege of the meeting, adding, 'I think it will do good, for I have been examining the Epistle of Paul, and I am certain he did not mean to forbid a woman's preaching the glad tidings of a risen Saviour, but rather counselled the women not to be asking improper questions in their church-meetings nor to exercise authority or teach in the matter of church discipline; for it is plain that holy women of old _did_ prophesy (that is, preach), and that Paul did not attempt to hinder them. He also informed us that a philosophical deist was present last evening whom he had never seen at a religious meeting before, and that he fully expected that he would turn it all into ridicule, but, to his astonishment, he looked serious and said, 'I never heard anything like this; I scarcely know what to say. It was surely an interesting discourse.' So we do indeed see that God sometimes chooses 'the weak things of this world to confound the mighty.' We were informed that many came who were never seen at meetings on ordinary occasions. Attended another meeting at the 'Locale,' which was sweet and refreshing. "_13th._ Some pious persons have called, among them a very devoted _pasteur_ with his daughter, whose name is Lalia. They called just as we were seated for reading the Scriptures, and joined us. During the silence I felt the spirit of supplication, but it seemed not to belong to me to pray vocally, and I said that if any person felt it a duty to pray I hoped that he would be faithful. Unknown to me, the _pasteur_ had just asked C. Alsop in French if there was liberty; she replied in my words. It was a precious season of prayer and praise. In the evening we attended an appointment for youth and children. It was large and solemn, and I reverently trust Christ was preached. "_14th._ The interest of the people in our meetings still increases, and many inquirers come to see us, thanking us for the privilege and asking if there will be more meetings. Jane Bingham and sister, with Maria Ferris, arrived to-day from Montreux, not having heard of our meetings until we had left. They are Friends from England; it was pleasant to meet them. A female superintendent and teacher of young ladies called and took tea, and seemed very devoted to the cause of her Redeemer. She follows this business not for gain to herself, but for gain to others. Her pupils are occupying prominent places, adorned with wisdom and virtue. "_15th._ Robert Fox, son, and daughter arrived to-day and took lodgings with us. Our party numbers twelve. It is pleasant to meet these dear friends while on a tour for their health. We took a short ride this morning in a carriage provided by dear M. J. L. to the country-seat of the Count de Selon, who was an ardent advocate of peace. In the grounds is an obelisk raised over his remains, with interesting inscriptions on the subject of peace. We hope his faithful labors may not be lost. From this beautiful place we had a fine view of Mont Blanc at sunset; which was magnificent. The snows of ages changed to crimson; the beautiful azure lake and the fine city of Geneva lay in loveliness before us. "_16th._ To-day held two precious meetings at our hotel, to which a number of serious people came, and expressed themselves especially pleased with the _silence_, saying that it was needed in these times of commotion. "_17th._ Returned by steamer to Lausanne. Took lodgings at a hotel which is on the spot where Gibbon wrote his celebrated _History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_. Had meeting of much interest; many _pasteurs_ present. A _pasteur_ full of the spirit of peace informed us that many who had preached against war in Lausanne had suffered imprisonment. The _pasteur_ wished us to go to Lyons and preach two such sermons there, saying that they were needed. He did not understand that we could not preach except we were sent, nor give forth anything but what we receive at the time. "Took steamer for Vevay; dined at the hotel, and in the evening held a meeting in the Casino, after which we rode to Montreux and took lodgings at a _pension_. Next day held a large meeting at the national place of worship called the 'Temple.' It was a solemn and instructive convocation. The forenoon was occupied in a pleasant walk by the lake at the foot of a mountain, on the side of which stands the village and old chapel of Montreux; on the left and before us the ancient castle of Chillon, and the Dent du Midi Mountain covered with snow. On the right lay the lovely lake, on the other side of which rises a majestic range of mountains. I became weary of walking, and we called at a mansion just on the border of the lake. The master is a young Jew, and of a very tender Christian spirit. We had delightful conversation with him on heavenly things. He had attended one of our meetings, and was much struck with our manner of worship. He said that when we began to speak (Christine and myself) he imagined we had composed the discourse and committed it to memory, but soon he perceived the interpreter made a mistake, which rather puzzled him, and another mistake convinced him that she could not have known what I was to say previously. Indeed, he thought it was spoken so rapidly it must come from the heart as it was uttered. He was much edified, and spoke of those solemn truths with great diffidence and tenderness. His name is Samuel Samelson. May Israel's gentle Shepherd lead him to the blessed knowledge of the truth as it is in Jesus and enable him to confess Him before men! Our young friend provided me with a donkey, which conveyed me to the residence of the Hustlers, who have resided here some time. They were formerly English Friends, and received us with joy. The wife is in very delicate health. We sat together in sweet heavenly silence, and the language of the Spirit through the poor instrument was encouraging and humbling. Returned on the donkey by a shorter route on the side of the mountain. My heart responded to the music of birds and the smile of Nature. After dining we took a drive to Chillon, the ancient château where Bonnivard was imprisoned on account of his political views for several years. The château stands in the lake. Within it is a range of dungeons below the surface of the water where prisoners of state and the condemned are confined. Across one of the vaults is a beam black with age where the executions took place. It is said two thousand Jews perished here by the hands of enemies. As we viewed these walls and sombre apartments we were struck by a sense of man's inhumanity to man and the rapid flight of events so momentous. How long, O Lord, ere thou takest unto thyself the great power and reignest? "_22d._ Called on a bereaved father and mother who were mourning the death of an only child. We told them of Him who wounds that He may heal. We also visited a widow and her daughter who knew dear Stephen Grelet, and remembered his heart-searching ministry among them. Pasteur Godet was with us a short time. He is a pious, humble Christian from Neufchatel, who has left the honors of the world (he had been tutor of the king of Prussia), a man of learning and talent; which qualities seem sweetly sanctified. At two o'clock P. M. attended a youths' meeting. "_23d._ A meeting was held at the Hustlers', which our party attended, but I was quite ill in bed, but reposing in Him who is my only source of joy. "_24th._ Not able to proceed. Dined in the _salle_, and with a grateful heart was able to return thanks vocally, which seemed to impress the large company with a serious air. After dining, several spoke to us kindly, among whom was a baroness from Sweden, who warmly pressed us to go thither, saying there were many in Sweden who would receive us warmly, and her own house should be at our disposal for a home. Invited the family and boarders to our evening reading. Much tenderness was shown. Many have called on us and expressed their gratitude for our visit and gospel labors among them. We are sweetly united to a living seed in this land. "_25th._ Took our departure from this highly interesting field of labor after an affectionate parting. We took the omnibus to Villeneuve and found the steamer ready. After passing the most magnificent scenery we were soon again at Lausanne. Made arrangements for a meeting next day. "_26th._ In the morning held a meeting with the prisoners in the beautiful prison here. I think it the finest and most comfortable I have ever seen in any land. Our visit was deeply interesting, and the poor girls were nearly all in tears, and seemed truly grateful for the message of love to them. In the evening held a large and favored meeting at the Casino. Our boat was detained by the dense fog, so we were obliged to remain another day, which seemed providential, as a _pasteur_ called and told us of two Moravian schools taught by pasteurs, one of whom had expressed regret at not hearing of our meeting or not seeing us. He offered to accompany us to one of the schools. C. Alsop, our interpreter, had gone to visit an acquaintance, so Mary Millman, a sweet-tempered girl who spoke English well and who accompanied us, acted as interpreter. The kind pasteur received us cordially, and offered to assemble the girls; which was agreeable to us. I think we have seldom known a more heavenly season. The Lord poured out a rich blessing upon us. We returned with songs of praise to our hotel. Have had many calls to-day from Christian brothers and sisters, expressing their interest in our labors among them. A very zealous person called who spoke with much tenderness of J. and M. Yardly, who were instrumental in her conversion. Held a meeting in the evening which was much blest. "_28th._ Set off early this morning to visit the Moravian school for boys, taking the same kind interpreter with us. We received a hearty welcome, and were informed that the boys had just assembled to commence Scripture history, and that if we could feel something good to say to them they would be so glad. Dear E. replied that we came for that purpose. We were soon seated in a pleasant youthful congregation. Some countenances testified that they had been with Jesus. The pasteur read a chapter; solemn silence ensued, then a gentle shower of gospel love descended and the little plants revived. I cannot doubt but there are young men in this institution who will fill important places of usefulness, perhaps ministers of the gospel who will publish the glad tidings to lands remote. Surely such men, fearing God, are much needed in this degenerate age. The pasteur offered a sweet-spirited prayer with tears of gratitude, and we came away. Reached the steamer in good time. We feel much fellowship with many dear friends in Lausanne. Arrived at Geneva, and, concluding to go on to Lyons at once, we had to sacrifice our desires to see the dear friends again." CHAPTER IX. _WINTER IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE._ Before going on to speak of the work of Eli and Sybil Jones among the Friends and other Protestants in the south of France, a brief sketch of the rise and growth of the little branch of our Society there may be in place. The story is full of interest and could be studied to greater length with profit, but only the briefest reference to it is admissible here. Louis XIV. of France decided in 1685 to revoke the "Edict of Nantes," passed in 1598 by Henry of Navarre, granting liberty of worship and repose to all parties in the Church. The revocation was the most cruel order ever issued by any king. It commanded the demolition of all the Protestant chapels that remained standing, and forbade any assembly or worship; all opposing ministers were ordered to leave the kingdom within fifteen days; the schools were closed; all newborn babes were to be baptized by the parish priests; evangelical religionists were forbidden to leave the kingdom, on pain of the galleys for men and confiscation of person and property for women. It is calculated that six hundred thousand Protestants left France during the twenty years following the revocation, while many suffered cruel deaths and many others spent their lives in the galley-ships. The great struggle made against this royal edict was along the Cévenne Mountains in the departments of Lozère, Drôme, Ardèche, Gard, and Hèrault. The Protestants were called Camisards, perhaps from the word _camisarde_, a night-attack, but its origin is unsettled. Many of the ministers in Cévenne had been executed, and enthusiasm was raised to the highest pitch. Deprived of their pastors, men, women, boys, and girls became animated by the spirit of prophecy. "Young girls had celestial visions; the little peasant-lasses poured out their utterances in French, sometimes in the language and with the sublime eloquence of the Bible." They assembled under the name of "Children of God," and marched commanded by two chiefs, Roland and Cavalier. The insurrection was widespread, and for a long time they overcame or evaded the royal troops. "The Lord of hosts is our strength!" said one prophet. "We will intone the battle-psalms, and from the Lozère to the sea Israel shall arise." They are thus pictured by a contemporary sent to deal with them: "They are stark mad on the subject of religion, absolutely intractable on that point; the first little boy or girl that falls a-trembling and declares that the Holy Spirit is speaking to it, all the people believe it, and if God and all his angels were to come and speak to them they would not believe them any more; they walk to execution singing the praises of God and exhorting those present, insomuch that it has been necessary to surround the criminals with drums to prevent the pernicious effect of their speeches." No men and women were ever more in earnest or filled with more zeal, but it was often a misguided zeal and the cause was dishonored by fearful bloodshed. Their camp was named the "Camp of the Eternal," and they marched to battle singing the grand version of the 68th Psalm, "Que Dieu se monte seulement." Among them were many who were sincere, many on whom the Spirit rested, and there was a grand principle animating them. Much that seems so excessive may be excused on the consideration that they were driven to fury by persecution and they bore in their veins the hot blood of a southern race. How the little company of peace-loving Friends came from these _Camisards_, these _Children of God_, has been a question. There is a manuscript still in existence of a letter supposed to have been written by some pastors of Geneva which was received and circulated through the Cévenne. It was an appeal for these struggling brethren to throw away the sword and cease from bloodshed. "It must be the Lord's arm," it goes on to say, "and not yours, which shall put an end to your captivity. Do all you can to obtain the desired object by a holy life, and not by the works of darkness." After receiving this letter there was some abatement from their accustomed acts of cruelty. Among those who claimed the gift of prophecy was a young woman named Lucretia. Her influence over the people excited the jealousy of the leaders. When they attempted to silence her she called out, "Let those who love me follow me." Many followed her, and her house became a place for meetings. From this company, it has been said, the Friends in Congènies are descended. The author has seen a wine-cellar at Fontanés, in the house of Samuel Brun, where these Friends met for many years. The walls were lined on the inside with wine-casks to keep the sound from going out, and Samuel Brun has in his possession a large Bible which for a generation was built into the wall of the building. Everything which has been recorded shows the sincerity and quiet determination of these people to worship God as the New Testament required. Year after year they took their flocks out on the hills or tilled the more gentle slopes of the mountains, and they never forgot to meet in their secluded vault to praise God together for the blessings which He gave them. There was a tower of Constance at Aiguesmontes of terrible repute, but they were undaunted and possessed "the brave old wisdom of sincerity." And this is how they became known to their brother Friends, as is told in a tract compiled by Friends at Manchester, England: "In the struggle for independence in 1776 the American colonies received sympathy and aid from France. There was at that time living at Falmouth a surgeon named Joseph Fox, a member of the Society of Friends, who both by education and conviction regarded war in every shape as forbidden by the gospel. He was part owner of the 'Greyhound' and the 'Brilliant,' two cutters which traded along the Cornish coast. The other owners of the cutters decided to fit them out with license to waylay and capture merchant-vessels of the enemy. Joseph Fox of course protested. Being one alone, his protest was disregarded and the vessels were armed. The war broke out so unexpectedly that many French crafts fell an easy prey to the English cruisers, and the 'Greyhound' and 'Brilliant' succeeded in capturing two valuable merchantmen, together with some small coasting-vessels. Joseph Fox believed it to be his Christian duty to claim his share and hold it in trust to be restored to the rightful owners. In 1783 peace was restored, and the next year Joseph Fox sent his son, Dr. Edward Fox, to Paris to advertise for the owners of the plundered property. A proceeding so unheard of was naturally looked upon with suspicion, and before the doctor could obtain leave to insert his advertisement in the _Gazette_ he had to communicate with the Count de Vergennes, one of the French ministry, who required a formal declaration that his real object was such as it professed to be. Meantime, Joseph Fox died. In consequence of the public notice application was made by numerous parties; all the claims were proved to be well founded, and a chief part of the money was proportionally distributed amongst the owners of the two merchantmen and their cargoes. Those who had been sufferers by the capture made an acknowledgment through the _Gazette_ of this rare act of restitution, stating their desire "to give the publicity which it merits to this trait of generosity and equity, which does honor to the Society of the Quakers and proves their attachment to the principles of peace and unity by which they are distinguished." "Besides the applications for the restored property, Dr. Fox received at the same time a reply of a very different character. It was a letter with this address: 'The Quakers of Congènies-Calvisson to the virtuous Fox.' The writers describe themselves as a little flock of about a hundred persons, and express their joy to hear of the efforts used by the advertiser to fulfil the commands of Christ. They represent themselves as opposed to war on Christian principle, and as being in consequence an object of hatred and contempt to their fellow-citizens, both Catholics and Protestants. Especially do they condemn the wars engaged in by the latter to keep possession of their religious liberties. This letter led to further correspondence and to a journey to London by De Marsillac, one of their community. From his accounts English Friends discovered, to their surprise, that there had existed in the south of France for sixty or seventy years a Christian Church which, besides its testimony against war, held spiritual views regarding worship and the ministry identical with their own." The origin and discovery of these Friends can hardly fail to interest those who are not already familiar with them. They were often visited by Stephen Grelet, who greatly strengthened them and increased their influence. One who has not been among them can hardly realize how this little flock, surrounded on all sides with perils and enemies, rejoice to welcome those who come to bring them strength and cheer. Many leave the country to escape the army, some marry with other Protestants, and the outlook is not encouraging for their continuance as a distinct body; but they have a good history behind them, and should receive every possible support to hold firm for the help of coming generations. When Eli and Sybil Jones went among them it was a time of discouragement, and they both felt that there was a great service for them to do. It is not easy to find just what they did, but we know that for three months they carried on almost ceaseless labor to help and instruct not only the Friends, but all the Protestants and Catholics where it was possible. The pastors with one accord opened their places of worship and approved and welcomed them. There are many now in Nismes and vicinity who speak with great feeling of them, and it is evident that all were deeply impressed by their consecration and earnestness. We need not seek too eagerly for the results of such work, for it is impossible to measure the good done, either in counting those converted or those renewed. Two earnest Christian ministers exert an influence and power in a community which can be no more easily weighed than the ripples on the sea can be counted. SOUTH OF FRANCE. "Set off in the diligence for Lyons, ninety miles distant; fine roads, good accommodation. The grand scenery delighted us, though tinged with autumnal frosts. We did not make ourselves known in Lyons. It was First day, and it was odd and deeply affecting to an American guest to rise on this morning and behold it a market-day, all bustle and tumult. The state of morals is very low on the Continent. "_31st._ Took steamer on the Rhone for Avignon. Met a very interesting missionary from New York going to Rome. We had an interesting conversation on the qualifications of missionaries, their trials, painful separations, etc. Having both known them, we could the more readily enter into sympathy and fellowship. Lodged in a hotel in the dull popish town of Avignon. "_1st of 11th mo._ Set off by rail for Nismes, where we were greeted by our friends. "_2d._ Attended Friends' meeting, and received visits from several members. We were comfortably settled at a hotel near the Friends' school, which we wish to visit when we have leisure from other service. "_3d._ Dear Eli went to Congènies to-day to attend meeting. We have seen dear John Yardly on his return from his Russian mission. He gave us pleasant accounts of the work of the Lord in that land and in Turkey--said he found much openness and many Christian brethren. Some have suffered loss of nearly all things for the excellence of the knowledge of Christ. "_5th._ The two-months' meeting commenced. Great discouragement seems to prevail, and little contending for the faith once delivered to the saints. It is indeed to be lamented that the light burns so dimly that was no doubt kindled by divine love, but for want of watchfulness it gleams but faintly amid surrounding darkness. If those who profess the blessed Name in this land were real converted characters! But, as in ancient time, 'All are not Israel that are of Israel.' Oh may it please the Lord to revive His work in this day! Toward the close life seemed to spring up, and much solemnity prevailed. Meeting for business assembled in the afternoon, and was a refreshing season. We trust some were made to see where they had been straying. The meeting concluded with more religious weight and signs of life, and from the hearts of some arose the song of thanksgiving. Dear John Yardly's company was indeed precious. I like his evangelical spirit and devotion to the gospel of Christ. "_7th._ Attended a meeting at the Methodist house, which was much favored. Spoke from the first of John. My dear husband and our kind helpers, R. and C. Alsop, went to St. Giles for a meeting. "_9th._ We took a walk to an old ruin said to be the temple of Diana. We also went to La Fontaine, where a large volume of water springs from the earth. We also saw a beautiful Corinthian temple--'la Maison Carrée'--said to be eighteen hundred years old. "_11th._ Held a meeting for some serious soldiers who have lately left the Roman Catholic worship. We had a good meeting with them; one of their number spoke very well, at the close of our meeting, on the immediate teaching of the Holy Spirit. This evening went to Congènies by diligence, accompanied by R. and C. Alsop, leaving dear Eli to attend meeting at Nismes." * * * * * After this Eli and Sybil Jones and their kind friends and helpers attended many meetings at Nismes and at neighboring towns, going often to Congènies and Fontanés. Meetings at the latter place seemed especially opened and favored. Also held meetings, much assisted and encouraged by the _pasteurs_, at Calvisson, Cordonion, Aujargues, Aubais, and Vistric, many of which, they had evidence, were singularly blessed by the Master of assemblies. They had many pleasant meetings with the young people, and were helped to utter words of cheer and encouragement to those whose life-work was just beginning. Very frail in body, and at times almost sinking under the felt duty, yet they sought to improve every moment of time, not wishing to make any plans without a direct showing from their heavenly Leader. All places of Protestant worship were open to them, and they often used the large national places of worship called "temples." In Fontanés they held a greatly blessed meeting in the parlor of their friend Daniel Brun. They were always saddened, especially after a meeting at Saint Giles, by the noticeable scarcity of men in meetings. Indeed, they found in their meetings generally in France mostly women and children. One of the morning meetings in the Friends' house at Nismes was a most remarkable instance of the overshadowing of the divine Spirit. The solemnity was most impressive, so that many wept before a word was uttered. Sybil Jones was favored to see the time to rise and testify to the people that a "pure spiritual worship is what is required, and is the highest joy of Christians." The visitors attended meeting at the school supported by Friends in England, and felt it to be a profitable occasion for all present. Sybil Jones's mind was often occupied with deep thoughtfulness of the infinite importance of their mission to this land, and she besought the Lord earnestly that their dependence might be on no other, and that all their labors might be Heaven-directed. It was very cheering to these tired laborers to have persons come to them after meetings to acknowledge that they had been strengthened and to converse on those things which pertain to godliness. They attended a meeting sustained by young men in Nismes for general improvement, reading useful books, etc. They were invited most cordially to come by the young men, who told them that if they wished to speak to them on religious subjects, they would be pleased to hear them. E. and S. Jones felt it a providential opening, and S. Jones was led to speak from the text, "The Lord loveth an early sacrifice." They felt especially moved to thank the Lord for the "way" so wonderfully made for them. They had not had to ask for a place to hold a meeting, but when they felt the impression a place was always offered. This seemed most wonderful to them, as the laws of France forbid an assembly exceeding twenty persons at any place except in a "temple" or consecrated place. Sometimes they had but "crumbs" to hand out to the spiritually hungry, but at other times they had abundant refreshing from the Master's table. They prayed ever that the "creature might be abased" and that whether in "heights or depths" they might wear the entire "armor of faith." On the last day of the year 1853 they were at the home of Lydia Majolier at Congènies. Sybil Jones writes: "This is the close of the second year since I left the land I so dearly love. The retrospect of the whole affords consolatory reflection. With the remembrance of innumerable mercies my poor little sacrifices sink into insignificance. May they be accepted by Him who looks at the heart! If any good has been done, it is the Lord's doings.--Grant, most merciful God, that the year 1854 may all be devoted to Thy service, with more faith and love!" The next two-months' meeting was a season of great encouragement. The meeting for worship was large, and the Master honored it with His life-giving presence. The meeting for business was a blessed season, and all felt that the power of the Lord had been abroad in the land; two members were received and two young men requested to be admitted. At meeting of the school committee it was concluded "to solicit subscriptions from Friends here, and see what amount could be raised, and propose to Friends in England that the school be continued under the care of Justine Paradon as superintendent and Clarence Benoit as teacher, and that a school for boys be opened under the instruction of Jules Paradon, with an assistant. The committee were encouraged to persevere in the work, as the school had already proved a blessing to the youth, and by some changes for the better might be more so." A long rainy period hindered these dear Friends from holding many meetings. They occupied the time when they were confined to the house in writing to America, studying French, etc. At a meeting held in an outlying village at the house of a woman named Ann Mapit all seemed tendered before the Lord. Near the close a woman left and went to her aged father, who had not attended a religious meeting for fifty years, and begged him to go and hear these people, "for they preached as though they would take them all to heaven." The old man came and was quite moved, and spoke highly of the meeting, although he had said on a former occasion, when a meeting was proposed for a Friend, that they "would beat the drums." They saw plainly the wonder-working power of God. On every side they saw evidences of the "shaking" power. In Calvisson the pasteur himself, a kind Christian man, chose to interpret for them, which they thought a great condescension, as it would doubtless expose him to ridicule from some who did not approve of a woman's gift in the ministry. They held a powerful meeting at Congènies, and found that many were there who had not attended a religious meeting before for twenty years. They thought it prudent for a time, being much worn by long service, to rest and try and gain some strength to go on. Eli Jones's health was especially poor. After this short respite they were much refreshed for the work, and attended a meeting at Auvergne numbering fully eight hundred or a thousand people. They appreciated fully the support of the pasteurs, which was so lovingly tendered them. They felt everywhere the disastrous effects of the degraded position of women. Having so much manual labor to perform, they are unfitted for the proper care of their children; consequently, both their minds and bodies are frequently uncared for, and the home, that great training-school, is not rendered as bright and attractive as it should be. This, S. Jones thought, is what makes the French people so volatile and often skeptical. The places of public amusement are often sought in preference to the home. Their work among the soldiers was a wonderful thing. Many came to their meetings, and, laying aside their swords and taking off their caps, sat meekly down to hear the glad tidings of "peace on earth and good-will toward men." A remarkable movement sprang up among them. One of their number said that at one time but three of them met for worship, but lately nine had joined their number, and they felt much encouraged. Many meetings were attended by these soldiers, who seemed to appeal directly to Eli and Sybil Jones's sympathies. They held a meeting at St. Hippolyte with the few Friends there, at the Moravian meeting-house, and were very urgently pressed to hold more meetings in that place. Fears were often felt by their friends that order could not be maintained in their meetings, owing to the novelty of the thing; but they always, even in very large audiences, met with the utmost respect and attention. They went on one occasion to Marseilles, and took a short trip on the Mediterranean, and felt that they gained some strength by the change. Sybil Jones, accompanied by some of her friends and the good pasteur Abausit, who had been such a kind friend and interpreter, went to Montpellier to visit the prison. They were much pleased with the neatness and order of the entire establishment, and met the most courteous treatment from the chaplain and director. There was much tenderness shown by the prisoners. There were in the prison eight hundred Catholic and fourteen Protestant prisoners. They were not allowed to speak to the former, but were enabled to pray earnestly for the other poor souls. They held a very large meeting in the afternoon, and it was to them a precious season. Sybil Jones visited two prisoners in their cells, and pleaded tenderly with them. They then returned to Nismes and held a large meeting. One of the pasteurs told them, in explanation of their kind reception on every hand, that the Society of Friends moved along so prudently, peaceably, and happily that they were received by all as Christian brethren. At a meeting in St. Hippolyte great contrition was felt by a man who had not attended meeting for many years, and would not permit his wife to go, and forbade his sister to enter his house because she was religious. He received his sister after the meeting, and seemed greatly humbled. They felt that the Lord was speaking through his instruments, and were encouraged to go forward. They held many large and much-blessed meetings at Gallargues and Congènies, and visited many to whom they were attracted, as they showed a concern for their souls' welfare. Many came to inquire of them the "way," and they formed many acquaintances and felt a binding interest in the people, whose souls were so precious. When the two-months' meeting again assembled they had renewed cause for encouragement. It was a meeting graciously ordered by the Lord. The meeting for worship on First-day morning was remarkably covered with divine power and goodness, and Eli Jones seemed unusually "clothed upon with gospel unction." The meeting for business admitted into membership a man who had been a Methodist minister, and received requests from twelve others. They were once invited to the home of a good pasteur named Mensard, where they met five other pasteurs, and their conversation was most pleasant concerning the ministry and "things of the kingdom." And now they felt that the burden of souls in the south of France was rolled off, and they were sweetly released for service in other fields. They held a large parting meeting, and many came to take leave, among them a poor soldier in whom they were greatly interested. He had been ordered to Constantinople without the companionship of any of his religious friends. Of this they were not aware, and it was remarkable that they felt impressed to read the ninety-first Psalm, which seemed so suited to his case, and Sybil Jones was wonderfully helped to pray for the poor soldier. The parting with the school-children was an affecting season, and they at last set off, leaving a large group of friends at the hotel-door for whom their hearts reached out in tenderness and love. They went to Avignon, and from there by boat on the Rhone to Lyons. On First day they attended three meetings in that city; where they found an earnest, seeking people. They lodged with a dear friend who was received into membership at the last meeting. He seemed to be exerting a religious influence about him. They enjoyed their intercourse with his interesting family, and M. J. Lecky offered to take their youngest son, Benjamin, to England to obtain a knowledge of the English language; which pleased his parents and he was committed to her care. They spent one day in the great capital, and admired the magnificent and stupendous works of art with which Paris is adorned. Sailed from Havre for Southampton. There they attended one meeting, and thence proceeded to London. They attended Suffolk quarterly meeting. The power of the Lord was felt, especially by the young. Lodged at Richard Dikes Alexander's. In London they lodged at Thomas Norton's, and attended London quarterly meeting. Attended Brighton select meeting, and stayed at Daniel Prior Hack's. They also attended meetings at Croydon and Lewes, and Gloucester quarterly meeting; all of which were honored by the Master's presence. On the 11th of 4th mo. they set off for Plymouth, and soon after sailed for the dear home in America, leaving all their work with the Master, for it was all done in His name. They carried with them sweet memories of the aid and fellowship extended to them by the French pasteurs. They also carried with them numerous written testimonials of the pasteurs' appreciation of their labor of love among them. The following is a letter from the pasteurs and elders of Calvisson expressive of their feeling toward these laborers in the Master's vineyard who had come from a distant land: * * * * * "We, the pasteurs and elders of the church of Calvisson (Gard), declare that we have received the visit of Eli and Sybil Jones, ministers of the Society of Friends. They have held two edifying public meetings in our temple, before a numerous and attentive audience, as well as a special meeting for the children of our schools. Moreover, they have held a pastoral conference at Calvisson (Gard), at which eleven pasteurs of our consistory and the neighboring churches were present. We are happy to thank these dear friends for the evangelical words they have brought to us. Their presence has been for us a means of edification and of encouragement. Their prayers and their exhortations, impressed with great spirituality, have produced deep convictions and been visibly blessed, and have penetrated into the hearts of all those who have had the privilege of hearing them. The interest they have manifested for the salvation of souls and the advancement of the kingdom of God has touched us in a lively manner, and has given us the impression that they do not propose any other end nor any other recompense for their sacrifices and their labors. They have spoken amongst us the words of peace and charity, nor has anything in their discourses wounded any faithful soul, either as regards his faith or his individual opinions. We ask that in an especial manner the divine blessing may attend the spiritual ministry of Mr. and Mrs. Jones. We desire that the dear brother and sister may be instrumental in shedding around them, wherever the Lord may call them, that humble confidence in the wisdom from above that characterizes all their discourses and their lives. May the Father of spirits, who holds our hearts in His hand, grant to their prayers and their efforts the awakening of souls and of consciences! Our Church will always preserve a precious remembrance of these dear friends, and sends them, through us, the expression of its prayers and its gratitude. We declare that we know individually that Eli and Sybil Jones have also visited the greater part of the numerous churches which surround us, and that everywhere their preaching has been heard with the same interest and the same edification. All our brethren have been, like ourselves, moved and charmed by the unction and the grace of their Christian exhortations. In the belief thereof we have given to them the present certificate. "TEMPIE, Pastor-President of the Consistory of Calvisson. "THEODORE ABAUSIT, Pastor. "REANT, Moderator of the Consistory. "C. BERNARY, Treasurer. "CALVISSON (Gard), _March 10, 1854_." CHAPTER X. _IN THE MAINE LEGISLATURE._ "When Christ came into the World peace was sung; and when He went out of the world peace was bequeathed." The first decided action of the Maine Legislature in regard to the sale of intoxicating liquors was taken in the autumn of 1846. Much work had been done during the two preceding years in the towns to arouse the people to the necessity of bringing about an entire revolution, and the temperance organizations worked zealously to base all the structure they built on total abstinence. The foundation truth was laid by Jesus Christ in Judea in words that meant, "If any one of thy passions or appetites causes thee to do wrong, cut it off and cast it from thee." The _necessity_ for total abstinence was vigorously enforced by Eli Jones whenever he spoke. Enough believers in temperance were sent to the Legislature in 1846 to pass a law "to restrict the sale of intoxicating drinks." This was followed in 1851 by an "Act for the suppression of drinking-houses and tippling-shops." This was the well-known "Maine Law," and forbade the manufacture for sale of intoxicating liquors, except cider. Unadulterated cider in quantities of five gallons and upward might be sold. There were thirty-nine other sections directed against liquor-selling, drunkenness, and the habit of drinking in the community. This law accomplished a very beneficial work. One of its great results was to bring the temperance question more emphatically before the other States and nations. At home it made drinking disgraceful and took away to a great extent the temptation from the young men. While in small towns it was nearly a perfect success in closing all shops, in the cities there was not vigilance enough to carry out its purpose, and many felt that more vigor must be used. Three years later, in 1854, the town of China elected Eli Jones by a large majority over two other candidates to represent it in the "House" of the Legislature. It was expected that he would carry to the State capital the views which he unceasingly expressed at home, and that he would agitate a still further reform, or, as he expressed it, "put new teeth into the old law." The choice was wholly unexpected to him, and he was working for the election of his lifelong friend, Ambrose Abbot. He was given a prominent place on the committees, and especially the Committee on Temperance. He worked almost continuously to bring about the desired legislation, but seldom spoke, most of his work being in the committee. This was a memorable winter at Augusta, and many excellent men were there in the different branches of the State government. It was a great opportunity for a true Friend to show to legislators the worth of his principles. Eli Jones was the only man who refused to rise when the governor called upon the united House and Senate to take the oath of office, and he stood alone to give _affirmation_ that he would faithfully perform his work. As was said before, Eli Jones, though earnestly at work for the good of the people of the State, did not address the House. Some members, who knew him intimately and wished to call him to his feet, arranged a plan, not as a personal jest, but as a scheme to gain a speech. In the course of the session the appointment of a major-general to the second division of the Maine militia came in order. In 1838, Maine had undertaken to assert by force of arms her title to a region near the northern boundary claimed both by her and by Canada. There was much mustering of troops at the capital, and fully ten thousand soldiers marched through the deep snow and fierce cold to drive the enemy from Aroostook county. Though they were brave and ready for battle, happily no blood was shed and peace was wisely made; but the "Aroostook War" became famous as a subject of banter and many jokes were made at the expense of its officers. The old nursery rhyme was quoted: "The king of France, with forty thousand men, Marched up the hill and then--marched down again." Primarily for these two reasons, to urge Eli Jones to his feet and to joke the former officers by appointing a Quaker, an avowed peace-advocate, he was chosen unanimously to fill the vacancy in the office of major-general. The nomination was so wholly unexpected that he was at first perplexed at his situation. Much was at stake and wisdom and caution were needed. Having his horse at Augusta, he drove that night to his home at Dirigo, fifteen miles away, chiefly perhaps to discuss his course with his family and the Friends most suitable for counsel. After talking into the night with his brother-in-law, James van Blarcom, he walked the floor alone until the new day was dawning. On arriving again at Augusta he found the occasion far more important than he had anticipated. The news had spread that the Quaker was to speak in regard to his appointment; and the Representatives' Hall was crowded, not only most of the Senate being present, but numbers from the city. The subject of the business was introduced, and Eli Jones, rising, spoke in substance as follows: "Whatever my ambition may have been in times past, my aspirations have never embraced such an office as this as an object of desire. I can assure the House that my election as major-general was an honor wholly unexpected. It is true that when the governor announced to this House the existence of the vacancy, a member privately remarked to me, 'I shall vote for you,' but I replied to him, declining the honor and proposed to return the compliment. "To my mind there is something ominous in this occurrence. I regard it as one of the wonderful developments of the times. Who of us that assembled ten years ago in quiet and retired places to affix our signatures to pledges of abstinence from intoxicating drinks would have believed that in 1855 we should be elected to the seats we now occupy amidst the overwhelming rejoicing of the people, pledged to the support of the Maine Law? Who that at that time had visited the plantations of the South, and seen the slave toiling under the lash of the taskmaster, would have believed that in 1855 the people of the larger portion of this great land would have roused up with a stern determination to subdue the encroachments of the slave-power, and pledge themselves never to cease their labors until the wrongs of slavery should be ameliorated--nay more, till slavery itself should be abolished? Still more wonderful, who would have believed that the State of Maine, that a few years since gloried in an Aroostook expedition, and was noisy with military training and the din of arms, would in 1855 exhibit the spectacle of a peaceable member of the Society of Friends being elected to the post of major-general of a division of the militia, and that too by the Representatives of the people in their legislative capacity? "But I have endeavored to regulate my own conduct by the principle that legislation should not go very far in advance of public sentiment, and it seems to me that this election may possibly be ahead of that sentiment. I submit this suggestion in all candor. It is generally understood that I entertain peculiar views in respect to the policy of war. If, however, I am an exponent of the views of the Legislature on this subject, I will cheerfully undertake to serve the State in the capacity indicated. With much pleasure I should stand before the militia of the second division and give such orders as I think best. The first would be, 'Ground Arms!' The second would be, 'Right about face! beat your swords into ploughshares and your spears into pruning-hooks, and learn war no more!' And I should then dismiss every man to his farm and his merchandise, with an admonition to read daily at his fireside the New Testament and ponder upon its tidings of 'Peace on earth and good-will to men.' "If, on the other hand, it should be determined that my election is a little in advance of the times, I am willing, as a good citizen, to bow to the majesty of law, and, as a member of the Legislature, to consult its dignity and decline the exalted position tendered me by the House; and I will now decline it. With pleasure I will surrender to the House this trust and the honor and retire to private life." This speech was delivered amid interruptions of loud applause, and made a great sensation throughout the State. And not in Maine only; it was commented on in many of the newspapers and appeared in the columns of English journals. Pictures of the fighting Quaker were made, with the order to his troops printed below. It even came out in an African journal; so that what seemed like an unimportant pleasantry on the part of the members of the Legislature gave Eli Jones an opportunity to preach peace to a very extended audience, and his voice was heard far beyond the little State capital. From this time he was regarded with much respect by all the members, and he received encouragement and support in whatever he desired to accomplish. At the close of the session he called to thank the governor for his kindness to him and his help in different ways, and he remarked to the latter that he had been in rather a peculiar place during the winter and had felt somewhat like a "speckled bird." The governor said, "Mr. Jones, what you call being a 'speckled bird' has given you more influence than anything else could possibly have done." Whatever he may have accomplished in other lines during his term of office, he gave powerful testimony in favor of peace and temperance and against the use of oaths, and he went back to his quiet farm in China thoroughly respected by all with whom he had been associated. OAK GROVE SEMINARY. It may be a fitting place to speak of his connection with Oak Grove Seminary, as he was at work for its interests not long after this time. As I have in my possession a letter written by him in regard to the beginning and early days of the school, I will insert it here: "Oak Grove Seminary was started about the year 1850 by John D. Lang, Samuel Taylor, Ebenezer Frye, Alden Sampson, and Alton Pope. They had in view the guarded and religious education of the children of Friends. It was to be a '_select_' school. William H. Hobbie was the first principal. I visited his school and thought him a wonderful teacher. He stood before his class without a book, and seemed to be himself the book. Up to that time I had never seen the like. Franklin Paige, the present publisher of the _Friends' Review_, followed William Hobbie in the principalship. Financially, the undertaking after a while proved a failure, and the school was closed. "At a meeting of the yearly meeting's committee on education, held in China in the autumn of 1856, I advocated an effort being made to open Oak Grove Seminary again. It was opposed by some on the ground that we needed primary schools more than high schools: to that idea my answer was, We must first have high schools to prepare teachers for the primary schools. A meeting of the original proprietors of the seminary was called, and the question put to them, 'Are you willing to have other Friends join you in opening the seminary?' Samuel Taylor replied, 'We want to know first what you will do; we do not want to depend upon a rope of sand.'--'What are the conditions on which we can join you?'--'Do as much as we have; give $2500.' To this Alden Sampson replied, 'It is useless to think of opening the school with $2500; we must have $15,000. If you will raise that amount I will give $1000.' Ebenezer Frye responded as liberally. A committee was appointed to raise the fifteen thousand dollars. Eli Jones, William A. Sampson, Joseph Estes, and Thomas B. Nichols were the chief workers in raising the proposed sum. They were successful. It was nearly all subscribed by six hundred Maine Friends. They constituted an association for the opening and management of Oak Grove Seminary. "In the summer and autumn of 1857 the boarding-house was built. James van Blarcom was chosen principal, and Sarah B. Taber of Albion teacher. It was found that James van Blarcom's engagements would not allow of his occupying the place for one year, consequently Eli Jones took this position for the first year. The school opened in the 12th month, 1857. The season had been wet, and the building and preparation for the school proceeded slowly. Much hard work devolved upon the principal and teachers. The pupils were numerous, and the spring term brought 140. A case of scarlet fever, resulting in the death of a lovely girl, rapidly reduced the number, which has not been reached since. "At the opening of the second year Albert Smiley became principal and James van Blarcom governor and boarding-master. "Albert Smiley was followed by Augustine Jones, and he by Richard M. Jones. "Oak Grove has furnished principals for Friends' School at Providence for nearly a quarter of a century, and to the Penn Charter School of Philadelphia for about thirteen years. Ten or twelve of its pupils have been or are ministers in the Society of Friends; some are to-day leading business-men. "The writer of this notice has been connected with the management of the institution for the last thirty years, sometimes influentially, sometimes wellnigh powerless. As the record has been made, so it will stand. I have rejoiced in the times of its prosperity; I have wept over the ashes of its fine buildings, its library, its geological museum. I now see the second temple rising from the ashes of the first with an unlooked-for splendor. May it long stand for the benefit of our race and the glory of God!" CHAPTER XI. _IN WASHINGTON._ "Follow with reverent steps the great example Of Him whose holy work was 'doing good;' So shall the wide earth seem our Father's temple, Each loving life a psalm of gratitude. Then shall all shackles fall; the stormy clangor Of wild war-music o'er the earth shall cease; Love shall tread out the baleful fire of anger, And in its ashes plant the tree of peace." WHITTIER. Sybil Jones was at work in the Southern States during a part of the year 1860, and returned to her Northern home only a few weeks before the attack on Fort Sumter. The sound of war carried sorrow to the hearts of herself and her husband. They were loyal to their country and the great cause of human freedom, but they were loyal also to the Prince of peace. "They prayed for love to lose the chain; 'Twas shorn by battle's axe in twain!" For years they had longed to see the light of freedom break in on the South, but they had hoped no less for the day "when the war-drum should throb no longer" and universal peace should gladden the long watchers for its dawn. Now they saw the oncoming of a most terrible civil war, threatening the life of the nation. They mourned for mothers and fathers who must see their boys go to the field; they thought of the homes shattered for ever; but they did not yet realize that their eldest son was to go forth to return only on his shield--that the son who had urged them to go forward in the work of love in Liberia, their noble son, was to be demanded as a sacrifice. The war was hardly begun when James Parnel Jones resolved to volunteer. President Lincoln's call seemed a call to him. He had been a logical reader of Sumner, and had closely watched the development of slavery, and to his mind the war to save our nationality would necessarily free the slaves. He wrote from the South: "Did I not think this war would loose the slave's chains I would break my sword and go home." That it was hard for him to go when his parents were praying for peace there can be no doubt, but his mind was filled with the thought of saving the life of a nation, and he certainly felt that the path of duty was in that direction. The members of the Society of Friends felt almost universally that they owed allegiance to two fatherlands. "There was a patriotism of the soul whose claim absolved them from the other and terrene fealty," and there was a manifest inconsistency between being members of "Christ's invisible kingdom" and taking arms in support of a dominion measured by acres.[7] Some felt otherwise, and they took upon themselves the hard duty of turning from society and friends to do battle. [7] Whittier thus gives the position which the Society of Friends held: "Nursed in the faith that Truth alone is strong In the endurance which outwearies wrong, With meek persistence baffling brutal force, And trusting God against the universe; Are doomed to watch a strife we may not share With other weapons than a patriot's prayer; "Yet owning with full hearts and moistened eyes, The awful beauty of self-sacrifice, And wrung by keenest sympathy for all Who give their loved ones for the living wall 'Twixt law and treason." James Parnel came home wounded, but returned to his command before his furlough had expired. He went back with the feeling that the days left him were few: he indistinctly saw what awaited him. In an engagement to carry a strong point held by the enemy at Crystal Springs, near Washington, he was struck by a ball from a sharpshooter. The ball had glanced from a tree and brought him a mortal wound. The two hearts deeply wrung to have their son go into the war at all were pierced at the news of his death. We can hardly conceive their grief for him for whom they had so earnestly prayed and agonized in his absence. Henceforth whoever wore a soldier's uniform had a place in Sybil Jones's heart. Her unspent love went out to all who were suffering on the field and in the hospitals, and she could not rest at home. Obtaining the needful credentials, she took up in a new form the arduous service of her active and consecrated life, bearing the gospel cheer to the wounded and dying in Philadelphia and Washington. She could tell the soldiers of her own son, and so touch their hearts, and her sympathy and love brought joy to many a poor sufferer. The aggregate of her visits shows that she preached and talked to thirty thousand soldiers. To and from the field of her labor, at the dépôts, wherever she saw a uniform, she went to speak gentle words and to bear good news; and only those to whom the balm came can tell the good accomplished. Once more she met a kind reception from all. Soldiers and prisoners welcomed her, and those high in power listened with respect to her messages. She comforted the widow of President Lincoln, and twice stood before his successor, President Johnson, and faithfully warned him to rely on the Ruler of the universe for counsel in guiding the helm of state. She left home in 1st mo., 1865, with a certificate for service. On her way to the field in which she felt called to labor she visited her children in Philadelphia, and attended meeting at Germantown, where she was favored with a gospel message. She also attended Twelfth street meeting and the large quarterly meeting in Arch street, where she was constrained to speak for her Master. She then proceeded to Baltimore, accompanied by Lydia Hawkes of Manchester, Maine. In this city she met her dear husband, who had been separated from her for three months. He was much worn by his labors as distributing agent of the New England Friends. He had distributed to the necessities of the freedmen food, clothing, beds, etc., according to the quantity sent to the mission. He had visited them from hut to hut, administering as well to their spiritual as to their temporal needs. They together attended Baltimore quarterly meeting, and on the 9th of 2d mo. arrived in Washington. Sybil Jones rested a few days, and then commenced the labors for which she was liberated. Her first service was in Judiciary Square. She, with her companion, was taken there in an ambulance, and they were preceded and introduced by their dear friend Jane James, who often gave them like aid. They were pleasantly received, and permission was granted them to perform any religious service. They visited nine wards and had service in the chapel, speaking words of comfort to those confined to their beds. Much seriousness and tenderness was apparent. They also went to the hospital at Armory Square, visited all the wards of the sick and wounded, and had chapel service. It seemed that some were turning to the Lord. Eli Jones went for a short time to Philadelphia to try and gain a little strength, being very weary with his labors among the colored people. The mud was very deep and the work of distributing very hard. Their son, Richard Mott, accompanied his father, having spent the vacation from his studies at Haverford College with his parents at their post of duty. Camp Hospital was also visited. They were taken out in an ambulance by Dr. Upton, who was courteous in every way. The poor wounded ones seemed thankful for the interest exhibited for their souls' welfare. Carm Hospital was visited, and all freedom was given them to point the sick and suffering to the Lamb of God. Many were in tears at the close of service in the chapel. Her own torn mother's heart gave Sybil Jones great earnestness in prayer for the bereaved ones in the far-away homes as she was called upon to attend the funerals of the soldiers. Often more than one coffin stood on a form before them, and the occasion was made a solemn admonition to the survivors to be ready when the Lord should call. One of the meetings was attended by a surgeon who had led a profane and dissolute life. He was reached by the Spirit of God, and in a meeting rose and said, "I have been living for hell; I looked toward it as my home, and fully expected it; but God has had mercy on my soul and pardoned my sins, and I mean to serve Him the rest of my days." Nearly all were in tears. When the service was over the soldiers rushed to his arms weeping with joy. He said to them: "I have treated you badly and sworn at you, but by the grace of God I will never swear again." His conversion had a wonderful effect and was a powerful testimony for the truth. Columbia Hospital was visited. They found a very conscientious, loving superintendent in one of the wards, a lady named O. L. Pomeroy. In this ward they held a most blessed meeting and made an appointment for another. They were obliged to move from their lodgings on account of sickness in the family, and were most kindly received by their good friends William and Jane James. They found it a great privilege to be so cared for. They went to Lincoln Hospital, where were five thousand men. Their ministrations were much blessed: at a later visit they found four hundred more wounded soldiers from City Point. The afflicted men were all broken down with suffering and were ready for the consolation of the gospel. The field indeed seemed white unto the harvest. A lad told them that he had been in the Crimean War, and had served two years in this. He was an Englishman. He showed them a silver medal gained by valor in the former war. Sybil Jones said, "I hope thou art seeking a crown in that higher warfare?" He quickly replied, "I am pressing after it with all my might; I am looking to Jesus as my Captain." She sighed for "universal peace to reign" as she witnessed the untold miseries of cruel war. It was wonderfully touching to hear the bright testimonies of those poor feeble ones who had lain for months on their emaciated backs. Many were passing away. No one could bear to tell one poor dying youth that he could not live, and in all tenderness Sybil Jones said to him, "I think thou cannot get well; what is thy hope?" He replied, "In Jesus I believe; he has forgiven my sins. Tell my father and mother I have gone to heaven." Some seemed insensible of their danger, but were faithfully warned to prepare to meet their God. As these faithful messengers of good tidings saw the terribly mangled brought in, and beheld their patience and tenderness, they were sick at heart and prayed for the terrible tide of war to be stopped. They met with much kindness from Surgeon-general Barnes, who gave Sybil Jones a pass to all the hospitals in the United States, and a special one for the department of the South, with half-fare on Government transports. Sybil Jones was presented to General Auger, the military commander of the District of Columbia. He said that he was much pleased with her mission. He was spoken to concerning the interests of eternity. She was presented to Secretary Stanton and Colonel Harder, and was pleased with their demeanor and readiness to aid her work in every possible way. The Centre Guardhouse was visited and its four hundred inmates lovingly warned to be ready. On 4th mo. 1st, 1865, great excitement was felt in the capital city, as the President was personally directing affairs at Richmond, and the fall of the rebellious city was hourly anticipated. On the morning of the 3d came the joyful intelligence that the Confederate capital had been evacuated, and a great tide of rejoicing swept over the loyal States. Sybil Jones describes the scene in Washington as follows: "I was very fearful the inhabitants would be too full of joy to remember their great Deliverer and give thanks unto His name. We went to Camp Fry, and had to press our way through the throng, often pausing to note the variety of emotions exhibited--all joyful, but neither ridiculous nor profane. A subdued awe seemed to hold in check the lawless and dissipated, and tears of joy suffused the eyes of passers-by. The whistles of the engines, the roar of cannon, the music of the various bands, and the shouts of the multitude, mingled with the prayers, praises, and hallelujahs of the colored people, some down on their knees in the dust of the street, others dancing like David before the ark of the covenant on its return to its place,--all commingled in one mighty jubilant song which I trust was not devoid of the grateful tribute of praise to the great God of heaven and earth. We at length entered the ward of the sick and wounded of two regiments, about two thousand men. As we passed in I said, 'To-day is the nation's jubilee, and we have come to present our thank-offering with you, as you cannot join the street celebration.' A smile and 'Thank you' went round and brightened up the scene. We read a beautiful psalm and bore a testimony to the power and goodness of God, not only in hope of the full and entire emancipation of the slaves, but in disclosing to us to-day, behind the folds of the dark war-cloud, the silver lining of peace. We besought them to come to the Lamb of God, seeing his mercy and loving-kindness had been so great to them as to spare them amid the din of battle when their comrades had fallen all around them." Sybil Jones and her friends visited Seminary Hospital, and found among the wounded a young Friend from Illinois, who was much comforted by hearing the gospel tidings from a member of the Society he loved so well. A sad scene presented itself in Douglas Hospital. There had just arrived three hundred terribly mangled soldiers, some passing away, some in agony with lost limbs. It was an indescribably painful scene, and the one "Physician of value" was recommended to the poor sufferers. They addressed many prisoners of war, deserters from the South, and refugees. They were listened to with seriousness, and many were in tears. On a visit to Stanton Hospital, Sybil Jones met a young man from Maine named Eben Dinsmore. He told her that her son, James Parnel Jones, had been his captain when he first enlisted, and afterward his major. He spoke in the highest terms of his kindness to the men and his unspotted name, and said he heard a soldier of the same regiment say that he was with him from the time he was wounded until his death, and never saw a person die so happy, singing as he passed away. At this time Sybil Jones and friends moved their lodgings, at the kind invitation of their friend Isaac Newton, to make their home with him for a while. On the 15th of 4th mo. came the dreadful news that the good man who had stood so nobly at the head of the nation in this dreadful crisis had gone from works to reward, slain by the hand of the assassin. The great joy was turned into deepest mourning that he who was so endeared to all loyal hearts could not be with them to enjoy the restful time of peace. They held a meeting in the rooms of the Agricultural Department, and were comforted in their great grief by the presence of Him who said to the troubled waves, "Peace, be still." A visit was made to Stone Hospital, and it was found that the suffering ones there had had little religious instruction, but seemed grateful for Christian counsel. One poor fellow, who was dying and felt his lost condition, was entreated to look to the "Lamb of God." A young lady came one day to Isaac Newton's and asked if a Quaker lady who preached was there. She said that some one had been thinking how appropriate it would be to have a Friends' meeting, for the awful stroke inclined them to be silent. Isaac Newton offered his parlors, and Sybil Jones consented. She says in her diary: "We met at seven o'clock, and it was one of the most blessed seasons I have enjoyed in this city. The silence seemed to have healing in its wings and balm to the stricken spirit." Much service was done in Emory Hospital; the poor fellows on their beds were visited one by one, and each was lovingly spoken to. They held meetings at Emory Hospital for the convalescent soldiers, and by all they were most gladly received. Harwood and Finley Hospitals were fields of labor, and in each the gospel message was thankfully received. At first the surgeon in charge said that he never allowed service in the wards where the men were badly wounded or passing away. Sybil Jones said to him, "Doctor, wouldst thou take the responsibility of keeping the gospel from dying men, the suffering soldiers of our country, far from their homes and mothers?"--"No," said he, "but I do not want them disturbed."--She said, "Our services never disturb; we are a quiet people." She then told him that she had a pass to all hospitals in the United States, but would not insist upon entering without his full permission. He then gave it most freely. The service was gladly received, and it seemed like drops of rain on a dry and thirsty land. Sybil Jones felt that she must bear a message of her heavenly Father's love and sympathy to the widow of the lamented President. She had been ill, confined to her bed in the White House, since the fatal stroke. Sybil Jones says of the visit: "All crushed and broken under the heavy stroke, I spoke to her of the heavenly Chastener's love and care, and said that He could bind up the broken heart and give peace. She cordially invited us to come again. Her two sons, one about ten and the other about twenty, were at home, and very affectionate and attentive to their suffering mother, though themselves evidently feeling very deeply the sad event." Sybil Jones felt that she was given a message for Secretary Stanton. She in company with others went to his house in the evening, and, passing a guard of soldiers, was most kindly received by his interesting wife, the Secretary being absent. They spent an hour in pleasant conversation, and then the Secretary came and greeted them kindly. Very soon silence reigned, and Sybil Jones, after asking permission, rose and addressed the Secretary, telling him that as he had been raised up by the Almighty for the important duties of his office, he must dispense justice and judgment in the fear of God, plead the cause of the oppressed, and humbly in all things do the will of the great King, and the eternal God should be his refuge. She told him that, though his life had been sought, the angel of the Lord had guarded him, and if his trust was in Him no harm should befall him. After her remarks the Secretary rose and thanked her most profoundly, and told her that her gospel message was most grateful, and said that he needed the prayers of the people and that his trust was in God. Sybil Jones went again by invitation to call on the President's widow. She was still in bed, much prostrated. The rooms were all lighted as in the days when their master paced through them with the weight of his mission pressing upon him. One lone sentinel guarded the mansion--a strange contrast to the past, when a strong guard was deemed necessary. The desolate lady gave them a sweet welcome, and told them some cheering incidents of her husband's last days. She said that several times during the last day he lived he said, "This is the happiest day of my life." He seemed to feel that the great work was done, and he rejoiced that the cloud which hung over his beloved America had lifted. Sybil Jones then spoke to her cheeringly of the sympathy of Jesus with the sorrowing sisters of Bethany--that in her boys she had a charge to keep for the King. After a season of feeling prayer they parted tenderly. Stone Hospital, a beautiful home for the weary, suffering soldiers, was visited, and a wonderfully convicting season it proved. Sybil Jones was greatly saddened on a visit to the jail by its filthy appearance. Old and young were crowded in together, and the young in crime were by association with the vicious and degraded hastened in their downward course. Feeling that she was called to labor in Alexandria, Sybil Jones went across the river to that place, and found a kind welcome at the temporary home of James P. Barlow, he, with his family, having fled from his own home on account of rebel persecution and confiscation. She had a meeting with the convalescents in the colored hospital, and had most interesting services in Slough Barracks. She also had a large meeting at the Soldiers' Rest, where she addressed thousands of soldiers, all orderly and attentive, while a tear might often be seen tracing down the bronzed cheeks. Wonderful changes were apparent in this place since the abolition of slavery. Slave-pens were appropriated to useful purposes. One was used as a court of justice, where traitors took the oath of allegiance to their country and to the government. Sybil Jones then returned to Washington, and did what she could in the hospitals there, and then, feeling again the call to Alexandria, she returned to that place, and after more service owned and blessed by the Master she left this great field of labor and went once more to her children in Philadelphia, and thence to her own home. On the 16th of 4th mo., in 1866, she again left her home, accompanied as far as Providence by her son Grelet, and bearing a certificate from her friends granting freedom for such service as she was called to perform. She attended meetings at Salem, Lynn, and Burlington, visiting prisons, hospitals, and reformatory institutions. She went to Richmond, Va., and attended the small meeting of Friends there, and with them praised the Lord for bringing them through the bloody rebellion and allowing them once more to assemble under the banner of peace. She attended many meetings here; had a meeting in a penitentiary, where the poor inmates had not heard the gospel sound for five years, since before the dreadful struggle. Many Bibles were distributed and families visited. In a town near Richmond it was thought very doubtful if she could obtain a meeting, as the feeling against the North was so strong. When the Methodist minister was applied to, a young man present exclaimed, "That Quaker lady must have a meeting; she is the mother of my college classmate, Major Jones. She must have a meeting, and we will do our best to get the people out." The meeting was a large one and blessed, and the people expressed their thanks at the close. After much loving service in the prisons and elsewhere, Sybil Jones went once more to Washington, holding meetings and doing all she could to "lift the skirts of darkness." She felt that she had another message to bear to the White House, where now, at the head of affairs of state, was the late President's successor, Andrew Johnson. She had a most touching interview with the President's daughter, the wife of Senator Patterson. They mingled their prayers and tears, and then Sybil Jones was presented to the President. He was surrounded by supplicants, mothers, advocates of right, and artful politicians. While waiting for audience the President's little granddaughter offered to her a beautiful bouquet of flowers, and, drawing her close, Sybil Jones spoke to her of the infinitely more beautiful flowers of heaven. The President courteously gave her permission to speak. She told him her message, and told him that it was in the name of the "King of kings." He thanked her seriously, and many were in tears. It was a most impressive scene. After this, Sybil Jones returned to Maine, but she was not permitted long to enjoy the sweet associations in the home so dear to her. The impression seemed to gather force daily that she must once more cross the ocean. These words came to her often with great emphasis: "Get thee out of thy own country and from among thy own kindred to a land which I shall show thee." Once more she cast her burden upon the meeting, and found, as ever, the sweet sympathy and unity with her call to go forth that were ever accorded her. She was liberated for the service that she felt was hers to perform, and her "peace flowed like a river." Before engaging in the work in Europe, Sybil Jones obtained a certificate from the monthly meeting to visit the prisons and penitentiaries in some of the Southern States. She visited most institutions of that character in many of the large Southern cities, bearing the news of life and salvation to the poor erring ones. Many tracts and Bibles were distributed and much work was done in the vineyard of the Lord. Once more she bore a message to President Johnson. She went to the White House on a reception day for the President's daughter, and passed in with the throng. On every side were seen the glory and parade of this world that will pass away, but, obtaining audience with the President and his daughter, she spoke to them of the pleasures that are eternal. The Lord helped her to declare the truth, and she went away trusting that it would not be "in vain in the Lord." Her whole soul was rejoiced to see the great change that had swept over the South since the shackles of slavery had been removed. Those who had been slaves now stood up men. She felt that there is indeed "a God who judgeth in the earth, and He only worketh wonders." CHAPTER XII. _MISSION-WORK._ "'Tis time New hopes should animate the world, new light Should dawn from new revealings to a race Weighed down so long." BROWNING. There was comparatively little known among Friends about the land of the Bible from personal observation before 1870, and some of the best works on the history, the geography, the manners, and customs of Palestine have been written since that date. The visits of Eli and Sybil Jones to Syria, and the letters which they and their companions, Alfred Lloyd Fox and Ellen Clare Peason (born Miller), wrote from there have done much to bring that country to the careful notice of Friends; and the interest felt in the missions at Brumanna and Ramallah has induced many to study their situations and to become better acquainted with that whole region, incontestably the most important on the globe if we associate with the soil what has transpired there for the benefit of the race. We call it the "Holy Land," and the religious enthusiasts of the Middle Ages felt that it was a profanation for infidels to hold the sepulchre of the Lord and the cities where He taught; so that thousands rose from all Christian lands to win back the captured territory, and blindly gave their lives for what they thought a sacred cause. In those days the Crusades opened the eyes of Europe and showed to the people the civilization and wonders of this Eastern land, and they brought back accounts from the cradle of early civilization which changed the thoughts and ideas of the age. American missionaries began to work in Syria in 1823, not to win the soil from the hands of infidels, but to gain the souls of those living in blindness, ignorance, and sin; and their endeavors have been greatly blessed, although these strongholds yield slowly to the most vigorous assaults. Until the fourth century after Christ feasts were held annually in Syria to commemorate the death of Adonis--or Tammuz, as he was called in Syria--and his birth was celebrated again in the spring. These rites came from the story of Adonis being killed at the sources of the river which bears his name. This stream, which comes down with a swollen current in autumn, carries away much red iron ore; this gives the water a reddish color, which was said to be caused by the blood of Adonis, while in the spring Adonis was supposed to rise from the dead in all his beauty, at which time all gave themselves up to unrestrained joy. It was this mourning for Adonis of which Ezekiel speaks: "He brought me to the door of the Lord's house, and, behold, there sat women weeping for Tammuz" (or Adonis). All the heathen temples were destroyed and the worship stopped by Constantine the Great. At present there are in Syria about one million Mohammedans, two hundred and fifty thousand Maronites, two hundred and thirty-five thousand members of the Greek Church, eighty thousand Roman Catholics, eighty thousand Druses, thirty thousand Jews, but only five thousand Protestants; besides many other kinds of religions. The Maronites are thought by some to have taken their name from Maroon, an abbot who lived near the Orontes in the sixth century. He was considered as a saint by these people, though by the pope he was deemed a heretic. In the time of the Crusades the Maronites joined the Christian army from the West, and so came in contact with the Roman Church. They are divided into four orders--Jesuits, Franciscans, Lazarists, and Capuchins--over whom one patriarch is the governor. The order of the Jesuits, with the influence of the patriarch, has from the first opposed the work of all missionaries, and a heap of stones near the convent of Kanobin marks the spot where a missionary was martyred in 1830 by the will of the Maronite patriarch. The Druses are perhaps the most remarkable people of Syria, and they are, too, the most mysterious. It was formerly thought that they were the descendants of a band of the crusaders who were left behind and finally forgot their land and religion, taking their name from the count of Dreux. There is a more plausible theory which identifies them with some of the tribes introduced into the Palestine by Esarhaddon, the great Assyrian, in the seventh century, B. C. Their name seems to have come from Ismael Darazi, and dates no farther back than the eleventh century A. D. Hakim, one of the caliphs, who reigned in 1019, and who seems from his tyranny and fanaticism to have been a madman, maintained that he had direct intercourse with the Deity, and that he was an incarnation of the divine intelligence. The claim was made known in the mosque at Cairo by Ismael Darazi, whose testimony was hostilely received by the people and he himself compelled to flee; but he at last succeeded in winning over the ignorant inhabitants of Mount Lebanon, whence the origin of this religion. The Druses hold that there is only one God, indefinable, incomprehensible, ineffable, and passionless--that he has made himself known by ten successive incarnations, lastly by Hakim. They believe in the transmigration of souls, and they say that virtuous souls pass into Chinese Druses, but those of the wicked into dogs or camels. These people have a high reputation for hospitality, and especially toward the English or Americans. God, they say, is great and liberal and all men are brothers, though in their bloody massacres they forget this, as Christians sometimes do. The last hundred years have witnessed fearful struggles between the Maronites and Druses, and the rivers have run red--not from the supposed blood of Adonis, but from that of human beings--and many Christians have fallen victims. Another sad fact is the low position which woman holds in Palestine. It is only Christianity that can put her in her true place as man's equal. Those, then, who go to Syria to herald the gospel and plant the seeds of progress in the hearts of these people have as much to contend with as those who go among uncivilized heathen, or perhaps more. Here they are opposed by uncompromising bigotry, by the despotic hand of a mighty ruler, and they must find untold obstacles in a land where the muezzin's voice is heard from a thousand Moslem minarets, with the hate which has ever existed between the two religions, and has not been lessened by the contests around Jerusalem for the possession of the holy sepulchre. But missionaries are peacemakers, and it is well that members of the Society of Friends have been led to do work here--a Society which would proclaim the "truce of God to the whole world for ever;" a Society which would give to woman the nobility for which she was created. We may hope that the hills which witnessed the chorus of angels singing, "Peace on earth, good-will to men," shall look on a community in which this is fulfilled, and, though Jerusalem's altar-fires have gone out, there may a brighter light shine into the hearts of a people worshipping God in spirit and in truth. We can hardly realize that this important land, "the cradle of revelation," is so small that it is only about the size of Wales. "From Dan on the north to Beersheba on the south is a distance of only one hundred and thirty-nine miles, and the paltry breadth of twenty miles from the coast to the Jordan on the north increases slowly to only forty between the shore of the Mediterranean at Gaza and the Dead Sea on the south." To this little country, made great and again humbled, raised up and again degraded, to this people divided into so many religions, Eli and Sybil Jones felt a call to bear the gospel first promulgated from its hills and in its valleys. They were liberated by China monthly meeting, Vassalboro' quarterly meeting, and New England yearly meeting, and embarked from Boston on the 10th of 4th month, 1867. "The last meeting attended by them before leaving their home in Maine was thronged by their townspeople, many of whom had known them through life, and several ministers from other societies from the overflowing of their hearts expressed their desire for the divine blessing upon their labors as ambassadors for Christ. Between our two friends, and upon the same bench, sat their two aged mothers, respectively in their eighty-fourth and eighty-ninth years. The latter arose in the presence of the large assembly, and, referring to the prospect that she should not meet her dear children again in this life, expressed her willingness to give them up for the sake of the Lord. They were attended on board their steamer by a large delegation of Friends from Lynn, Salem, New Bedford, and Providence. Here they mingled in Christian sympathy and in a season of religious fellowship, giving their fellow-passengers the opportunity of witnessing such brotherhood in Christ as used in the olden time to induce the exclamation: 'See how the Quakers love one another!'" Among those who came to bid them adieu and attend their religious exercises were John A. Andrew, governor of Massachusetts, and General Banks. It was especially interesting, as marking a striking contrast to the treatment which the missionary Quakers two hundred years before received at the hands of the Boston officials. John G. Whittier, who at one time had a desire to accompany them, wrote the following beautiful verses for the occasion: "TO ELI AND SYBIL JONES. "As one who watches from the land The lifeboat go to seek and save, And, all too weak to lend a hand, Sends his faint cheer across the wave,-- "So, powerless at my hearth to-day, Unmeet your holy work to share, I can but speed you on your way, Dear friends, with my unworthy prayer. "Go, angel-guided, duty-sent! Our thoughts go with you o'er the foam; Where'er you pitch your pilgrim tent Our hearts shall be and make it home. "And we will watch (if so He wills Who ordereth all things well) your ways Where Zion lifts her olive hills And Jordan ripples with His praise. "Oh! blest to teach where Jesus taught, And walk with Him Gennesaret's strand! But whereso'er His work is wrought, Dear hearts, shall be your Holy Land." Letters from Eli Jones and his companions will be given farther on to show the nature of their work, the places visited, and something of the good accomplished. Many of these letters are exceedingly interesting, and, being written on the spots which they describe, they throw new light on the scenes of the Bible-land. For the present I wish to follow out briefly the part these two Friends have taken in what may be called distinctive mission-work. After being engaged for about a month attending meetings in and about London, mostly among the poor, and doing some work in Scotland, they began their journey, stopping with the Friends in the south of France, embarking from Marseilles for Greece, and thence going pretty directly to Beirut in Syria. They had as companions and helpers that earnest and sweet-spirited Christian, Alfred Lloyd Fox of Falmouth, England, and Ellen Clare Miller of Edinburgh, for whom, as she is still living, words of eulogy are happily not yet in place. They spent some months holding meetings, visiting schools, and doing much quiet work up and down nearly the whole length of Palestine. Sybil Jones being all the time in feeble health, they finally returned to England to spend the summer. Sybil went to Ireland, and Eli held meetings in different parts of England. Meantime, Alfred Fox and Ellen Clare Miller, who had become much interested in the work going on in Palestine, had raised a considerable sum of money to assist the mission-schools and general religious work in the Holy Land, and about seven hundred pounds were collected, some of which was sent to those needing it. As the summer went on, Eli and Sybil Jones each separately, began to feel that they had still further work in the East to do, and the way opened for them to return to the work which they had left unfinished. Ellen Clare Miller again attended them, also Richard Allen and Captain Joseph Pim. What money remained was put into their hands to be spent as they saw fit to promote education and spread the gospel in Syria. While in the neighborhood of Jerusalem they visited Ramallah. There was a boys' school in this place, and here they were met by a young woman who asked that she might be helped to teach a girls' school. Eli Jones asked her if she could teach, to which she answered, yes. After consideration it was decided to take some of the money which had been entrusted to them to start this young woman--Miriam--in the work of educating the girls of the neighborhood. On returning to England at the end of their visit, and reporting what they had done at Ramallah, it was at once accepted by the English Friends, and the little school thus begun was adopted and liberally supported. Ramallah became the seat of the mission and school of the London Friends, and was carefully watched over, built up, and maintained until 1888, when it was decided to be best for American Friends to take it in exchange for their interest in the Brummana mission on Mount Lebanon. It will be called the Eli and Sybil Jones Mission, and the New England Friends are ready zealously to take up and carry on the good work which for eighteen years has received the support of English Friends. During this same visit, while at Beirut in the year 1869, they met Theophilus Waldmeier, who was engaged in the British Syrian schools. He became much interested in the strangers, and desired to learn more of their religious principles. "Their addresses were so powerful and edifying," he writes, "that our hearts were touched, and I began to think that their religious principles must be of a superior nature. I went to the hotel where they lodged and made their acquaintance, and from that time I have believed that the Quaker principles are the right basis for a true spiritual Church. When these dear Friends left the country their blessed influence remained upon my heart, though they had not the slightest idea of it, nor had I any hope of seeing them again." Two years later Theophilus Waldmeier met Stafford Allen, and accompanied him, his son, and Joseph Price to Baalbek, so that they became closely acquainted, and he was invited to come to Stafford Allen's house in London, which he did in 1872, and here he made the acquaintance of Hannah Stafford Allen, Robert and Christine Alsop, and others, and he became more and more familiar with the spiritual views of Friends, and later he joined himself to their Society. He visited the different missions around Mount Lebanon, and he found that there was none at Brummana. It was told him that the inhabitants of Brummana were the greatest thieves and liars in the world. "They are Maronites, Greeks, and Druses, and the evil report of them has filled the country even unto Egypt. Every one is afraid of them. The American missionaries wanted to establish a mission among them, but they were expelled from the place in 1831, and the Bibles and Testaments which they distributed among the people were publicly burned." This showed that here was indeed the spot for a mission, but it would take courage and manly work to establish it. But the order seemed to come to Theophilus Waldmeier, "Go forward;" and on the 9th of the 4th month, 1873, he gave in his resignation to the committee of British Syrian schools, and it was not long before he was settled with his family at Brummana. But, unsupported, he felt he could do little, and he wrote an earnest letter to Hannah Allen for assistance; and this letter was sent to Eli Jones. Hannah Allen sent pecuniary aid to Theophilus Waldmeier for his family. Eli Jones received the letter a little before New England yearly meeting opened, and took it with him to that meeting, not knowing what it would be best to do. Charles F. Coffin attended this yearly meeting, and he made an earnest plea that New England Friends should identify themselves with some mission-work. The subject was taken up and a committee appointed, the names of Eli and Sybil Jones being among the number. Eli Jones at once urged that something be done to help Theophilus Waldmeier, and fifty dollars was raised to be sent to him. Eli Jones was requested to write and find how the religious views of Theophilus agreed with those of Friends, and the answer gave satisfaction to all. American Friends were now ready to take hold of the work on Mount Lebanon, and were anxious to join with English Friends in support of a mission there. Eli Jones wrote to Theophilus Waldmeier: "I am glad to be able to say that our Friends in New as well as in Old England seem much interested in thy work on Mount Lebanon. I think that thyself and dear wife and your helpers may be encouraged to give yourselves to the work of the Lord there, with full trust that your temporal wants will be supplied." After much correspondence it was arranged for English Friends to join those of New England yearly meeting in furnishing funds for the support of the new mission; committees, secretaries, and treasurers were appointed. T. Waldmeier was encouraged to go on with what he had begun, with the certainty that his wants would be supplied. He did so, and the work prospered. He has had much to endure, but he has persevered, and much of the success of Friends' work on Mount Lebanon is due to his faithfulness and courage. English Friends have from the first nobly done their part to support this post of service, and they have shown an untiring interest in it. Eli Jones has felt almost a father's love for this Mount Lebanon mission. He has worked for it, begged for it, and prayed for it. His original fifty dollars, collected from New England Friends, was the first contribution sent to it, at least by Friends, and from that time on he has not ceased to stretch out his hands and heart to help it. He would be the last to claim any honor for the success of either of the missions in Palestine; he is among those who have helped to plant and water, and God himself has given a good increase. In 1876, Eli Jones, Alfred Lloyd Fox, and Henry Newman again visited the Holy Land, and especially the slope of Mount Lebanon. A meeting was held there, and Eli Jones read an epistle from the foreign mission committee appointed by New England yearly meeting, expressing the belief that a meeting should be organized at Brummana. After deliberation a meeting was organized in the usual manner, consisting of six native Christians and the family of T. Waldmeier. During this same visit they started a boys' training-home. The winter was spent in getting the training-home ready to open and putting it on a proper working basis. A house was rented from one of the emirs of Mount Lebanon, in which the boys of the mountain began to be trained. This house and the one occupied by T. Waldmeier were those in which lived the two emirs who gave the order to burn the Bibles and Testaments of the early American missionaries. The spot is still marked near the training-home where these Bibles were burnt, and some of the inhabitants still live there who helped execute the order; so that the children of the men who put fire to the Bible are now being taught on this same spot from this same book. In the spring of 1880 an appeal was made for a girls' training-home at Brummana, T. Waldmeier judging the cost of building and current expenses would be about ninety-five pounds. Not long after Eli Jones wrote: "At our New England yearly meeting thy appeal for a girls' training-home was read, and elicited a ready and remarkable response. Soon after the meeting we found that the subscription had reached eleven hundred dollars. The women Friends of New York yearly meeting also raised two hundred dollars, thus making thirteen hundred dollars in the hands of our treasurer, George Howland, for the purpose of erecting a home for girls on Mount Lebanon." So much money was collected that during the winter Eli Jones in the name of the committee authorized the work to begin, and on the 27th of 10th month, 1882, the new building was completed. Eli Jones, then in his seventy-sixth year, again crossed the water to be present at the dedication of it. Three hundred persons, among them princes and princesses, were there to see and hear the ceremony. Eli Jones read Prov. xxxi., and spoke for an hour and fifteen minutes on the subject of female education. The fifteen girls who were to be educated sat in a semicircle on chairs before Eli Jones, and stood up and sang a hymn at the close of the meeting. Charles M. Jones of Winthrop, Maine, had attended Eli, and they worked for three months to accomplish the transference of the mission into the hands of three English and three American trustees. The management of the work was considerably remodelled during this winter. It is a difficult matter to obtain a perfectly clear title to land in Palestine, and the Friends were obliged to go through eight different courts before the affair was thoroughly settled. The Ramallah Friends' mission was visited, and much was done to encourage the workers there. New England Friends at present are earnest to accomplish much good at Ramallah, and there has been a striking liberality manifested by them in this field. Eli Jones, now in his eighty-second year, can never again visit in the body these two spots which he fondly loves, but he rejoices in his last days that the cause so near his heart is receiving so warm a support, and the advance which has been made prophesies the day when the Syrian wife shall have a woman's voice and a woman's power, and when the marvellous blessing of Christ's immeasurable love shall be felt in the hearts of those who now sit in darkness, though in the land where "the great Light has shined." CHAPTER XIII. _LETTERS FROM SYRIA._ Eli and Sybil Jones were most cordially liberated by Friends for the work in Europe, which was shown them as a field white unto harvest in which they were called to labor. They set sail from Boston in the ship "China," 4th mo. 10th, 1867. They attended Dublin and London yearly meetings, and visited the meetings throughout England, and then carried their labors into Scotland. Of the visit in this country Eli Jones writes to the _Friends' Review_: LONDON, 9th mo. 6, 1867. Having returned to this city again from what has been to us a very pleasant and satisfactory tour throughout parts of Scotland, and especially to those towns where members of our religious Society reside, I take my pen to give a few jottings from my note-book. On the 12th of 8th mo. we left Newcastle-upon-Tyne for Glasgow in Scotland, distant by rail one hundred and twenty-five miles. The day was delightful, and as we passed on at the rate of thirty or more miles per hour we saw much calculated to please and instruct. Crossed the Tweed near its mouth, where the old town of Berwick enjoys a fine outlook upon the German Ocean, and where a halt of a few minutes reminded us that we had really reached the land of Scott and Burns, of Jaffrey and the Barclays, and of others whose names are familiar to the readers of Scottish history. Our course after leaving Berwick lay through extensive fields of ripening corn--or, as we Americans would say, of grain--interspersed with broad belts of potatoes and turnips, the whole indicating careful culture and a higher type of agriculture than I had previously noticed. As we approached Edinburgh there was less land under the plough, and instead green pastures cropped by numerous flocks of sheep, with an occasional sprinkling of other stock. Passing through the last-named city, we noticed the monument erected to the memory of Walter Scott. Its architectural beauty can hardly fail to catch the eye of the traveller. Another hour, through a valley of great fertility, brought us to Linlithgow, the birthplace of Mary queen of Scots. The royal castle is still standing. At the close of the day's travel we found ourselves at Glasgow, and, taking a hurried lunch at the house of William Smeal, were seated in the meeting of ministers and elders at the hour of seven, when visitors and visited were comforted together. _13th._ Were present at the two-months' meeting--a favored season. At a joint meeting following that for worship the ministry of Eliza Wigham was approved. It was instructive to witness the freedom of expression, not only of the aged, but of young men and women, who cheerfully lent their aid to help the Church redeem her "charge" in so important a matter. Attended two meetings in Edinburgh; lodged at the house of William and Jane Miller. The next day, in company with these dear friends and others, went by rail to Aberdeen by way of Stirling, Perth, Dunbar, and Stonehaven. This ancient city of the North, of which Alexander Jaffrey was provost (or mayor), and in whose prisons many of the early Friends were incarcerated for conscience' sake, is in 57° 8' 57" north latitude, and lies upon the river Dee. It is built of gray granite. The houses are from two to four stories high, and present a clean and substantial appearance. A statue of Queen Victoria standing near the centre of the town is much admired. It is of white marble upon a pedestal of red granite highly polished. In the chapel at King's College a structure of the fourteenth century is shown, a pulpit--a relic from an ancient cathedral of the twelfth. Great labor must have been performed by hands no longer active to produce in the solid oak the carved figures and forms seen in this edifice of a bygone age. The other college buildings are of modern date. The general meeting of ministers and elders was held on the 17th. Godfrey Woodhard, William Ball, Thomas Wells, and Sarah Tatham in the ministry were present from England. The latter has been for some weeks our kind companion and caretaker. _10th, First day._ Two meetings for worship were held, both well attended, the latter more numerously than could be accommodated in the house, several remaining near the door; all quiet and attentive. Most Friends present in the ministry took part in the vocal exercises, in which Christ was exalted as the rightful Head of His Church and as the world's only Saviour. The business of the general meeting is the same in character as that of a quarterly meeting. It was held on the 19th of the month, preceded by a meeting for worship. We may trust both were seasons of encouragement to Friends in this land, so remotely situated one from the other and accustomed to meet for worship in comparatively small numbers. While in Aberdeen we visited Barbara Wigham, now nearly ninety-three years of age, a valued minister who seems quietly waiting the pleasure of her Lord to leave her post of watching for a seat among the blessed. How delightful to look upon the ripe corn in the ear ready to be garnered! She is the daughter-in-law of John Wigham, who some years since travelled extensively in America, going as far east as Nova Scotia. Left Aberdeen the morning of the 21st for Stonehaven, sixteen miles distant, where we had arranged for a meeting in the morning. This is a neat little town, nearly two miles from Ury, the ancient home of the Barclays, including the noted Apologist. The present "laird of Ury," John Baird, and his wife, Margaret Baird, kindly showed us about their palace-home and its extensive gardens redolent with fruit and flower, and in other ways continued to make our call a very pleasant one. Among things of special interest was shown a stool of rather clumsy make labelled "Library Stool of Robert Barclay the Apologist." Tradition and facts point to this as the veritable seat of that eminent Christian scholar while writing his unrefuted and as yet unanswered book, _The Apology_. A lengthened walk through field and pasture brought us to the "Sarcophagus" of the Barclay family, located upon an eminence overlooking the estate and its surrounding country, including Stonehaven and parts of the German Ocean. The building is of stone, with recesses in the interior walls containing tablets descriptive of members of the family, from Colonel David Barclay to Robert the Younger, who died in 1854, there being five in a direct line of the name of Robert. A larger tablet contains a synopsis of the history and genealogy of the family, running back many years prior to the time in which the name of Barclay finds a place in the history of Friends. The estate is large. One of its owners during his life cultivated two thousand acres and planted out one thousand five hundred other acres. At the time of our visit its pastures were enlivened by the presence of large herds of horned cattle and a flock of eight hundred ewe sheep, four hundred lambs, a portion of this year's increase having been disposed of previously. Numerous beeches of startling dimensions grace the lawn, and near where stood the old homestead an old yew tree, now in the strength of its power, reminds one that it might have enjoyed, and probably did enjoy, youth contemporaneously with the ancient "laird of Ury" and with his son the Apologist. The present dwelling is one of modern date; its predecessor and the "old Ury meeting-house" were removed to give it place. Our meeting at Stonehaven was a relieving one. The family from Ury attended, and we were glad of their company. Thence we went forward to Glasgow by way of Dundee, accompanied by our kind friend, Robert Smeal, the gifted editor of the _British Friend_. Held large meetings at each of the above-named cities. On the 24th, after a meeting at Kilmarnock, went that night to Edinburgh. Next day and first of the week met Friends and others at their place of worship. Here closed our religious labors in that interesting country, and we came pretty directly to this place, taking in meetings at Carlisle, Manchester, and Birmingham. Affectionately thy friend, ELI JONES. Eli Jones, in a letter dated 9th mo. 26th, thus alludes to service ahead: "We intend to leave London this evening for Paris, and after a few days there and among Friends in the south of France, embark at Marseilles for Greece; call at a few places in that classic land; thence pretty directly to Beirut in Syria, where, if the Lord shall make a way for us to labor in His service, we may spend some weeks in visiting school-missionaries and such others as may be disposed to hear the good news in the land of the Crucified One, and return by way of Jaffa, Alexandria, Cairo, and the island of Malta. We have as companions and helpers in the work our young friends Alfred Lloyd Fox of Falmouth, England, and Ellen Clare Miller of Edinburgh. Much kind interest has been manifested by Friends here in relation to this new field of labor." One of the companions of E. and S. Jones wrote the following account of their labors in the south of France to the _Friends' Review_: "Eli and Sybil Jones and party left London on the 16th for Paris, _viâ_ Folkestone and Boulogne, having letters of introduction from the secretaries of the Turkish Mission, Church Missionary, and Jewish Church Mission societies, and to various persons in the East. We had a smooth, pleasant passage of about two hours, S. J. reclining most of the time, and E. J. and companions remaining on deck watching the disappearing lights on the English coast and then those on the French shore coming into view. We spent the night in Boulogne, going on the next afternoon to Paris. The three following days we spent in Paris. We visited the Exhibition and went to the stand of the Bible Society, where we were greatly interested in the account of the work done during the time of the Exhibition. They have distributed, thus far, 1,800,000 copies of the Scriptures or portions of the Scriptures. Among others, eight hundred priests have received these, so that we cannot but hope that a large amount of good has been effected. While Eli and Sybil Jones were at the stand numbers of people came for the little gratuitous French, German, and Italian Gospels, and seemed much pleased to receive them. Our friends had the pleasure themselves of giving some copies to soldiers and others. The gentlemen at the stand were much interested in E. and S. J.'s mission to the East, and supplied us with Arabic and Turkish portions for distribution there. On First day we attended the Friends' meeting at the Congregational chapel, 23 Rue Royale, at 9 A. M. About forty persons were present, among others L. Mellor and her husband from Philadelphia, whom it was pleasant for E. and S. Jones to meet. The meeting was a memorable and impressive one, ministry and supplication flowing freely. Soon after the Friends' meeting the usual Congregational meeting was held, at which we remained, the pasteur inviting E. and S. Jones to come to his afternoon meeting in the Avenue des Ternes, where they might have an opportunity of addressing those present. We accordingly went, and found a small but serious gathering of English and Americans; the song of the angels on the night of our Saviour's birth was dwelt upon. Next day E. and S. J., having been invited by the secretary of the Evangelical Alliance to be present at the usual service in the Salle �vangélique, we went thither at the appointed time, but were sorry to find on arriving that, though free opportunity was offered for Eli Jones to speak, the committee could not allow Sybil Jones to do so. Under these circumstances Eli Jones declined to take any part in a service which would so distinctly have compromised one of our Society's leading views. On Third day we left Paris for Lyons. E. and S. J. much enjoyed the country with its long lines of poplar trees edging the streams and canals, and vineyards terracing the slopes of Côte d'Or. We slept at Lyons, setting out the following morning for another day's journey to Nismes. Nismes was reached between nine and ten P. M., our Friends less tired than after the journey of the day before, having much enjoyed the scenery. Jules Paradon, who for so many years had been an interpreter for Friends and their kind helper in the south of France, came early to the hotel on the following morning to welcome the Friends back to Nismes. Lydia Majolier and other Friends also called, and an arrangement was made for a meeting to be held at the Free Church the same evening, the pasteur kindly giving up his usual service to E. and S. Jones. A good meeting was held, about one hundred being present. Jules Paradon interpreted the free gospel message and the prayer for France, her rulers, her pasteurs, and her people. Much joy was expressed at seeing E. and S. J. again. Much fruit of their labor here fourteen years ago is evident. There seems much good stirring among the young people who are connected with Friends. Some of those who were at school when E. and S. J. were last here bear marks of their influence. On the 3d we drove to Congènies, about twelve miles from Nismes, through the rich vineyards and oliveyards of the South. There are not many Friends at Nismes, but the little meeting-house was well filled. In the evening a meeting was held, and about ninety present, half of them men. It was an interesting sight to see the men in their working dress and the women--many of whom had been working hard all day--listening so attentively and seriously to the loving and encouraging words spoken to them. Much feeling was shown as they spoke to the Friends after meeting. E. and S. Jones and their party were kindly lodged at the house of George and Lydia Majolier, and the following day were driven to Fontanés to see Friends in that neighborhood. We were hospitably entertained at the house of Daniel Brun, a minister of our Society. A meeting was held in the afternoon, about forty present; L. Majolier interpreted. E. and S. J. addressed words of warning and encouragement to all. Daniel Brun prayed for a blessing upon the seed sown. On First day the meeting convened at 10.30 A. M. at Congènies, many Friends coming from other places, so that the little meeting-house was again filled, J. Paradon having come over to interpret. Sybil Jones dwelt upon the nature of true worship. Eli Jones dwelt earnestly upon woman's part in regenerating and elevating the world, reminding us of what a prominent part she played in the fall, and, on the other hand, both in the Old Testament history, and still more in the New, how many noble women are written about. These were held up as not unattainable examples. A large and very interesting meeting was held at 4 P. M. at Nismes in one of the Protestant places of worship. On Second day E. and S. J. visited two girls' schools for the poorer classes, at both of which they spoke to the children, encouraging them to pray morning and evening for help for the day and forgiveness for what they had done amiss. "On Third day we were at St. Gilles, where we were very kindly entertained at Anna Vally's, where a meeting was held in the afternoon for the few Friends in the place, and in the evening a good meeting was held in the temple. The following day a large meeting was held at Calvisson, six hundred being there, and Pasteur Abausit himself interpreting. On Fifth day a farewell meeting was held with the Friends, thirty or forty in number, at which much tenderness of feeling was shown while S. J. urged and encouraged them to fight for the faith once delivered to the saints. She dwelt earnestly on the need of their forgiving those who had injured them, as they hoped to be forgiven. Many tearful farewells were said and earnest desires expressed for E. and S. J.'s welfare, and for a blessing on the labors of their hands. On Sixth day we left Nismes at noon, reaching Marseilles about 5 P. M., whence we hope to sail this afternoon for Athens, thence to Beirut, where we look to be about the end of the month." * * * * * We give below a letter from Ellen Clare Miller, written on board the steamer "Godavery" to the _Friends' Review_: SMYRNA, 10th mo. 25, 1867. It falls to my lot to give some account of the very interesting visit to Athens of our dear friends Eli and Sybil Jones.... It was a time never to be forgotten. Our account was written from Marseilles, from which port we embarked on Seventh day, 10th mo. 12th, reaching the Piræus on Fifth day morning. We had a safe and pleasant voyage, receiving much kindness from the captain, who seemed a superior man. There was not opportunity for much outward service on board, but earnest desires were felt and loving prayers raised that our tarriance there might be for good to those who sailed with us.... On the 16th the fine ramparts of the rocky, sterile hills of Southern Greece came into view, and all that day we coasted along that most interesting country, with its mountains rising up from the very edge of the sea, here and there a poor little village with its scanty olive trees set in the hollows of the hills, or a solitary house for the shepherd or goatherd. It was past midnight when we sailed into the Piræus, very calm, with beautiful starlight and a very soft air; and so we landed in Greece. We did not know quite what we should do, landing at midnight in a strange country and hearing only a strange tongue, but we were wonderfully provided for in this respect. A Greek gentleman, who was our fellow-passenger returning to Athens, very kindly did for us all that could be done, getting our baggage through the custom-house without detention--which at that late hour was a great relief--and taking us to a comfortable hotel. It is difficult to convey the great interest of our visit to Athens, which should, I think, be confirming to all who go in simple faith where they feel themselves required to go, believing that the way and the work will be opened up before them. Such has been everywhere the openness to receive our dear friends that surely He who put it into their hearts to visit this place, and who when "He putteth forth His own sheep goeth before them," prepared the hearts of the people in a wonderful manner to receive them, and opened the way for their mission among all. It was very interesting next morning to find ourselves opposite the Acropolis with its ancient ruined temples and fortifications, and the less conspicuous but still more interesting little eminence beside it, Mars Hill, from whose rocks, where the council of the Areopagus sat, Paul spoke. On Fifth day, the 17th, Eli Jones and Alfred Lloyd Fox delivered letters of introduction to J. H. Hill, chaplain of the English embassy, who for more than thirty years, with his wife, has been teaching the Greek children. There is a great work going on in Athens in reference to the poor Cretans who have fled from their own islands and taken refuge in Greece. Thousands have come to Athens, where they have been provided with food and clothing, and schools have been opened for the education of their children. We visited five of these--some more than once--where E. and S. Jones had an opportunity of speaking to the children, and often to the poor Cretan women. Some were widows; others had lost their children, others whose husbands and children are still engaged in the war. All had lost their homes and their whole possessions. It was a very affecting sight to see these poor sorrowing creatures thronging to speak to the friends, thanking them for their words of loving sympathy and comfort, and for the help and sympathy sent them from America. At all the schools the message of our dear friends was to point both children and parents to Jesus as the one who is able under all circumstances to give peace and happiness to the soul. The message, which to many was a new one, seemed to go home to their hearts, and seed was sown with fervent prayer which we must believe will be blessed to these poor creatures and to Greece by Him who giveth the increase. Demetrius Z. Sackellarios, editor of _The Star in the East_ and treasurer of the American and Greek fund for the support of the Cretan schools, very kindly and efficiently interpreted on several occasions. He is a Greek by birth, but spent several years in America, and his wife, A. Josephine Sackellarios, is an American lady. There are indeed several Americans in Athens, with whom we had some very delightful intercourse. We spent First day evening with Dr. Hill and his family, and (through the medium of Edward Masson, a Scotchman, and formerly one of the judges of the supreme court of Areopagus) E. and S. Jones had an opportunity of addressing a school at Dr. Hill's house for between twenty and thirty Greek girls of the upper classes. Several were introduced to them from Macedonia, Asia Minor, and many parts of Greece and the islands, besides Athens. An impression seemed to be made that evening which we trust will not soon be forgotten. After visiting another of the schools on First day, where we saw five hundred children taught on the national-school system, and some Cretan women spinning and weaving their native silk, we went to the prison, where Sybil Jones had obtained permission to speak to the prisoners. Leave was granted for all the prisoners, about one hundred and fifty in number, to come into the courtyard, in the centre of which was a large plane tree, under the shadow of which all stood, the poor men forming a large semicircle around S. Jones and D. Sackellarios, her interpreter, and the others. It was a striking scene and a time of great interest. The men were exceedingly attentive, and many were moved while S. J. spoke to them for nearly an hour. She sympathized with them in their present condition. She related some narratives of prisoners who, having found their Saviour in prison, had been filled with joy, and she prayed for them that they too might be brought to Him. The governor of the prison seemed very grateful--said he hoped the words spoken would be blest to the souls of the poor prisoners; and many said it was a day never to be forgotten. It was found that the prisoners had no Bibles, but an arrangement was made that each should be supplied with at least a Gospel. We spent the evening very pleasantly at the house of Dr. Kalopothakes, where we met most of the missionaries, to whom, after the First of Romans had been read, E. and S. J. addressed many words of encouragement, as they did on a similar occasion on Third day morning, when many came to the hotel to take leave, alluding to the refreshment it had been in coming to a strange land to meet with those to whom, as servants of the same blessed Master, they could feel united in one common love and faith, partaking together of the one true communion and speaking together the language of Canaan. All present were deeply affected, and a strong impression was made there as on all other occasions. Some said that the visit of these dear Friends to Athens was just what they had long desired and prayed for--that what they had brought was as a message from the Saviour to encourage them in their work; and D. Sackellarios said that the day of his interpreting for them was the happiest of his life. The same morning E. and S. Jones visited the theological college for the education of young Greek priests. It is under the superintendence of a young Greek, who seems a serious man. He has one or two Friends' books, and is desirous to know something of our Society. S. J. addressed a few words both to him and to the students, encouraging them to give their hearts to the Saviour and to attend to the teaching of the Holy Spirit in their hearts. E. and S. J. also received a visit from the Cretan bishop of Kissaruss to thank them for their visits to the schools and their interest in the Cretan children, and through them to express gratitude to the American people for their help and sympathy. He also asked for the prayers of Americans that Crete might be made free. We sailed from the Piræus 10th mo. 22d, landing at Syra the following morning, where E. and S. J. visited the school for Greek children under the care of F. A. Hildner, a Basle missionary, who has been for thirty-seven years engaged in work on this island. Here, as before, the gospel message was spoken to the children and a cheering visit paid to the missionary. We re-embarked on Fifth day, and after running for some time pretty near the coast we sailed into the beautiful bay on which Smyrna stands. The city looks bright and Eastern with its light-painted, square, flat-roofed houses, among which towers and minarets rise. Behind the city rises a steep bare hill crowned with a mosque and the ruins of an old castle. The mountains rise all round the bay, greener than any we had seen since leaving the south of France, and with olive trees and vineyards round their base. To-day, the 25th, we went on shore, and were driven up and down the narrow, roughly-paved streets of Smyrna, in which we saw many sights reminding us we were in Asia--the trains of laden camels, the veiled Turkish women, the fine large cypress trees shading the graveyards with their painted inscriptions in foreign characters. We visited the deaconesses' home, where fourteen of the sisterhood educate between two hundred and three hundred children, many of the upper class. The establishment is in beautiful order, and a bright and Christian spirit appeared to reign in it. We hope to-morrow to continue the voyage to Beirut. Our dear friends are pretty well, though needing rest. Thine sincerely, ELLEN CLARE MILLER. Ellen Clare Miller writes again in 11th mo. to the _Friends' Review_: BEIRUT, Syria. The account of the journey of our dear friends E. and S. Jones was brought down to the time of our leaving Smyrna. Having now reached Beirut in safety, they wish thee and their friends in America to know as soon as may be of their welfare, and of the pleasant and very interesting voyage which we were favored to make safely and comfortably. Since our arrival here, on Sixth day, the weather has been so broken and stormy that we do indeed feel that there is great cause for thankfulness to Him who holds the winds and waters under His control. We sailed from Smyrna about noon on the 26th, gradually losing sight of the beautiful mountains which rise up on the south-west side of the bay with their fine coloring of gray, pink, green, and purple, which gives such a charm to the hills about this coast. We passed Chios and Samos--Patmos with its great interest as the isle to which the beloved disciple was banished by the emperor Domitian, and where the wonderful visions were revealed to him. The following day, First day, the 27th, we reached Rhodes, and, the steamer stopping for a few hours, we went on shore, going up the steep street where on either hand stand the half-ruined, strongly-built castles and houses once occupied by the Knights of St. John. Over each doorway may still very plainly be seen the various coats-of-arms of the members of the order, the grand master having a larger house and more elaborate escutcheon. We passed a mosque at the time when the congregation were coming out, and saw each man resume his shoes at the door; there were no women. We were allowed to look inside, but not to enter more than a step or two. It was a plain, whitewashed building, with matting, but no seats; texts from the Koran painted here and there upon the walls, and a kind of pulpit from which the Koran is read. There are many Jews and Mohammedans at Rhodes. It was sorrowful to think how many there were who were professing to worship God, but in so mistaken a manner. E. Jones and A. Fox distributed a great many portions of Scripture and tracts in Arabic, Turkish, and Hebrew, as they did all along the coast at our various stopping-places, so sowing much good seed, some of which at least may, we hope, take root and bear fruit. The whole of the following day was spent in coasting along that part of Anatolia formerly called Lycia, Pamphylia, and Cilicia, keeping very near the shore. It was a great privilege to pass near scenes of such interest as those regions through which Paul and his companions passed, and to see the very places on which their eyes must have rested. Cyprus was visible on the right, but too distant from us to obtain much idea of its appearance. Early in the morning of the 29th we found ourselves in the harbor of Mersina, the port of Tarsus, about ten miles from that city, of which Paul was a citizen. This latter place itself we could not see, but we were shown the direction in which it lay among the mountains, and the point where the Cydnus flows into the sea with its cold waters fresh from Taurus, whose snowy tops we plainly saw. The ship remained here till the afternoon, shipping wheat, and we were much interested in seeing a train of one hundred and fifty camels winding down from the direction of Taurus and moving slowly along the shore to discharge their freight at the warehouses upon the quay. We then turned our faces southward, passing not far from Antioch, which, however, cannot be seen from the sea. We stopped a few hours at Latakia, near which rises the cone-shaped Mount Cassius. Soon after passing this we had our first view of one of the spurs of Mount Lebanon, crowned with snow. This grand and extensive range became more and more conspicuous until we reached Tripoli, which lies beautifully at its feet in a fine wide bay. We sailed very near the island of Aradus, the ancient Arvad, opposite to which lies "the entering in of Hamath" so often mentioned in the Bible, the boundary of the Land of Promise, though never of that really possessed by the Israelites. The weather was very fine, but extremely hot, all the time we were on the water. The first day we were in Beirut the sirocco was blowing a hot, enervating wind. Beirut looks beautiful, either from the sea or land. It is built along the shore at the foot of Mount Lebanon. We find several American and English missionaries, many of whose schools we have visited and have been much interested in them; also attended some religious meetings. As it is the rainy season, the Friends are not able to get on quite so fast with their work as might otherwise be the case; but they have been warmly received, and their visit seems to be a very opportune one. Our party are all in usual health. The dear Friends think their health is improved, decidedly so, since they left America. Thine sincerely, ELLEN CLARE MILLER. Another letter from Ellen Clare Miller, from Mount Lebanon in 11th mo., 1867, to the editor of the _Friends' Review_, says: "The last account forwarded to thee of our dear friends E. and S. Jones was brought down to the 12th of this month. The great storms which had prevailed up to that time, severer for the season than had been known for many years, passed away on that day. A remarkably fine rainbow, double and sixty degrees in height, one foot resting on the sea and the other on the base of Lebanon, appeared that evening just before sunset, giving very welcome promise of the return of fine weather. This was very cheering, as the heavy rains had for the time suspended the work of visiting schools, except that of E. B. Thompson, which adjoins M. Mott's house. We are not able yet to give a very clear statistical account of the many schools in Beirut and Lebanon for the education of boys and girls, but there is, indeed, a great work going on through their agency--a work of very widely extended influence. E. B. Thompson has fourteen schools under her influence, some in Beirut, some in the mountains. E. Saleeby, a Syrian, who has spent some time in Scotland and England, and whose efforts are principally supported by subscriptions from the former country, has many more under his care. The American missionaries have stations at Beirut and in several towns in the mountains, and we are at present at a boarding-school for training Syrian girls for teachers, conducted by two young ladies from England, sent out by the Society for Promoting Female Education in the East. They have at present only eighteen girls, on account of their limited means; the school will accommodate thirty, and the education given and the Christian influence extended, here as at other schools which we have seen, are very telling, and are raising the women to a very different position from that which they formerly occupied even among the nominal Christians in the country. The prejudice against their education was very great among all sects, and still exists, from the Mohammedans, who believe that woman has no soul, among the Druses, Maronites, and Catholics, and the somewhat more enlightened Protestants, who are now, through these schools, awaking to the advantage of having their daughters educated. "The people everywhere seem very intelligent, and there seems much openness to receive missionaries from the Society of Friends, whose spiritual teaching is much needed in these parts; and we hope the feet of some may be directed to this Bible land, where the fields are already white unto harvest and the laborers few, and that Friends may see their way to lend funds to carry on this great work of Christian education among the females of the East. There is an innate nobility in them, and a gentleness and warmth of feeling in the women, which, when so developed, produce a fine character. Those who cannot speak English look at us with eyes full of love and interest, and by their expressive gestures convey more than many of our words would do. We became much interested in the girls of E. B. Thompson's principal school, which we frequently visited, Eli Jones taking the Scripture class several times. He found their knowledge of the Bible and their understanding of its truths equal, if not superior, to what we should find in our own schools in America and England. Besides this school, E. and S. J. visited the infant school in connection with it, also three smaller branch schools under E. B. Thompson's direction, and a boys' school conducted by two very superior young men, native teachers, but also under her superintendence. They also went to the Prussian Deaconesses' Institution, where the children receive a good education under Christian influences; then to the school for girls under the care of Dr. Bliss, the American missionary: of this latter a native Syrian and his wife have the immediate superintendence, residing in the house with the boarders. The children everywhere are well instructed in the Bible, and commit a great deal to memory both from the Arabic and English Scriptures. In all the schools the Friends delivered their message, exhorting all to use diligence to advance in their education, that through the instrumentality of her young men and young women Syria may rise among nations, and encouraging them to seek earnestly and prayerfully after a knowledge of Him without knowing whom, with all their learning and knowledge, they cannot be truly great--often kneeling in prayer with the teachers and scholars before leaving the school. They attended also a meeting for the Home Mission Society, where they addressed, through the medium of M. Bosistani, its principal, the college for the education of Syrian young men, as well as the American and E. B. Thompson's school, who were all present. "On Sixth day morning we started for Sook-el-Gharb, a little village twelve miles from Beirut on the side of Lebanon, two thousand feet above the sea, where we intended to remain an hour or two visiting the schools there, and then to continue our journey a little farther to a village which we might make our headquarters while visiting the schools in that neighborhood, it being considered that the mountain-roads would have sufficiently recovered from the effects of the storm to be passable. The wind and the rain had, however, been so much more violent than is usual at this season that the road was much worse than had been expected, the path being in some places washed away by the torrents, which, wearing themselves a rough channel down what had been the road, had thrown up a wall of large loose stones on each side, making the journey in some parts dangerous, and so fatiguing that Sybil Jones was very much exhausted on arriving at Sook, and unable to proceed farther without a rest of two or three days. As much care as possible had been used in getting her up the mountain, riding being the only means of travelling on these steep, rough mountain-roads, with their ascents and descents more precipitous than can be well imagined without being seen; but the shaking and exertion were quite too much for her back, unused to such exercise, and she was confined to bed, suffering much from pain and weakness, until Third day, the 19th, when she was carried in a chair to this place, twenty minutes' ride distant from Sook, by a comparatively level path. The exertion of this so tired her that with great reluctance she had to decide that she must give up the prospect of going farther into the mountains. Eli Jones and A. L. Fox are accordingly visiting the various mountain-schools, while she is remaining at the school in Shumlan. It is a great disappointment and a trial of faith to both the dear Friends that it has thus been ordered so differently from what had been planned; but we cannot but believe that it will be overruled for the best. The ride from Beirut to Sook-el-Gharb is a very interesting one. We halted for some time at a little rude khan at the side of a little stream of clear cold water, where we rested a while under the shade of a fine evergreen oak, and had some refreshments, being offered cakes of the Arab bread, which is very thin and flat and baked of coarse flour, producing the effect of a small sheet of chamois leather; though rather tough, it is sweet and quite edible, and in constant use in this part of the country. They tear off a piece, roll it up, and dip it into their food, instead of using knives and forks; and we were much interested in hearing that it was still the practice in doing honor to another at table to present him with such a piece dipped in the choicest part of the mess, reminding us of our Saviour's gift to Judas. Our view from this village is very fine. We look down on the Mediterranean, ten miles or more distant, but looking in this deceptive atmosphere not more than three or four miles off. Between us and it intervene the terraced sides of Lebanon, laid out in mulberry-gardens or newly sown with wheat. Our stay at Sook, though unintentional, seemed to be in right ordering, for service opened up there. The mistress of the house where we were, E. Saleeby's wife, was dangerously ill, and has since died, and her husband felt the dear Friends' visit one of great comfort and entertained us with much kindness. E. Jones and A. Fox visited the boys' and girls' school there, as well as at Abeih and Bhamdûn, some hours' ride from Sook, E. J. examining the children in Scripture and in other branches, speaking to and praying with them, and distributing English and Arabic books. He also held meetings at Sook and Shumlan in the school-house, attended by the schools and several of the villagers, where the words earnestly spoken were attentively and gladly received. We have heard twice from E. J. and A. L. F. since they left us--good accounts. We were hoping to have seen them back last evening, but they did not appear. We suppose that they must have gone farther than was at first intended." * * * * * The following is a letter from Eli Jones, written to the _Friends' Review_ a few days later than the above letter from E. C. Miller: SYRIA AND PALESTINE. SHUMLAN, 12th, 21st, 1867. My dear Sybil feeling unable to go farther over these almost trackless mountains without time for more rest, it seemed best for her and E. C. Miller to remain at the boarding-school for girls at this place under the care of two English ladies, Lucy Hicks and Mary M. Jacombs, while A. L. Fox and I should proceed in the work. Accordingly, on the 22d of last month we left at eight o'clock in the morning on horseback, attended by an efficient dragoman named Georgius, an interpreter, Ibrahim, and Abdallah and Hassan, muleteers. After a ride of two hours we reached Abeih, and were kindly cared for at the house of Simon Calhoun and wife, American missionaries. He has been many years in this country, and is, we learn, much esteemed by all classes. Our first call was at the school of the Druses. The provost of the school and the teacher of English met us at the gate and gave us a cordial welcome; then led us to an apartment where sweetmeats and coffee in tiny cups, according to the custom of the country, were served. In answer to our question whether the Holy Scriptures were read in the school, the teacher of English assured us that they were read by his class. He is a student from the American school, and will do what he can, I doubt not, in his delicate position to inculcate Christian sentiment among this peculiar people. In the afternoon we visited the boys' and also the girls' school, under the care of the American mission, and were pleased with the advance they have made in their education: we spoke to the children in each school, William Bird interpreting, as he did in the evening, when we met the young men at the Abeih seminary for the education of native teachers. This institution has been in successful operation for the last twenty-five years. Each student is expected to devote from one to two hours each day to the study of the Holy Scriptures. These students may now be met in almost all parts of Syria and in Mesopotamia and Egypt. _Seventh day, 23d._ Rode to Deir-el-Kamr; found lodgings at the school-house, where E. B. Thompson has a small school. After dinner took an hour's ride to Beteddin; called at the palace of Douad Pasha, governor of the pashalic of the Lebanon. The governor was not at home; we were met by some of his subordinate officers, with whom we had interesting discourse. _First day, 24th._ At an early hour we mounted our trusty steeds, and reached Mukhtârah about ten A. M. Riding up to the palace of the great Druse chief, Said Beg Jumplatt, we found the two young princes about to set out on a ride to pass the day with friends in a neighboring town, accompanied by N. Gharzuzee, the tutor of the younger prince, and other officials. They offered us the hospitalities of the house as long as we were disposed, which we accepted, and were soon informed that the princes had given up their anticipated pleasure, saying they preferred to spend the time with us. The elder prince is nearly eighteen years of age, and married; the younger is about thirteen years old, bright and intelligent, and really "the hope of my house." His tutor, N. Gharzuzee, who is a native of Syria, has spent several months in England; he speaks our language well and appears to be an earnest Christian. As Christians we could not fail to feel greatly interested in seeing such a man in so important a position, where he is teaching this young man, destined, so far as we can see, to fill the highest place of influence among this heterodox people--not only sciences and languages, but the pure and unsophisticated doctrines of the Bible. At one P. M. we met the children of the American mission and of E. M. Thompson's schools, with several of the parents. After listening to a very satisfactory examination of the children in the Scriptures, I addressed them, N. Gharzuzee interpreting in an able manner. The meeting was one to which I recur with sincere satisfaction. _25th._ Had our morning reading in Arabic, after which prayer was offered in English, in which strong desires were expressed in the name of Jesus, on behalf of the young princes, for the various members of the household and for Syria. We left after many a cordial shake of the hand and with many a "God bless you!" and "May you return to your own country in peace!" Near one o'clock P. M. we saw in the distance the snow-clad top of Hermon, which we seemed approaching. What thoughts filled our minds--thoughts too big for utterance--as we stood upon "the heights of that goodly mountain Lebanon," and saw the noble cone of Hermon rising majestically toward the meridian sun, while southward near its base lay the division of Naphtali, a portion of the "land of possession," where we hoped to arrive on the following day! "The north and the south, Thou hast created them; Tabor and Hermon shall rejoice in Thy name." Passed near a peasant at work with a curious plough drawn by a pair of tiny bullocks. We each took a turn in guiding the plough, and felt a pleasure for the time in occupying a place so often honored by prophets and good men of old in this historic land. About the time of the going down of the sun we reached Jezzin. Weary from the long journey, I lay for a time upon a rug near the fountain while our dragoman went to look for lodgings. During that brief time many a maiden came forth with her pitcher to draw water. What strong evidence this that we are nearing the Bible land! Lodgings were soon announced. On reaching the room intended for our reception we found several members of the family busily engaged in covering the floor with matting, and near the seat of honor a fine carpet was spread. Presently, finding I was weary, a thin mattress--or perhaps, as would be better understood in our country, a thick comfortable--was added as a bed. Here, stretching my weary limbs, I sought needed rest. By the time, however, that we were fairly domiciled a large circle of men came in and engaged in their favorite occupation, smoking. Though the fumes of the pipe have for us no attraction, but rather the contrary, still, finding our neighbors inclined to be social, we strove to make the conversation profitable and if possible edifying. In the course of the evening our kind hostess inquired if we would like water for our feet? On our replying in the affirmative, "a lordly dish" well filled was brought, and we were told all things were ready. Think what must have been our surprise on being told that the young woman standing near had volunteered to wash the strangers' feet! Fearing that our refusal might be misunderstood, we placed them at the disposal of the "little Syrian maid." With what thrilling interest ought we hereafter to read the account of what transpired when He whose blood cleanses from all sin "girded Himself and washed His disciples' feet," saying to them, "If I then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet, ye also ought to wash one another's feet; for I have given you an example that ye should do as I have done unto you!" The morning of the 26th the priest of the place came in, with whom we had some pleasant intercourse. After breaking our fast we told the family that it was our practice, before proceeding on the journey of the day, to read a portion of Scripture and endeavor to lift up our hearts to God in prayer, and we gave them an invitation to be present. They all remained with us, as did the priest. We need not inquire to what society these people belonged; suffice it to say, they entertained strangers, they washed our feet, they fed the hungry, they bade us go in peace, and refused our money as a recompense. After a ride of two hours we halted at Cafer Huney, a little village on our route, to have our horses' feet examined by a blacksmith and shoes set if needful. While waiting we went to the fountain, where several persons collected. After a time spent in pleasant conversation we spoke to them of the heavenly country and of salvation by Jesus Christ. We left with them copies of our Lord's miracles in Arabic, which they received gladly. One of these rustic villagers, a lame man, offered me his cane as a walking-stick with such hearty good-will, saying he had others at home, that I took it and found it very useful in making the steep descent of Lebanon in the afternoon. Near sunset we reached the foot of the Lebanon range, and then crossed the Litany (named on many maps Leontes) on one of the few bridges to be found in this country. An hour and a half more brought us to the little town of Abbel, toward which we had looked as an Arab village where it might be difficult to find secure and comfortable lodging for the night. Ere we entered all was shrouded in darkness, for the night had set in, but, as it proved, a glad surprise awaited us. In reply to our first inquiry for lodgings we were told that "the American church would be the best place for us to stop at." A little farther on we were accosted by one with whitened locks, who, taking our hands, shook them with both of his with brotherly cordiality, and then with a light led the way to the comfortable house erected within the past year as a place for worship and a school-house by that devoted band of men whose praise is in all the churches in this land--the American missionaries. By the time we had entered several of the brethren had arrived. The house is without seats. Mats were quickly arranged for us; then followed the arrangements for supper. A _canoon_ filled with charcoal with which to heat the water for tea first arrived; then one brought bread, another eggs, a third sugar, and another melons; and _such melons_! worthy the land that produced them. All things being ready, the travellers sit upon the floor about the inviting meal, and while they are busily engaged in satisfying the calls of hunger the company increases; and here our responsibilities widen, for as we have been privileged to partake of their good things for the sustenance of the body, we are in duty bound, as far as may be our power, to meet their spiritual and intellectual wants. I trust this evening, our first in Palestine, was spent to the mutual benefit of all concerned. On the morning of the 27th the school-children and several of the parents came in, to whom we spoke words of encouragement in the pursuit of useful knowledge, and especially that which "maketh wise unto salvation." An hour more brought us to Krhyam, where we met another school. We spoke to them of Him who is the only "Hope of Israel." Again in the saddle, we rode away across the extensive and fertile valley of Marjaiyum. Just before reaching D'Mimas we met William Eddy of New York State, a minister in connection with the American mission. On learning our intentions, he kindly proposed to return to D'Mimas, that he might be with us during our stay; his presence and kind care contributed largely to our comfort. Here we visited another school and met several of the brethren socially. The subject of education, and especially the education of women, was freely discussed. We endeavored to show them that no people can be happy or prosperous while woman holds a degraded position among them, and that it is in vain to look for great men where good and virtuous mothers are not to be found. As we press onward what a view opens before us! One short hour farther we stand upon a rocky knoll near the ancient town of Abel, where Joab claimed Sheba the son of Bichri as a condition of peace. Looking eastward, toward our right are the hills of the ancient Bashan, thickly dotted with oaks, those emblems of strength; toward the left Hermon lifts his head to heaven in solemn and solitary majesty. Not far are the sites where stood Laish, Dan, and Cæsarea Philippi of the Scriptures, which we hope to visit before nightfall, and all around on either hand we have spread out before us one of the great battlefields of the Bible. We spent a short time in the town distributing a few Arabic books, and met with, as far as we could learn, the only school-teacher, who told us he had under his instruction fourteen boys. We tried to give him encouragement in the work, and gave him a copy of the Psalms. Soon after mid-day we reached Tell-el-Kady, "the hill of the judge," the Dan of Scripture. Two things are here worthy of special notice: the fountain of the Jordan and the site of the ancient city of Dan. The Tell is cup-shaped, and bears evidence of being an extinct crater. On an island of rocks in size little more than sufficient to accommodate our party, and beneath the wide-spreading branches of an ancient oak, we took our humble mid-day meal. We had scarcely begun to satisfy our own appetites when a mounted Arab, armed to the teeth, rode up and asked for food, to whom we gladly gave a portion, for, once fed from our store, he becomes an ally, not a foe. Perhaps I ought here to add that on our way to this place from Abel we were accosted by an armed Arab, who demanded "backsheesh" as I rode abreast of him: feeling that we owed him naught but love and good-will, we gave him no money, and were suffered to pass without further molestation. The ruin of the ancient city of Dan is very complete; a few broken walls, fallen stones, and pieces of pottery are all that are left to tell of a people long since passed away. The story of Dan is soon told. Originally an agricultural colony of the Phoenicians, called Lessem or Laish, it was captured by six hundred Danites from the towns of Zorah and Eshtaol. The capture of Laish by the Danites in the north was the fulfilment of Moses's prophetic blessing to the tribe: "Dan is a lion's whelp; he shall leap from Bashan." Deut. xxxiii. 22. Another hour's ride brought us to Banias, standing amid the ruins of the ancient Cæsarea Philippi. The modern village is inhabited by some one hundred persons of the Moslem faith, who live in wretched ignorance and poverty. We lodged at the house of the sheik; a room was assigned us and mats spread. There we stretched our weary limbs, but, as the sequel proved, not so much to sleep as to contemplate upon the fact that we had nearly reached the base of Hermon and the site of Cæsarea Philippi, and upon the record that our Lord, after healing the blind man at Bethsaida, "came into the coast of Cæsarea Philippi"--that not far from this place He made that striking appeal to His disciples: "Whom say ye that I am?" and soon after, taking three of His disciples, "He went up into a mountain, and was transfigured before them." Yes, "I tread where the Twelve in their wayfaring trod, I stand where they stood with the Chosen of God-- Where His message was heard and His lessons were taught, Where the blind were restored and the healing was wrought." The next morning, before leaving, we conversed with a son of the sheik, himself a husband and father, upon the importance of education. He acknowledged his own inability to read, and further said that the children were all needed by their parents to work; and as to woman, her business was to care for the house and meet the wants of men, and if she did not do this well she must be beaten to make her do it. Such is the state of civilization where once stood a great and prosperous city, whose architectural ruins attest the fact that its citizens must have been men of skill and taste. Again in the saddle, we turned our course northward. Near noon we ascended a high elevation, where our dragoman halted and called out, "Look! look!" Facing southward, we looked and saw Hermon on our left standing in majestic greatness, and beyond, far to the south, the waters of the Sea of Galilee. Mid the glare of a noonday sun the little sea seems a molten mass of silvery hue. We have within the scope of our vision a mountain whose name is accepted as a word of beauty, a valley of great natural fertility, and the arena of mighty deeds done by men whose record is found in the "Book of books," and whose God is the Lord. Here young Jordan springs into life and links its destiny with the waters of Merom, and onward the eye stretches to that now placid sheet where in a dark and stormy night the chosen band were troubled, and where a compassionate Saviour allayed their fears. We dined at Rasheiyet,[8] at the house of a native Protestant minister, where we were kindly entertained. He accompanied us to the school of the American mission. We were pleased with what we saw, more especially with the students' knowledge of scriptural history. Several hours more brought us to Hasbeiya; we lodged at the school-house and had our mats spread upon the seats, thus extemporizing a bedstead. Next morning about twenty of the girls came in to meet us, and also two of the female teachers. We spoke of the way of life and salvation, with such words of encouragement as we found in our hearts. A ride of several hours brought us to Rasheyyá el-Wady. We lodged at the house of one Moses, the first person of the place who embraced Protestant views. [8] In tracing out the course of these travels I have used the spelling given in Bradley's _Atlas of the World_. Next day, 1st of 12th mo., held a meeting at the school-house. I felt strengthened, as I trust, to preach "Christ, and Him crucified," as the only way of life and salvation. On the following day at an early hour we passed out of the town by the light of a lantern. At half-past one P. M. we began to ascend Lebanon. At one place near the top we found our path literally strewed with fossils (bivalves); some of these we collected to take home with us. After a journey of nearly fifteen hours we reached Shumlan, our mountain-home, and were glad to find our companions in comfortable health, and I trust a feeling of thankfulness was felt to our heavenly Father for His protecting care so mercifully granted during our separation. Very sincerely, thy friend, ELI JONES. We give below some extracts from letters written to the _Friends' Review_ by Ellen Clare Miller, giving a definite account of the number and working of the schools in Beirut and Lebanon for the education of the young sons and daughters of Syria. E. and S. Jones have visited the greater number of them, and found many different kinds of laborers--Americans, English, Scotch, and Syrian--all doing a good work for the land: "Most of those among the natives who are true Christians, and who are exerting a good influence upon the people here, refer gratefully to the American missionaries as those who were instrumental in bringing them to the truth. The American mission has stations at many places among the mountains, most of which have been visited by Eli Jones and A. L. Fox; and besides those in the north of Syria, which we shall not see, they have three in Sidon and its neighborhood under the care of W. Eddy, which we hope soon to visit. The Syrian Protestant college of which Dr. Bliss is president is an institution where Druses, Maronites, Greeks, Armenians, and Protestants together receive a literary, scientific, and medical training under Protestant influence. E. and S. Jones visited this college last week, when they met twenty-eight of the young men, whom they were invited to address. Eli Jones set before them clearly and forcibly the great power of individual influence possessed by each student, the influence their institution must exert on the land, the measure it was of the power of the country, as no stream can rise higher than its source, and as the fountain is the stream will be. Sybil Jones, as an American mother who knew much of such institutions in her own land, affectionately urged them to work perseveringly and prayerfully in their studies, that each one might leave the world better for his having been in it. It was a very interesting visit; the young men, a fine, intellectual-looking company, listened with great attention, and afterward gathered round the Friends to express their thanks for their kind interest in them. "There is a large girls' school in Beirut, under the immediate care of a Syrian and his wife, but superintended by the wife of Dr. Bliss, Dr. Thompson's wife, and other ladies. This we have visited more than once, when E. and S. Jones have spoken to the children." "Besides the school at Shumlan, which is under the care of the English Society for Promoting Female Education in the East, the schools supported by England are all in the hands of Elizabeth Bowen Thompson, whose work is a very extensive one. Her schools are at present twelve in number--five at villages in the mountains--all (with the exception of one recently opened at Ainzabatté, where an English young lady is stationed) taught by natives who have been trained by E. B. Thompson herself. Her work here began in 1860, when the fearful struggle between the Druses, Maronites, and Mohammedans made so many widows and orphans. These Elizabeth Thompson gathered around her at Beirut, providing for and educating them. Since then the field has gradually opened before her, until she has now seven day-schools in Beirut and its immediate neighborhood, and a normal training-school of upward of sixty boarders. All of these E. and S. J. have visited, many of them frequently." "There are many daughters of Jews and Mohammedans among E. B. Thompson's scholars, and it is very interesting to hear these little girls singing Christian hymns with the others and repeating and listening to passages predicting the coming of the Messiah alike of the Jew and the Christian, and testifying of Jesus as the Christ. E. and S. Jones had a very interesting meeting with about forty of the native teachers and others connected with these British schools. There is a large girls' school, with an orphanage, under the care of the Prussian deaconesses, similar to the one we visited at Smyrna. Here Sybil Jones had an interesting time with the sisters and the children. She also visited the hospital, an establishment in beautiful order, under the care of four of the sisterhood, where, in a large house finely situated near the seashore, the very poor are kindly nursed and cared for. A school for Jewish children, conducted by missionaries sent out by the Jews' society in Scotland, has lately been established in Beirut. To this also the Friends paid a visit, which was spoken of by teachers as very helpful." "We left the terraced sides of Lebanon on the last day of the year, returning to the region of the palm, orange, and prickly pear. The weather has this month been very fine, though broken now and then by one of the fierce, sudden winter storms with their rushing rain and violent thunder and lightning. This wild climate suits Sybil Jones remarkably well; she has been better since returning to Beirut than she remembers to have been before, and she enjoys the riding on donkey-back. Eli Jones is better than when we first landed in Syria, though the bracing air of the mountains suits him better than this more relaxing temperature. We have visited most of the missionaries. Friends and their principles were almost unknown here, but we have been most kindly received, and we hope way has been made for others of our Society who may come to this country. E. and S. Jones one day visited the Beirut prison, into which they were admitted without hesitation, and where they had the pleasure of speaking to about forty poor creatures, and of pointing them to Him who alone has power to break our spiritual fetters." * * * * * Below we give extracts from a letter of Eli Jones to the _Friends' Review_, written from Jaffa in Palestine: "_2d mo. 17th, 1868._ E. C. Miller's health appearing not quite equal to a long journey, and finding it not possible to obtain more than three seats in the diligence for Damascus on the 25th of 1st mo., it was arranged that our young friend should 'stay by the stuff' in Beirut while the other members of our party went forward. Accordingly, at the early hour of two o'clock A. M. we arose, breakfasted at half-past two, and at three took conveyance for the station, and at four precisely, with shawls, wraps, sandwiches, etc., were nicely packed in the coupée of the diligence." "Our ride increased in interest as the young day grew upon us, and by the time the sun had thrown his full blaze of light athwart the western slope of Lebanon the objects seen through the transparent atmosphere of this land presented a most delightful view. Our course was sufficiently tortuous to enable us at times to look down upon Beirut and its surrounding olive- and mulberry-orchards, stately palms, and suburban villages, while beyond lay the Great Sea, dotted here and there with the sail of many a merchant-ship, and then again Sunnin, the highest western point of Lebanon, snow-capped, stood majestically before us clad in the changing hues of early morning." "Reached the summit near ten, and after another hour's ride of almost flying speed we looked down upon the great valley of Buka'a or Coele-Syria, bounded on the east by the Anti-Lebanon, clothed in its snowy vesture, while far to our right Hermon, the imperial monarch of Syrian mountains, was seen, in its appearance fully justifying the appellation sometimes applied to it--that of a silver breastplate." "Just as the darkness of night shut out from our view the fertile valley in which Damascus stood, our last relay of animals was attached to the carriage, consisting of six white horses; and fine specimens they were. A little farther on our attention was arrested by the sound of water on our right, and we were told that it was the Barada River, the Abana of Scripture. 'Are not Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel?' The remainder of our journey lay along the fertile valley of this ancient river. It may, with the strictest propriety, be termed a 'river of Damascus,' as it divides the city into two parts and furnishes a liberal supply of water to many of its inhabitants. We found comfortable quarters at the Dimitris' hotel. The proprietor, a Greek, speaks broken English and strives to make the stay of his guests as agreeable as circumstances will admit. "_26th._ Sent our certificates to the missionaries for their perusal. At 12 M. attended the prayer-meeting of the few persons here who speak English. After some singing and prayers, and a rather long theological discussion, liberty was given to others to speak. My dear Sybil availed herself of the opportunity to express the feelings which lay with weight upon her heart. This was done briefly, when she knelt in earnest supplication on behalf of those present and for the spread of the glorious gospel of God our Saviour." "The next day visited two of the schools under the care of the missionaries; strove to encourage teachers and pupils to act well their part. Then went to the home of one of the Bible-women employed by E. B. Thompson to go from house to house and teach such women as desire to read the Bible." "During our stay in the city we had frequently at our morning readings of the Holy Scriptures the company of the Bible-women and a few others, when our hearts were made glad in the Lord."... "A few weeks previous to the abdication of Louis Philippe the French obtained a foothold in Algeria, after a lengthened struggle of fifteen years or more, when Abdel-Kader, the sultan of the Arabs and one of the most remarkable men of his nation, was induced to surrender to the power of the French, on the condition that he might be allowed to retire to a Mohammedan country as a stipendiary exile."... "He is a follower of Mohammed, the founder of Islamism, and has shown his devotion to the teachings of the Koran by a pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina and by a lifelong adherence to the religion of his fathers. In 1860 thousands of Christians in the Lebanon and in Damascus were massacred in cold blood, instigated by the deadly hate of the followers of the false Prophet, while hundreds of others, men, women, and children, fled from their pursuers and took refuge in the house and about the premises of Abdel-Kader, who in the exercise of the influence his position gives him, and from the promptings of a kind heart, aided by his trusty followers, shielded the helpless ones from the fury and fanaticism of his co-religionists. Once the mob approached his house and demanded with frantic yells that the Christians within it should be delivered up to them. He, accompanied by a strong body of his followers, went out to confront the yelling crowd. 'Wretches!' he exclaimed, 'is this the way you honor your prophet? May his curse be upon you! Shame on you! shame! You will yet live to repent. You think you may do as you like with the Christians, but the day of retribution will come. The Franks will yet come and turn your mosques into churches. Not a Christian will I give up. _They are my brothers._' The mob withdrew."... "Abdel-Kader[9] was at length enabled to repose. He had rescued _fifteen thousand souls_ belonging to the Eastern churches from death, and worse than death, by his fearless courage, his unwearied activity, and his catholic-minded zeal. All the representatives of the Christian powers then residing at Damascus, without one single exception, had owed their lives to him. Strange and unparalleled destiny! An Arab had thrown his guardian ægis over the outraged majesty of Europe. A descendant of the Prophet had sheltered and protected the (professed) Spouse of Christ. The day previous to our leaving Damascus it seemed right to seek an interview with this noble exile, and from a full heart, in my own name and in behalf of my country and fellow-professors, thank him for his kind and humane interposition, by which, under Providence, so many fellow-beings were rescued from an untimely and a cruel death. Passing up the street upon which the house of the great chief stands, and having Abou Ibrahim for a guide (who, by the way, claims descent from Aaron), we observed Abdel-Kader enter the gateway just before we reached it, where he was standing when we arrived. Our guide having addressed him, he kindly noticed A. L. Fox and myself, and, cordially beckoning us to follow him, led us to a simple reception-room, where, being seated, we had an opportunity of saying what lay nearest to our hearts, and enjoyed the pleasure of feeling that it was kindly taken.[10] While in Damascus we were in the 'street called Straight,' and visited the place indicated by tradition as the house of Judas, where the blind Saul of Tarsus lodged. We were shown the house of Ananias, who was sent to cure the penitent of his blindness, and the place in the wall where the disciples took him by night and let him down in a basket. I am not surprised that the Christian traveller feels some misgivings as to the identity of these places when he remembers that the evidence is mainly traditional. There is, however, scarcely room to doubt that the modern city occupies the site of the Damascus of Scripture, and that the 'street called Straight' is the identical one entered by Saul on that memorable day that gave to the Gentile world a great apostle and to the Christian Church one of its brightest luminaries."... "The conversion of Paul was one of the most momentous events of Scripture history. The fiery zeal of Saul the persecutor was not extinguished--it was sanctified."... [9] From _Life of Abdel-Kader_, by Col. Churchill. [10] Eli Jones spoke his mission in English. Alfred Fox translated it into German, and the Jew gave it to the Arab sultan in his own language. Through the medium of three of the world's great languages the representatives of these three great religions expressed their thoughts to each other, and the burden of the thoughts was love and gratitude. The message being given, refreshments were put before the strangers, and then Abdel-Kader withdrew as a courtesy, so that these visitors might not be constrained to go out backward from his presence--an honor due to him as sultan. "Paul the missionary retained all his former energy, boldness, and determination. In Damascus he first preached 'Christ crucified;' then he went into Arabia, then to Antioch, then through Asia Minor; then he passed the Hellespont to Greece; and then he went a prisoner to Rome, where he preached the gospel though chained to a heathen soldier. The apostle Paul occupies the first place among the New-Testament worthies."... "Damascus is as old as history itself. It has survived generations of cities that have risen up in succession around it and have passed away. While they all lie in ruins, Damascus retains the freshness and vigor of youth."... "Outside of the eastern gate of the city is a leper hospital, which to this day is supposed by the inhabitants to occupy the site of Naaman's house."... "There are in the city about thirty thousand Christians, ten thousand Jews, one hundred thousand Mohammedans, and of Protestant Christians less than one hundred, all counted." "On the 31st of the month we returned to Beirut by diligence. During our stay of five days at Damascus snow had fallen upon the mountains, but not so as materially to retard our progress until we had nearly reached the summit of Lebanon, when, being furnished with a train of twelve animals and four outriders, aided by a strong force of men, we proceeded without much detention, arriving at our comfortable quarters in good time."... "We anticipate leaving in a few days for Jerusalem, should the weather permit and the health of our party prove equal to the effort."... "With love to all who love the truth as it is in Jesus Christ, "ELI JONES." The following are extracts from a letter from Ellen Clare Miller, written a few days after the return of Eli Jones and A. L. Fox from Damascus: "Eli Jones had a meeting at Beirut with some of the young Syrian men of the town, which, though it was a stormy night, was well attended and an interesting time. On First day, the 9th, he had a very good meeting in a suburb of the town at the house of one of the principal men in the neighborhood."... "It was a very interesting group, upward of one hundred being present, some of the turbaned old men leaning forward on their staves with their eyes fixed on Eli Jones while, after the reading of the twelfth of Ecclesiastes from the Arabic Bible, he addressed them through the aid of our kind interpreter, Maalim Saleem, seeking to bring all before him, old and young, to enter into the service of Him whom he had from his youth proved to be a good Master." "On the 7th, Sybil Jones had a meeting with the women connected with E. M. Thompson's school, at which she spoke to them for about an hour of our need of a Saviour."... "Many of these women have learned to read, and they are very anxious that a school should be opened for them where they may be taught to read and sew by a native teacher." ... "She visited also some of the poor women at their own homes and the Bible-women employed by E. M. Thompson, all of whom seemed very ready to receive a visit from one having their best interests at heart, and to listen gladly to the word spoken."... "On Second day evening a meeting was held by Eli and Sybil Jones with the Arabic-speaking congregation at Beirut, who readily responded to the invitation to meet them. Eli Jones addressed them from the words, 'The law was given by Moses, but grace and truth came by Jesus Christ.'"... "Sybil Jones followed, urging the necessity of a heart-changing repentance."... "Sybil Jones paid interesting visits to some of the harems at Beirut, the first time we had been inside any of those 'gilded cages,' where the poor women, without the resource of books, for they cannot read, or of work, for they cannot sew, talk, sleep, dream, and smoke life away, without the variety of walking out, for they cannot be trusted abroad, and unable to look out into the world except through a lattice. We went under the care of E. M. Thompson, who obtains ready access." ... "We were driven as near the first house as the carriage could be taken, but on alighting had to ascend a steep, rough, narrow road, crossing a watercourse here and there, then a branch road of steps, then another torrent-path. The roads of ill-governed Syria are deplorable indeed. At last we reached the door of a large but unpretending-looking house, or rather group of houses, for one opened out of another. Here lived four families, related to each other, of the first rank in Beirut, the grandmothers, the wives of the house, girls, and children, in the flowing dress of the East, sitting on the floor by the ashes of the braziers or crouching on the divan, all but the youngest smoking the unfailing nargileh with its long flexible tube. They received us most cordially and affectionately, and seated us by their sides, and through the medium of one of E. M. Thompson's native teachers Sybil Jones spoke to them, and also E. M. Thompson; but it was very difficult to secure the attention of the company for any length of time; they could not refrain from laughing and chatting together. Poor creatures! some of them looked almost devoid of intellect with the long pipe-tubes in their mouths; others were very pretty and seemed quite to appreciate the loss they sustained by being uneducated. Some of the highest Mohammedan families are very anxious that E. M. Thompson should open a school for their elder girls, where they would send them if no man was allowed to look upon them. The desire for education is waking up among them in a remarkable manner." ... "The ladies are all waited upon by dark, white-teethed African female slaves in scanty clothing. Sherbet, coffee, and sweetmeats were handed round, and it is an insult to decline partaking, however many houses we may have visited." ... "Poor creatures! we could not but desire that the true light might enter their dwellings and shine into their hearts." "We sailed from Beirut on the 12th, and came down the coast in the night, passing in the darkness Sidon, Tyre, Mount Carmel, and Cæsarea. After a rather stormy passage we anchored next morning before Jaffa, which rises up from the sea on a round hill, at each side of which is a sandy bay."... "It is difficult by description to give much idea of Jaffa with its steep, narrow, dirty, and muddy lanes, and street-stairs which climb up the hill among the old, dilapidated houses crowded irregularly together."... "Jaffa is very ancient, and, notwithstanding its extreme dirtiness, an interesting place."... "The most interesting place to visit in the town itself is the supposed--and, indeed, well-authenticated--site of the house of Simon the tanner, which stands by the sea-side, rising up above the town-wall. The building now standing is not supposed to be the very one in which Peter lodged, but to have been built on the spot where it stood. In the courtyard is a very ancient well which helps to identify the place, and beside it is a large stone trough of undoubted antiquity, probably used to soak hides in, and partly covered by a large flat stone like a currier's table." "There is mission-work going on at Jaffa; P. Metzler, a German educated at the Basle institution, carries on a mill, with part of the profits of which he supports a girls' day-school."... "Eli Jones with A. L. Fox visited this school the other day, when he spoke to and examined the children, with whose intelligence and answers he was much pleased." "While the Friends were in Damascus I was present at a native wedding, where the honored guests were each furnished with a taper to hold; which had a great interest as a remnant of the going forth with lamps to meet the bridegroom alluded to in the parable of the Ten Virgins. New light too has been thrown on the expression 'heaping coals of fire on his head' by finding that it is customary for the baker when he clears his oven at night to give away the living embers to those who will accept the kindness; and we have met persons in the evening carrying these coals away on their heads in large open braziers. It is remarkable how little the customs of the people have changed within the last two or three thousand years." * * * * * After the above letter was written the Friends went from Jaffa to Jerusalem, thence to Marseilles, having held many meetings and interviews with teachers and scholars in the schools, which are doing a great work toward causing the light of day to dawn upon unfortunate Syria. The following extracts from a letter written by Eli Jones to the _Friends' Review_ from London will state clearly the reasons for their leaving Palestine sooner than was expected: "We are again in this great city, and comfortably quartered at the house of our very kind friends Stafford and Hannah S. Allen, where we are seeking rest and a renewal of strength for further service for our good Master. For more than two months past my dear Sybil has been suffering from an attack of disease, leaving her at times very weak; consequently, we were unable to accomplish fully what we had in view in the Orient, leaving several places in Palestine and in Egypt that we might hasten the time of embarkation at Alexandria in order to bear our invalid to a more favorable climate, as the only thing likely to facilitate a cure. The voyage, with the use of remedies prescribed by the physician on shipboard, arrested the disorder for a time, and we hoped the cure might prove permanent; but the journey by train from Marseilles to Nismes proved too much for the strength of our charge, and the disorder rallied with fresh force and continued for some time, but again yielded to skilful treatment and nursing by our dear friend Lydia Majolier, whose kindness and sympathy, with those of our much-loved friends in the south of France, greatly cheered all our party. Near noon of the 8th we took the train for Paris, and thence to London by way of Boulogne, where we arrived after a journey of thirty-three hours' continuance. Dear S. bore the journey admirably, and we now entertain the hope that a few days of quiet and rest may be of great use, so that we may be able to proceed to Dublin in season for the yearly meeting. Our long sojourn in the East has not been without its trials. Sometimes they seemed to us peculiar, and when we attempted to look into the future it seemed doubtful if not dark. Still, that kind Hand always stretched out to save has gently led the way and shielded us from harm. Blessed be the name of the Lord!"... "A. L. Fox left us last evening for his home, where we now fancy him in the society of wife and child, father and mother, brothers and sisters, to whom he is tenderly attached and by whom he is greatly beloved. Dear E. C. Miller intends to remain until Second or Third day of next week before she leaves to join the home-circle, by whom she will receive a warm welcome, but saddened by the thought that one dear sister waits not on earth to welcome the coming one, but in another and higher scene of existence." CHAPTER XIV. _SECOND VISIT TO THE HOLY LAND._ The cause for which the two Friends came to England before fully accomplishing their work in Syria was the extreme feebleness of Sybil Jones. A change and partial rest seemed imperative. They soon began to labor in Cornwall, and they were gratified to find "Quakerism still vital" in this place where George Fox had sowed the seed exactly two centuries before. Considerable time was spent and much edifying work done at Falmouth, where they were pleased to find so many Friends of high literary and scientific attainments. The small meetings of the neighboring villages received new life from the earnest words and encouraging advice of the travellers. One of their letters describes the visit to a meeting at Come-to-Good in the parish of Kea: "Here is a meeting-house belonging to Friends built more than two hundred years ago. It has a most primitive appearance. The walls are of stone, the abutments of the same material; the roof is thatched with straw. It is in a rural and retired spot. Only one Friend, and he of more than fourscore years, resides in the neighborhood; but the many grassy mounds that press about the door tell of generations that have passed away. The meeting here was one of great interest, and one to which we recur with unfeigned pleasure. He who, we doubt not, has from time to time met his servants here and at that altar of 'unhewn stones,' was now present to bless the waiting ones. In this humble structure George Fox proclaimed the good news with his wonted zeal and with all the energy of a reformer." In the same letter Eli Jones writes with great feeling: "A little farther on we reach the Land's End. Here it stands, a bold promontory, with granite fingers pointing toward the New World. As I climb these mighty bulwarks that have successfully defied the power of Old Ocean through every change of time, and look out upon the unstable waters toward the setting sun, what thoughts of kindred and country fill my breast! Lord of life, great Spirit in the centre of all worlds, bless thou them!" For more than two months they dwelt at Plymouth, during which time Sybil Jones gained strength rapidly, although she was in a very critical condition. A Friend from that city writes of their message there: "I believe there are many in this part of the country who will have reason to bless God in eternity for the visit and gospel labors of Eli and Sybil Jones." Members who had never before opened their lips in public bore testimony that they desired to be on the Lord's side. The southern part of England was faithfully travelled over, and the joys of a "life hid with Christ in God" proclaimed to the people, who everywhere received the messengers and the message gladly. The various meetings of Ireland were again attended. A warm reception was given to the American workers, who were already well known there from their previous efforts, and an earnest and loving spirit seemed to pervade many hearts. As this year (1868) was closing, Eli Jones, with a heart full of love to God for his immeasurable blessings, wrote to one of his friends in the land which he so loved: "As we turn to other households and to our country, and to other countries and peoples, we see everywhere evidences of the superintending care of Him in whom we live and move and have our being. And are we not reminded by divers tokens for good that light is advancing? And may we not accept as true the words of the poet: 'Upon the great dial-plate of ages The light advanced no more recedes'? If this be so, let us bind on our armor, and as the newborn year takes its place as the successor of those that are past, and after it shall have done its full measure of service in the long line of years shall give place to others, who we hope may be blessed in their deed and doing far beyond their progenitors. "On the closing day of the last year I stood with my fellow-travellers upon the western slope of Mount Lebanon, and there reviewed the past and looked prayerfully forward to the incoming year--a year whose history will soon be complete. And what a history! and what a work has been accomplished!--work in which millions have been actors. The citizens of the two great English-speaking nations, Great Britain and the United States, have with unprecedented unanimity at their late elections declared in favor of religious liberty and of political equality. In Spain multitudes seem only waiting to claim for themselves and their countrymen these inalienable rights of all men. "Even in Turkey, where the teachings of the Koran and the False Prophet have dominated so long, see we not bright rays of light here and there amid the darkness? I think we do. The Christian woman with her firman from the sultan is diligently instituting schools where the children of the Jew, the Christian, and the Mohammedan are taught _not_ the _Koran_, but the _page_ written by inspiration of God. "If we turn to Madagascar, that far-off island of the sea, we observe much with which to fill a large page in the history of the year just closing. A queen has reached the throne who looks approvingly upon the workers among her pagan subjects, while thousands press about those who tell the good news of salvation by Jesus Christ, and hear them gladly; while Liberia, India, China, and Japan can each furnish a page that shall tell of light advancing and declare to the world that 'God is love' and the 'Father of us all.'" As the winter passed and Sybil Jones felt new strength come from her partial rest in Great Britain, while her husband continually carried on the work, sometimes alone, sometimes with her help, they each began to feel that there was more work to be done in the East, though neither had spoken to the other in regard to it. The 22d of 2d mo., their prospect having become definite, with the full approval of English Friends they once more embarked for Syria. They spent nearly a week in the south of France, revisiting their many friends there and encouraging them all to continue on in their lives of service to the Master. The meetings were very large, sometimes fully five hundred being present, and they found their work done sixteen years before had left a lasting impression. After a delightful voyage over the blue waters of the Mediterranean they came to Alexandria, where there were many opportunities offered for spreading the news of the way of life through the Saviour. Here and at Cairo there were many who gladly listened to the great truths which they were inspired to preach. There, where Napoleon had told his soldiers that forty centuries looked down upon them from the heights of the Pyramids, these missionaries of love labored to point their hearers to the Ancient of Days, whose habitation is from eternity and which standeth sure. The different mission-schools of Northern Egypt were visited and helped in various ways. Of this work Ellen Clare Miller, again their companion, writes: "The visit to Egypt was altogether of remarkable interest, there being, especially among the native Christians at Alexandria, an interesting and open field for the spread of _spiritual Christianity_, and an earnest longing in the minds of some after a closer _acquaintance with the teaching of the Holy Spirit and His appearing in the soul_." The 16th of 4th mo. they came to the end of their journey, and camped outside the city of Jerusalem. At once they began the work of visiting schools and holding little meetings for all who wished to hear the gospel, not only in Jerusalem, but in all the surrounding villages. As these laborers rose before the groups gathered round them on the very spots where the works of our Master were wrought and where his words were spoken, with the scenes of the greatest historic events stretching out before them, a new power seemed to fill them, and their souls were stirred for the salvation and upbuilding of the people of this Holy Land. No class of its inhabitants was neglected; even the lepers were recipients of their message. Eli Jones visited the community of these unfortunate beings, and tried to induce them to come to the hospital prepared for them, telling them also of Him who came into this world to deliver us from even a worse disease than leprosy. A letter from Eli Jones, written from Burkin, will suffice to give the reader an idea of their travels and a description of some of the places visited. Among others he speaks of Ramallah, where the mission-school was begun during their visit there. The letter was written for the _Friends' Review_: "Tented near this little town, the time of day something past 'high noon' and the heat at 94° in the shade, I take the time to jot down a few thoughts, or perhaps I should say facts, for the perusal of my North American correspondents. Since I last wrote thee we have passed through portions of the ancient country of Egypt, have looked with feelings of admiration and wonder upon her pyramids and hieroglyphics, the former standing out to-day in all their primeval strength to tell of the _greatness_, or perhaps more correctly of the _folly_, of their builders, and the latter as we saw them upon the lasting rock apparently as clearly defined as when fresh from the hand of the recorder. "The Nile, emphatically 'the river of Egypt,' still flows onward to the sea, and in its season annually waters the country, giving abundant fertility to the soil, which if cultivated with skill and care would make the adopted country of Joseph again the granary of the world. We had a very pleasant sail upon this wonderful river, embarking near the spot where floated the ark of bulrushes containing the Hebrew child who in the fulness of time became the leader and deliverer of Israel from their long bondage in the land of the Pharaohs. At the time of our visit the river was spanned by a bridge of boats, thrown across by order of the viceroy on the occasion of the marriage of some members of his family: this circumstance gave us a carriage-ride for several miles where otherwise we must have had recourse to donkeys as a mode of conveyance. "A canal has been constructed extending from the Nile near Cairo to Suez upon the Red Sea; these places are also connected by the railroad; much of the way this runs parallel to the canal. On our way to the latter place we followed the iron horse for five or six hours across the desert of sand which must needs be passed, and which is enlivened only by the moving sails upon the canal, the untiring steeds that bore us on, and those tell-tale wires which, as with loving arms, are embracing not only the seas and fertile lands, but also the desert wilds. An highway (Isa. xi. 16) _is_ here, and shall not _this_ desert yet blossom as a rose? To our party the Red Sea was an object of much interest: as we sailed out upon it we beheld at our right the mountains through whose defiles the Lord's people are supposed to have passed on their approach to the water's edge, where, notwithstanding the hot pursuit of their enemies, they were to hear the assuring language: 'Fear ye not; stand still and see the salvation of the Lord, which He will show to you to-day; for the Egyptians which ye have seen to-day, ye shall see them again no more for ever;' and on our left was the gently-sloping strand where they made their exit from their watery way, and where we subsequently landed, some of our party going a little way into the interior to drink of the waters at the 'well of Moses,' which remaineth unto this day. Let the God of Israel be magnified, and let not His wonderful works be forgotten by the children of men. "During our brief stay in this part of Egypt we had occasionally the opportunity of observing the progress of the work upon the projected ship-canal across the Isthmus of Suez. Of its ultimate completion and success its projectors are very sanguine, and it is equally clear that for the attainment of that end great engineering skill has been displayed and a large expenditure of money been made, and such a measure of unfaltering perseverance and of unflagging determination to overcome opposing difficulties brought into requisition as have been manifested in few other enterprises undertaken by man. "On the 6th of the 5th mo. the male members of our party left for Jericho, travelling the very road, we may suppose, upon which the man was journeying who 'fell among thieves, who stripped him of his raiment and wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead.' We halted near mid-day under the 'shadow of a great rock,' and not far from the spot made ever memorable and dear to the Christian by one of the most beautiful and instructive parables of our blessed Lord--that of the Good Samaritan. "We found the way rough and in some places difficult, yet there are in several places indications that in the centuries past, perhaps in the days of Roman rule, there was a highway here where the chariots of Jehu and Jabin might have 'rolled harmlessly on.' "Our tents we located near the modern Jericho, which is supposed to occupy the site of Gilgal, the camping-ground of the host commanded by Joshua, and where he did 'pitch those twelve stones which they took out of Jordan' in commemoration of their miraculous passage through the waters. Almost immediately upon reaching this place we put ourselves in communication with the people. Found the entire population Moslem, not one of whom can read, and the evidences of moral degradation, especially among some of the females, were remarkable. It should be said, however, that when we spoke to them of matters of the highest moment, and read to them from the sacred volume, the majority listened with some approach to respectful attention. "In the evening the sheik and some twenty or more of the men of the village responded to an invitation to come to our tent: we read a portion of Scripture and spoke to them of the beneficial effects of education upon a people, and of our individual duties to God. Our remarks were ably seconded by Prof. E. C. Mitchell of Alton, Ill., who kindly united with us in striving to stimulate the inhabitants of Jericho in the way of mental and moral improvement. At the close of the interview they assured us that we were the first persons who had ever offered them a helping hand or spoken to them of a better way than the one they were then pursuing, and added that on the next evening they would tell us whether they would accept our offer to give them a school. At an early hour next morning we were on our way to the Dead Sea, where we enjoyed the luxury of a bath in its bitter and buoyant waters; thence we passed on to the Jordan, to the place where thousands of pilgrims come in commemoration of the passage of the pilgrim band from Egypt under the lead of Joshua, and of the baptism of the world's great Deliverer by John, that the righteousness of the law might be fulfilled. Here we lunched and duplicated our bath in the Dead Sea: found the current of the river strong and rapid, requiring much care to retain one's position. The water is shoal, but of sufficient depth in places to allow of baptism by immersion. "On our return to Jericho the sheik kindly engaged to convene some of the people in the town, where we met fifty or sixty persons, and among the number several females, who brought their long pipes and engaged in smoking as they took their seats upon the ground. Their faces and breasts were sadly tattooed, and on the whole they presented a spectacle not easily matched short of the Western wilds of America. It is, however, but justice to this country to say that during my long stay here I have nowhere else seen its like. The motley company were addressed by Prof. Mitchell and others of our party, and we cherish the hope that this labor will not be in vain in the Lord, but that in due time fruit may appear. Soon after reaching our tents several of the men called to say that they wished a school for their children, and if we would send a teacher they would gladly receive him. I hope the means may be found to support a school at this place. The good influence would extend rapidly to the towns around. "First day, 9th of the month, some of our party at an early hour in the morning were at Bethany, the town of Mary and Martha, where we collected upon the top of a house such persons as we found at liberty, and read the account of the raising to life of Lazarus, as recorded by the evangelist, after which we trust Jesus Christ was preached as the resurrection and the life. "At half-past two P. M. of the 11th we left Jerusalem on our journey northward, and soon after reached the top of Mount Scopus, where on our right we enjoyed a delightful view of the Dead Sea, the valley of the Jordan near its mouth, and beyond the mountains of Moab, and, turning to review the ground travelled over, we had Jerusalem full in view; and perhaps from no other point is the city seen to greater advantage than from this, unless it be from Olivet. Tradition tells us that Titus, the Roman invader, selected the top of Scopus for his camping-ground, from which he could easily observe much that was transpiring in and around the doomed city. "We now leave, probably for the last time, the city dear to Jew and Greek, to Moslem and Christian, and especially dear to us who have found an open door to preach there Christ, and Him crucified. "Some half hour on our way from Scopus we turned aside a little to look upon the village of Anathoth in the land of Benjamin, the home of Jeremiah the son of Hilkiah. Resuming our course, we soon reached 'Gibeah of Saul.' The place is indicated by little more than a conical hill, which lay to our right. On our left and more distant, capping a high eminence, Mizpah was seen. Farther on Ramah was reached, the home of the good Samuel, 'and Samuel judged Israel all the days of his life. And he went from year to year in circuits to Bethel and Gilgal and Mizpah, and judged Israel in all those places. And his return was to Ramah, for there was his house, and there he judged Israel, and then he built an altar unto the Lord.' "Reaching Ramallah, some three hours from Jerusalem we found our tent in readiness to receive us. The town occupies an elevated position overlooking the distant plain of Sharon. The air was cool and bracing. 12th, visited a boys' school at Ramallah. In the afternoon some of our party visited one at Jifneh, the Gophna of Josephus. 13th, went to Bethel, distant one and a half hours from our encampment. "On approaching this place, so noted in Scripture records, we observed the remains of a cistern 314 feet by 217 feet, constructed of massive stones; the southern side is entire, the other sides are more or less ruined. A portion of the enclosure is now used as a threshing-floor. Here also is a fountain at which the cattle of Abraham often drank in former days, and at which the maidens of Sarah were wont to fill their pitchers as the Arab maidens do still. "The Bethel of to-day is a miserable Moslem village with a low, uneducated population, amongst whom we were unable to find more than one person who could read. He is the one who calls the people to prayers; to him we gave a tract and the Psalms of David in Arabic. "As we spoke to some of the inhabitants of our great Father in heaven, and of our obligations to serve Him, we were answered with little more than a vacant stare and an expressed wish for backsheesh. What a contrast between these followers of the False Prophet and him who is called the 'father of the faithful,' who here spread his tent and here rendered true homage to the great _I Am!_ and how unlike the patriarch Jacob, who here, beneath heaven's broad canopy, slept, as many an Arab now sleeps, on the bare ground with a stone for his pillow! Here he dreamed of the ladder which reached from earth to heaven, and on which the angels were ascending and descending, and on awakening was so impressed with the holiness and majesty of Jehovah that he exclaimed,'How dreadful is this place! This is none other than the house of God.' And here the cheering promise was given him: 'In thee and all thy _seed_ shall all the families of the earth be blessed; and behold, I am with thee, and will keep thee in all places whither thou goest.' "Here Samuel, worthy of double honor, a prophet of God and a judge in Israel, came on his yearly circuit from Gilgal and Mizpah to hold his court and render righteous judgment between brethren; and thitherward turned the steps of Elijah and Elisha while fulfilling their high commission as servants of God. "And here too came the youthful king Josiah, as foretold by the prophet, and brake down the high-places of Jeroboam, and burned down to the ground the grove that grew up on the hill for the worship of Astarte. "On our return from Bethel we held a meeting at Beeroth--now called Bireh--with a few Christians and Moslems. Our interpreter read the fifth chapter of Matthew, after which I drew their attention to the teaching of the gospel, dwelling at some length upon the words, 'Therefore whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them.' They listened with marked attention to all that was said. On leaving we were told that a few years since a difficulty arose from a very slight cause between two families in the town, and, spreading to others, the spirit of strife and revenge grew higher and higher till in their murderous fury forty-four persons lost their lives, and since then the spirit of revenge had shown itself in other ways. Only the night before our meeting valuable fig trees had been destroyed from the same cause, and we were told that some of the parties concerned were present and heard our words of exhortation. "Beeroth was one of the four cities of the Gibeonites, whose curious story the name will at once recall. It is also thought to be the halting-place of Joseph and Mary when they found that the child Jesus was not among their friends and kinsfolk of the party. Ramallah, twenty minutes from Beeroth, is professedly a Christian village, occupying a commanding position from which we get a fine view westward down the mountain-sides of Benjamin and Ephraim, and over the broad plain of Sharon to the Mediterranean. "Toward evening we held a meeting at the Protestant school-room in this town. The crowd of men, women, and children became so dense that nearly every one assumed a standing position, and all seemed very eager to see the strangers, and, as I thought, very curious to hear a woman address a public assembly. My S. J., taking her stand upon a bed in a corner of the room, spoke earnestly and at considerable length upon the way of life and salvation, to which many listened with fixed attention. "_14th._ At the request of S. J., a meeting was appointed for females; many responded, and a satisfactory meeting was held. Meantime, the male members of our party called at the Latin convent. Found the monk at its head with a school of eight or ten boys, which he summarily dismissed upon our entering, assigning as a reason that it was time for them to leave, though it was but ten o'clock in the morning. From the answers which he gave to our numerous inquiries we were induced to think that although he and his associates may not do much to enlighten the people around them, yet that as an individual he is really loyal to the Church of which he is a member, and that he considers salvation very unlikely, if not impossible, apart from conformity to its rules and its traditional observances. "In the evening a meeting was held with males only, in which they were exhorted to prepare to meet their God in peace by repentance toward Him and faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, and also to a faithful performance of their several duties as husbands, fathers, and brothers, that so the position of women may be elevated in this land and her children prepared for a useful career among men. "I am closing this sheet at Beirut, the 12th of 6th mo.; and as the mail closes very soon, I have only time to add that our party are in good health and look to turning their faces homeward in a few days. "Thy loving and sincere friend, "ELI JONES." It will not be possible to give the further details of the faithful efforts of this little party to promote the highest earthly and eternal welfare of the inhabitants of this once highly favored land. They visited all the spots made sacred by the steps of Him whom they followed, but they went not to satisfy their desire of beholding: they bore tidings of joy to the sorrowful. They pursued their journey as far north as Beirut, preaching in every city and village, and leaving in many places money behind them for the advancement of education. Wholly devoted as they were to the service of the Lord, with great love for all the human souls where they went, and power being given them to tell the story of a mighty Deliverer, the fruit of work must have been very abundant. We do not need to count those converted in such work for the Lord, and even if we could we should still be unable to estimate the value of the seed thrown broadcast over the land, which may long lie dormant and finally bud into new grain. On the 22d of 6th mo. Eli and Sybil Jones, with their companions, E. C. Miller, Joseph Pim, Richard Allen, and T. C. Wakefield, sailed from Beirut for the Occident, stopping on their way at Athens, Marseilles, and Geneva, and reaching London the 10th of 7th mo. Soon after their arrival in England the two American Friends embarked for their home. Sybil Jones's work in the Eastern continent was now complete, and she had the great satisfaction of feeling that she had in every particular obeyed the call of Him whom she served. CHAPTER XV. _SYBIL JONES: HER LIFE-WORK AND DEATH._ "For ever blessed be His name who bore Her blood-washed, white-robed spirit on and on, Through dark, deep waters to the radiant shore, Her warfare ended and the victory won. "Her children, underneath her native skies, Rise in the North, the South, the East, the West: In Europe, Asia, Africa they rise, Her sons and daughters, and pronounce her blessed. "Oh for a zeal like hers, to never tire! Oh for a faith like hers, to follow still The cloud by day, by night the glowing fire, That led her on to do her Father's will!" DELPHINA E. MENDENHALL, "_To Sybil Jones._" After the return from the East a few more days were left for Sybil Jones to tell the same story to men and women nearer her own home. Her frail body had carried her to many shores, and had not given way until she was once more among lifelong friends. She had presented Christianity to Mohammedan women "from the standard of equality of sex in social life, religion, and the ministry of the word." She had entered the "gilded cages" of Eastern harems and "borne the gospel with a sister's love to those unhappy inmates--glad tidings which they had never heard until proclaimed by her lips." With no relaxation of fervor, with no diminution of power, she continued to tell those not living in communion with God that "to be carnally-minded is death," and with the earnestness of one saving drowning men from the depths of the sea she stretched forth her hands and raised her touching voice to save them from a still worse death, the wages of their sins. The series of general meetings which Friends had just begun to hold gave her an opportunity to come before large audiences of all denominations, of the different classes. Many who came were unconverted; many more were in a dangerously lukewarm state; others needed strength and comfort. To one and all she proclaimed the great truth that whosoever liveth unto himself dieth, but "whoso hath the Son hath life;" and to the hearts where sorrow and discouragement and doubt dwelt she spoke of a joy for the world, an encouragement "to press toward the mark for the prize," a faith and belief that overcome. Over those long Maine hills, in the balmy air of autumn, fresh from the yellow grain and mellow fruit, or creaking through the snowdrifts of mid-winter, she and her husband, both with the same thought uppermost, rode to sit down on the high seats of those broad-based, low-eaved Friends' meeting-houses, and to rise again and speak messages of healing inspired by the great Physician. She loved to live, for every day gave her one more chance to call to the unhappy to be made happy. She loved to live, because she enjoyed the beautiful things which God brought daily before her eyes in His book written with His own hand. It was, too, a joy to her to be with her family, to be a mother to her dear children, a wife to her wedded fellow-laborer, and a friend to the many who loved her; but while she loved life she knew enough of our God to be assured that when her "bark sank it would be but to another sea," and that what we call death is but going from a chrysalis life to a fulness of knowledge and a fulness of life. No change that merely freed her of what could die and left her wholly immortal could be terrible to her, and so she had never, in all the days of extreme sickness which she had passed, had other thought than that she was being kept from work. To the very last she pleaded with her wonted earnestness: "I beseech you in Christ's stead, be ye reconciled to God," and she loved to quote the hymn which expressed the aspiration of her soul: "Oh, if _one soul_ I've pleaded with Meets me at God's right hand, My heaven will be two heavens In Immanuel's Land." The thought has often been expressed that as the spiritual life of a man or woman grows, develops, and gains complete mastery, the body gradually takes on a new and deeper beauty; a something which had not formerly existed shines out and hallows the face, and somewhat as the setting sun puts over the clouds a glory which throughout all the long sunshiny day had not been seen, so a brighter gleam comes out from a ripened soul, and it becomes more than ever evident that the inhabitant of the clay house had come "trailing clouds of glory from God who is its home." This was decidedly true with her. The tall, erect, queenly person, the large head, high forehead, deep hazel eyes, the smile which so often played upon the lines of her countenance,--all took a new meaning as the "light which never was on sea or land" shone through them, proving that her "citizenship was in heaven" and that she indeed was "a fellow-citizen of the saints." We know not what is beyond our ken for such as she, but we believe that He who created such a wondrous home for the mortal part has otherwhere a proportionally magnificent domain for that which dieth not. A few hours before she died she exclaimed in the words of the martyr Rutherford: "Oh, well it is for ever, Oh, well for evermore, My nest hung in no forest Of all this death-doomed shore." And on the afternoon of the 4th day of 12th month, 1873, she left the life of toil and struggle for the life of reward. Ellen Congdon of Providence wrote in fitting words: "I have taken comfort in the midst of this great bereavement to the Church militant in thinking of the rejoicing and the welcome as her ransomed spirit took its place among the redeemed of all generations. Yet, far, far beyond even this must have been the holy rapture with which she realized the fulfilment of that gracious promise: 'Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty, and thou shalt see the land that is very far off.'" The governor of the State showed his appreciation of the departed one in the following extract from a letter to her son Richard: "Had it been possible I should have been present at the funeral services. I remember your mother from my boyhood, and received the news of her death with profound sorrow. She exemplified the true Christian character in a degree rarely equalled in this life; indeed, she has always appeared to me more in the heavenly than the earthly. In her death the Christian religion has lost one of its brightest ornaments and noblest defenders. Yours is the priceless consolation which the gospel and the remembrance of a life so full of noble deeds afford. Any words of mine would be poor and weak, but I cannot forbear conveying to you and your much-esteemed father, whom I have known and honored for many years, my heartiest sympathy. Yours very truly, "SIDNEY PERHAM." Her funeral, held in the Friends' meeting-house, was attended by a large company of friends, relatives, and neighbors. The citizens of the town came in large numbers to look for the last time on the one whom they loved and reverenced. Harriet Jones, Samuel Taylor, Sarah Tobey, and others spoke feelingly. "All hearts were moved," says one who was present, "as our venerable and highly esteemed friend Eli Jones arose, controlling the feelings of a heart filled with sorrow, and revealed what had heretofore been kept by him--viz. the manifestation of divine power that had attended her mission while they travelled in foreign lands; also the blessing following her labors during the past few months in attending some one hundred and forty meetings, principally in her own State, in which she appeared like a reaper gathering the harvest." It is never well for us to speak over-highly of any one or of the service of any one. Power speaks for itself. We spend no breath of praise on the might of Niagara or the majesty of Mont Blanc. God has made them so that they tell us themselves continually of their grandeur. In like manner, the character and work of his human creatures tell to their generation and the following ones their strength and worth without the aid of man's voice. What Sybil Jones did and said has been felt and has made its impression in the world, and no word which now might be spoken could add to what she really accomplished. For sixty-five years she went about doing what she seemed to have been sent to do. She was under no shackles of creed, but she had a faith which anchored her; she built on a foundation which had already been laid, and she wasted none of her energy seeking answers to unnecessary questions. Her whole heart was in her work, and nothing held her back in her desire to go on herself to perfection and to call others thereto. The power of her spiritual discernment was shown in numerous cases where she told minutely the state and feeling of some before her, and she felt out wonderfully the proper course for her to take. She seemed to grow stronger as she engaged in a new field of work, and not unusually she left her bed of sickness to undertake an arduous journey for an absence of one or two years. She went from Ireland to Norway on a couch, and there endured remarkable hardships, but grew stronger as she worked, and was almost daily before the people for the next six months. She had a striking influence over unprincipled and dangerous men, and she never hesitated to go alone among the greatest outcasts. The swearing sailors on the ship for Liberia grew more gentle as they knew her, and she walked fearlessly into the cell of one of the worst prisoners in the United States: he was touched to tears and blessed the day that brought her to him. As a minister she was especially gifted in exhortation and prayer, but she knew the Bible, and she knew experimentally the meaning of its promises and commandments. Her use of language was remarkable: every thought she wished to express was clothed richly, every truth was made clear to her hearers, and no words were wasted. God gave her a voice, not like Milton's, "whose sound was like the sea," but soft as the wind in the trees and strong to reach the farthest seats. There was a music in it which charmed, and a reserved power and volume which she could use when the occasion called for it. The good people in the south of France still say, "She seemed to us like an angel;" which shows how her earnest tones and kind deeds impressed these simple-hearted people, who saw too few that loved to feed the sheep and the lambs. Her active work in the ministry began with her first visit to the provinces. Between that time and her death she went as a herald through her own land; to Liberia, to England, Ireland, Norway, Denmark, Germany, Switzerland, and France; to Scotland, Greece, Egypt, and the Holy Land. Few women, if any, before her had been called to so many and so widely separated peoples. By every race and nation she was kindly received, and she was enabled to speak to them boldly and with such power that the lives of those who heard her were noticeably changed. Standing often where woman never stood before to speak, she lovingly urged the multitudes of ignorant, unsaved hearers to come to the Lord for teaching and salvation. The effect of her live words on those who had heard only formal preaching can hardly be described. When in her most earnest attitude, she was calm in her pleading, avoiding all that was sensational and speaking simply to reach the heart. There has never been a more striking instance of reliance on the divine Voice in the soul. There were numerous occasions in her life when not only all her friends, but skilful physicians, concurred in advising her to rest her exhausted body when she felt work immediately before her. In every case she replied, "I have this work to do now; I cannot take another course;" and in no case was she mistaken. Once at least she went from her own home to the train on a couch, but the results of the visit could leave no one in doubt from whence came the command for her to go forth. Like Madame Guyon, it was her unceasing desire to bring her individual will into full harmony with the will of God, and like her she sought earnestly to distinguish minutely between her own impulses and the promptings of the Spirit of God; not unlike Madame Guyon, she knew her place to be where she could work actively among men for their enlightenment. No small part of her work was with soldiers and prisoners. Following the example of Elizabeth Fry, she went where sin had made the deepest stains. Not only did the inmates of wards and cells become gentler as she talked to them, but they regarded this world and the next from a different standpoint when she had finished speaking to them of the one hope which she had come to bring them. As she understood the New Testament, and as she interpreted the whisperings within her, it seemed clear that the disciple of Christ must devote himself or herself to uplifting a larger or smaller portion of the human race, the radius of influence depending on the number of talents received--that each servant's work might be different, but each one must get into an attitude to _find_ his task, and then all must work to produce fruit for the same harvest-home. The following is quoted from Harriet Beecher Stowe in her _Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands_: "C. had been with Joseph Sturge during the afternoon to a meeting of the Friends, and heard a discourse from Sybil Jones, one of the most popular of their female preachers. Sybil Jones is a native of Brunswick, Maine. She and her husband, being both preachers, have travelled extensively in the prosecution of various philanthropic and religious enterprises. "In the evening Joseph Sturge said that she had expressed a desire to see me. Accordingly, I went with him to call upon her, and found her in the family of two aged Friends, surrounded by a circle of the same denomination. She is a woman of great delicacy of appearance, betokening very frail health. I am told that she is most of her time in a state of extreme suffering from neuralgic complaints. There was a mingled expression of enthusiasm and tenderness in her face which was very interesting. She had had, according to the language of her sect, a concern on her mind for me. To my mind there is something peculiarly interesting about the primitive simplicity and frankness with which the members of this body express themselves. She desired to caution me against the temptations of too much flattery and applause, and against the worldliness which might beset me in London. Her manner of addressing me was like that of one who is commissioned with a message which must be spoken with plainness and sincerity. After this the whole circle knelt, and she offered prayer. I was somewhat painfully impressed with her evident fragility of body compared with the enthusiastic workings of her mind. In the course of the conversation she inquired if I was going to Ireland. I told her yes, that was my intention. She begged that I would visit the western coast, adding, with great feeling, '_It was the miseries which I saw there which have brought my health to the state it is in._' "She had travelled extensively in the Southern States, and had in private conversation been able very fully to bear witness against slavery, and had never been heard with unkindness. The whole incident afforded me matter for reflection. The calling of women to distinct religious vocations, it appears to me, was a part of primitive Christianity; has been one of the most efficient elements of power in the Romish Church; obtained among the Methodists in England; and has in all these cases been productive of great good. The deaconesses whom the apostle mentioned with honor in his epistle, Madame Guyon in the Romish Church, Mrs. Fletcher, Elizabeth Fry, are instances to show how much may be done for mankind by women _who feel themselves impelled to a special religious vocation_. The example of the Quakers is a sufficient proof that acting upon this idea does not produce discord and domestic disorder. No people are more remarkable for quietness and propriety of deportment and for household order and domestic excellence. By the admission of this liberty the world is now and then gifted with a woman like Elizabeth Fry, while the family state loses none of its security and sacredness. No one in our day charges the ladies of the Quaker sect with boldness or indecorum, and they have demonstrated that even public teaching, when performed under the influence of an overpowering devotional spirit, does not interfere with feminine propriety and modesty. The fact is, that the number of women to whom this vocation is given will always be comparatively few: they are, and generally will be, the exceptions, and the majority of the religious world, ancient and modern, has decided that these exceptions are to be treated with reverence." John G. Whittier writes in his poem, the "Meeting:" "Welcome the silence all unbroken, Nor less the words of fitness spoken-- Such golden words as hers for whom Our autumn flowers have just made room, * * * * * Or haply hers whose pilgrim tread Is in the paths where Jesus led; Who dreams her childhood's Sabbath dream By Jordan's willow-shaded stream, And of the hymns or hope and faith Sung by the monks of Nazareth Hears pious echoes in the call To prayer from Moslem minarets fall, Repeating where His works were wrought The lessons that her Master taught-- Of whom an elder Sibyl gave The prophecies of Cumæ's cave." In conclusion, it will be proper to insert the following brief sketch from one who knew her most intimately: "Naturally extremely timid, when duty called her fearlessness was wonderful. With nerves so sensitive that the closing of a door would often startle her, in God's service she looked calmly upon death and danger in every form. Though much and acceptably before the public, the truly feminine graces ever stood forth prominently in her character. With her own hands she often performed the duties of her household, always entertaining much company, not only from neighboring States, but from foreign lands; guided to manhood and womanhood five children, and soothed the last hours of many of her kindred. With a bodily frame very much enfeebled by a complication of diseases, she was constantly being reminded of the uncertainty of her life, and ever lived nearer to heaven than earth. Her mind was frequently absent, and when called back it was found to have wandered after some poor soul who had not yet received the 'good news' which her life was consecrated to publish. So little did she notice the landmarks of this earthly journey that the writer of this can affirm that scenes and places through which she had passed a score of times were ever new and unfamiliar to her absent gaze. When engaged in missionary labors her faith that God would care for her and hers was deep and constant. God's commands were her sole guide of her life; when these reached her she prepared to obey them without a thought of the means. Her invariable remark was, 'I am the King's daughter: the gold and silver are mine, and the cattle on a thousand hills.' Before her faith-inspired energy every difficulty vanished. She left the aged and enfeebled mother or the babe at her breast, committing them to the Master in child-like trust. Through all she clung with the relentless grasp of an abiding faith to the promises of her prayer-answering God, and if ever a cloud came over her way she remained on her knees until she saw its 'silver lining.' It may, then, with truth be said of this woman that her leading aim on earth was the winning of souls to Jesus Christ of Nazareth, the staff on which she leaned the faith of Abraham, and prayer her 'vital breath.'" * * * * * There are a few extracts from some of the letters written by Sybil Jones very near the end of her life which will be read with interest, since they set forth the progress of the active religious work which Friends in New England were just beginning at that time, and also give expression to her faith in regard to such work with reference to the necessity of an abiding defence against everything which might hinder permanent blessing. She writes, 1st mo. 31, 1870, to her dear friend S. T.: "I agree with thee that a revival is greatly needed, and that one is really begun and is prospering is cause for grateful songs of thanksgiving and praise to Him who causeth the outgoings of this brighter dawning to rejoice. Let our united prayers go up to the 'throne of God and the Lamb' that upon all the glory there may be a defence. That this glorious visitation will have its temptations we must know, for whenever the Spirit of Christ begins to work for the salvation of souls through the blood of the Lamb, Satan presents himself to defeat by various stratagems, if possible, the blessed work. My faith is, however, that the Most High will protect his own children and his own work, and cause it to prosper and spread abundantly. The bow of promises spans the whole. There is a great awakening in these parts; many old sinners are turning to the Lord and speaking of His great love. Young people too are bringing their early offerings to Him, for which my heart rejoices greatly." _9th, 22d, 1873._ She writes from Oak Grove Seminary in Maine: "My dearest S., I am still here, and have been so ill I thought I might not see my dear sister any more below or reach my dear little home, my earthly tent; but my gracious Lord has led me up from 'the crossing' again thus far, and I rejoice in His will, whatever it may be. I have reached this place on my way home, and hope to be able to go in a few days if the Lord will. "Thou may have heard of the wonderful outpouring of the Holy Spirit at the general meeting in Winthrop. I attended only one session, but I never was more happy. Peace and glory reigned around while poor sinners were coming to Jesus. The gospel full and free and in apostolic simplicity was preached, and great was the company of those who heard it and were moved by its power through the Spirit. "I cannot tell thee much now. I was laid aside with _my Beloved_, and oh the richness and fulness of His love to His weak child! I seemed to enjoy all that was passing in that wonderful tent where three thousand were present on First day. Many from city and country said they never heard such a powerful gospel message before. People are calling in every direction for the Friends to come and hold meetings. Let us be instant in prayer, ready to do our part in the vineyard of the Lord." _4th mo. 20, 1873._ Not many months before her own departure she writes of her mother's death in a letter to S. T., headed "Travellers' Home:" "I have been watching a sweet loving mother to the banks of the stream where all of my own family save my lonely self had passed before. I felt sure she would see the beautiful summer-time on earth no more; of this she too was aware, and made all needful arrangements for the event to her desirable. She appeared more and more angelic in expression and features as the time drew near to leave us. Her prayers and exhortations at the family altar were offered in great self-abasement, but wonderfully beautiful and fervent. The last night was a glorious time to her: though in great suffering, her face appeared so youthful and fair, beaming with such serenity, that all could bear witness to her victory through the blood of the Lamb. Her last sentence only will I mention. Near the close she exclaimed with both cold hands uplifted: 'Glory! glory! glory! I see the angels!' after this only the word 'glory,' faintly uttered could be heard." The last public religious service of this dear Friend was at Windham, Maine, during a general meeting held there. Of this last visit a Friend who was present writes: "First day evening, 11th mo. 3d, 1873, to a crowded house she preached for half an hour from the text, 'If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee? Follow thou me.' As the meeting was to close, she stood and most impressively repeated a farewell hymn, dwelling upon the lines, 'Farewell, poor sinner.' Pausing, she three times repeated these lines. None of us ever listened to a voice of such melody: it is indescribable--so solemn the message, so full of entreaty the tone. "Her husband attended meeting at Deering on Fourth day following, but she remained in the house. Her messages to individuals in our neighborhood are treasured as coming from one so near the border as to be freighted with heavenly sanctity. "From report of quarterly meeting committee I quote: 'We cannot close this report and do justice to appointment and the precious memory of Sybil Jones (since gone to the eternal rest) without referring to her attendance at the general meeting in company with her husband. It was a great blessing to us to be recipients of this closing labor of her peculiarly devoted life. Many can bear witness to the heavenly expression of her countenance, her calmness, earnestness, yet tenderness of spirit, and the unusual unction which attended her ministrations as she pleaded _with_ and _for_ the erring and labored to restore the waste places of our Zion." CHAPTER XVI. _ALONE AT HOME._ "Nor blame I Death because he bare The use of virtue out of earth: I know translated human worth Will bloom to profit otherwhere."--_In Memoriam._ It need not be told, and it could not, how the loss of his wife affected Eli Jones, already venerable with age. Those only who have borne a like sorrow know the depth of the wound. The strength of his character and the weight of his love were never shown more fully than in the first years of his widowed life. War had taken his first-born, his sons were at their work in the world, his eldest daughter was married, and the youngest daughter alone was still with him. Though sixty-six years of age, he was yet strong, and knew that much more work was before him if his life should be spared. There was no time given him to rest. Not his to question the ways of Providence, but to work while the day lasted. He could turn his face to no field where he was not reminded of her who had diligently stood by his side, and his loneliness gave a new power to his words. As Tennyson of his departed friend, he could say: "Far off thou art, but ever nigh; I have thee still, and I rejoice; I prosper circled by thy voice; I shall not lose thee though I die." For the first few years after the separation he was generally engaged near home. The duties of farm-work filled up the spaces between the monthly, quarterly, and general meetings which he attended. The little black horse that all his townsmen knew so well grew very familiar with the winding roads to Vassalboro', Brooks, St. Albans, Manchester, and other near-lying towns. "Uncle Eli has come" made all who had gathered at the meeting-house rejoice, and, whether the subject was peace, temperance, or salvation, he spoke strong words to stir the listeners. During all his life he has loved to till the soil; trees seem to be near friends of his. Lowell is "Midway to believe A tree among his far progenitors, Such sympathy is his with all the race." Eli Jones hardly claims relationship with the birches, but they are his close friends, and he has had many happy hours working among his trees. Perhaps he never was a farmer such as the editors of agricultural journals would extol, and it is certain that the hilly fields, with here and there a ledge of rock, in his farm at Dirigo would never have allowed him to accumulate wealth, even if his work had been exclusively there; but he felt the nobility of the calling. There was no yoke of bondage to the soil over him, and he got nearer Nature's heart as he planted, as he dug, and as he harvested. Those who exhort to a higher spiritual life can never know too much of the mysteries of animal and plant life; they can never be too conversant with the trials and pains which daily toil brings to those to whom they preach. Paul could touch hearts when he appealed to tentmakers; Peter had an unwonted power when fishermen were before him; and he who holds up hands hardened by hoe and spade will gladly be heard by those who have left the oxen in the furrow to listen to the gospel. Slavery to work narrows the mind, as any slavery does, but diligence in some business will never lessen the depth of a true Christian or weaken the influence of an endowed minister. Eli Jones has always been loved by all the animals in his house and barn, for there is true philosophy in the line, "For Mary loved the lamb, you know." His sheep would come from all corners of the pasture when he came to their feeding-place, and often he took his cane and walked out to give them salt and to learn their ways. Sheep that are loved grow best, and his flock was proof of it. After work he sat under one of the large maples near the house, and while resting, if alone, carefully studied the higher and lower laws of the birds over his head and the insects at his feet. I do not believe he ever knowingly stepped on a worm or beetle, and no life of any kind was ever willingly destroyed by him. He could mow on Fifth day until time for meeting, and then hay-making, and the possibility of showers were out of the realm of his thought, for there was a higher work which needed an undivided mind. Nothing inanimate has interested him more than fossils and geological specimens. He made a large collection of them, and whenever an unusual stone showed itself under his hoe, it was examined. The perfection of the minute shells, and consequently of the long-dead animals that once dwelt in them, deeply impressed him. The variety of trees and flowers which were growing in his garden and grounds astonished those who were acquainted only with the birches, beeches, maples, pines, hemlocks, the ordinary growth of the Maine woods; but he was delighted to see trees of other climes flourish in the hard Northern soil of his fields. His apples, pears, and grapes have reached the heart of many a boy who has wondered why his father has always lived contented with "Bitter Sweets" when "Early Harvests" are so good and easy to raise; and an invitation to spend a day in this garden of the Hesperides was not soon to be forgotten; and in fact it was a day of growth in the boy's better nature. There was something still more gratifying than such an invitation: it was to sit in the "South Meeting-house" when "little David" or Samuel or Joseph was the text. Others might instruct the heads of the meeting, but little eyes, sometimes heavy with sleep, opened and grew larger as the shepherd on the hills of Bethlehem had his arm nerved by the strength of the Lord or as Samuel cried, "Speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth." He drew pictures of those far-off scenes until a panorama seemed unrolled and young and old saw the mighty characters of the early dispensation working before them; and it was not long before a new light came over those same hills and new songs filled the air: "Rejoice, for unto you is born, this day, in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord." During these days of farm-life Eli was often chosen to fill the different town offices. As "supervisor of schools" he used to hear the geography lessons and make the map look so large and real that the scholars felt that it in fact represented solid earth. Then he was sure to ask the whole school some question which would start a train of new thoughts, and he was not likely to leave the school-house without setting forth in a novel way the need of learning how to spell and the mistake of trying greater fields of work before this one was conquered. It was in the "town-meeting--the old "New England town-meeting"--that he showed his peculiar tact and strength. The men of the town were there to settle the knotty question of "new roads," "improved schools," "care of the poor," and a long list of similar points. It is always a question with boys "how they make Presidents," and it is no less so how they make "selectmen and supervisors;" and on these great days young statesmen were being taught there. The speakers for and against the different articles in the "warrant," stood up on benches and spoke. A moderator was appointed who kept order and decided difficult points. The younger, non-voters, were surprised to hear such eloquence and to see such weighty matters handled by men whom they knew only as great woodcutters or haymakers; but it really seemed to them that another Demosthenes must be in the midst of them when Eli Jones began to argue down the weak schemes and prop up the wise plans for public improvement. At least one listener remembers how one important point was settled. The question had been discussed whether the town should pay up its "war debt" and by taking on itself a double tax for one year throw off the burden of a heavy tax each year to pay interest-money. It had been decided affirmatively, but after the meeting was over and the citizens had gone home and talked with their wives, it began to seem to many that too great a step had been taken, and a call was issued for a new meeting to rescind the vote. There was much feeling, and the signs of a strongly divided camp were evident. The stir indicated that the question was momentous. A plain but strong argument was given to rescind the vote on the ground that it would be wiser to divide the amount and take a number of years to pay it than to impoverish the poor farmers by forcing such a tax upon them at one time. It may have been because the writer was very young and impressible, but the reply seemed to him masterly and worthy of a much greater occasion. Not a word was lost; the answer was brief, and its burden was that it was time to be free from the stigma of this debt, which either those present or their children must pay, and that if every citizen would play the man and do his duty now the debt would be blotted out, and easily. A vote was taken, and by a large majority it was agreed to leave the next generation free from debt by paying it at once; which was done. The work of a man for the bettering of his own town is not unimportant, though it may seem so when we consider the greater fields of usefulness. He who has roused his neighbors and helped them find a better way of educating their sons and daughters has accomplished a work of immense importance. If all the towns and villages were taken care of, the State would soon rest on a sure foundation, and he is a skilful physician who labors to _heal_ the troubles in the towns which supply _life_ to the cities. Eli Jones has always said that the great aim must ever be to get the individual home in a proper condition. It is not possible to show how much he quietly did in the years he spent at Dirigo, but certainly it was time well used, and we need not lament that he was "hemmed in" by county lines. What he did is poorly and briefly recorded here, but it is written imperishably somewhere, not infrequently on the impressible hearts of men. CHAPTER XVII. _LATER VISITS TO THE EAST._ The later visits of Eli Jones to Palestine and their object have already been spoken of. With an accurate knowledge of the land and its customs, as well as of the needs of its people, he was especially adapted to taking a prominent part in directing the work of education there. He has always had a faculty for raising funds, and, having been especially successful in gathering money for building and necessary expenses, the time seemed to have come for opening a boy's training-home on Mount Lebanon. It had seemed best to organize a meeting of the Society of Friends at Brummana, so that he went in 1876 to assist in person the accomplishment of these two designs. He sailed alone to Liverpool, and then with Alfred Lloyd Fox, who had accompanied him on his first visit, and Henry Newman, proceeded to Beirut, and thence to Brummana. They rode on horseback up Lebanon, and not far from Brummana beheld a most touching sight. The children of the school stood at a bend in the road, each carrying a bouquet of flowers, which they held aloft as their aged benefactor approached, and all these _Syrian maidens_ together gave their greeting in English: "Welcome, our dear friends!" This simple, sincere manifestation of affection deeply impressed the venerable messenger of Christ and cheered his heart. It was like the loving welcome from his own children upon nearing his own home. A winter of work was passed pleasantly at the mission and among the natives. In company with Theophilus Waldmeier, the American and English messengers visited Rustin Pasha, the governor of Lebanon, who not only received them courteously and gave them much assistance, but has ever shown himself a good friend of the Friends' mission. Eli Jones has had the good fortune to win the favor of those high in authority, and he has used well his opportunities to impress the dignitaries of those lands. On the way from Joppa to Jerusalem he was in the same hotel with the governor of Palestine. The latter, hearing that a missionary of the Society of Friends was in the house, wished to see him. They met and talked together as friends. The governor showed himself a man of wide culture and liberal views, believing in the elevation of woman as a potent means of civilization, his own daughters being students of science and literature. He had a clear conception of American civilization, and understood the position and history of Friends, showing much interest in their work at Ramallah. As they parted he asked with much feeling that his aged American friend would pray for him and Palestine. Again, in 1882, Eli Jones sailed for England on his way to the Holy Land, to be present at the opening of the girls' training-home and to obtain a legal transference of the mission to the Society of Friends. Charles M. Jones of Winthrop, Me., was his valuable companion. They were met in Liverpool by Alfred Fox, who, though not able to attend them on this journey, went as far as Marseilles to see them well on their way. They landed in Joppa, and soon after their arrival were invited by the Episcopalian clergyman to come to his house to meet and address a little company. They found a large number assembled, and Eli Jones was told that he might address them in English, with the assurance of being perfectly understood; so that here, in that ancient city where Peter was taught to regard as clean all cleansed by God, the walls of division were again taken down and a minister of the Quakers preached the gospel in the English language to an assembly of Episcopalians. On landing at Beirut they visited the American school in that city, and were asked to address the scholars, which they did. After the exercises were over the lady in charge of the school, finding from their conversation that they were Friends, said with much surprise, "I thought you were Presbyterians." They were warmly welcomed at the Mount Lebanon Mission-school, and were occupied there and at the Ramallah mission until the spring of 1883. On their return, Alfred Fox stood on the wharf at Marseilles to greet them. He did not leave them until their steamer sailed from Liverpool, and there waved them a long farewell. His death not long after removed from this world a grand Christian gentleman, the dearest friend of Eli Jones's later life. The fourth journey of the latter to Palestine successfully accomplished, the faithful servant of God returned to the familiar scenes of his own home, not to seek the rest of one who puts the armor off, but to spend the last years which God's goodness had given him in declaring with the zeal of vigorous manhood the business of soldiers commissioned by the Prince of peace. Each year which puts its weight upon him lessens the probability of his re-seeing Lebanon and Jerusalem, but no spot except that which eighty years have made almost sacred to him as home has so many memories and attractions touching his heart. When he went from home bowed with age to undertake his last visit some one said, "I fear thou wilt never come back to us." He replied, "Lebanon's top is as near heaven as my native China is." He has twice visited the missions in person, and each time found work for three or four months. He has always been greatly loved by those for whom the work is being done. Being asked once the reason for his success with these Arabs, he replied, "Because I am of the people. I go down to their condition, but do not stay there; I endeavor to bring them up." They are very strong in their affections, and dislikes as well, and they are exceedingly keen to see their real benefactors. Eli Jones experiences his greatest pleasure taking these children around him and teaching them in his characteristic way, while they love him as a good father. In the answers to his questions he was often surprised by the originality of the little pupils. One day as he was talking to a class of girls he asked where the Jordan rises; immediately came the answer. Again, "Where does it end?"--"In the Dead Sea." "And what becomes of the water, as the Dead Sea has no outlet?" There was a long silence, when a little Arab girl replied, in a simple, beautiful metaphor, "The sun drinks it up." On one occasion he found the children sitting on the floor to be taught; he at once ordered seats for the room, though he was told they would not use them. He replied, "We will see; if you get them from the floor upon good seats, you have raised them so much from their low condition." When he next went to the room he found them proudly sitting on their new seats. One little girl who could speak English came over by his side and said, "We thank you for these seats." When he was about to come back and to separate from them they stood round him with tears in their eyes to wave him a farewell. The questions are often asked, "Is the gain worth the cost? Does the improvement correspond to the outlay and effort?" There is but one answer. These Druse boys and girls are eager to be taught, not only to read and write, but to understand the story and teachings of Christ. They go from the school entirely different persons, and they are wholly unwilling to go back to their unchristian manners of life. They are capable of becoming good scholars, and many of them are ready to teach others. The character of the natives around Mount Lebanon has completely changed, while those being trained are now in a condition to exert an elevating influence on those about them. Mission-work, like all other work, must consent to be tested by its fruits. The work of Friends on Lebanon and at Ramallah will stand this test well. In a letter to his friend S. F. T., Eli Jones writes to express his feeling of loneliness without his wonted companion, and the nature of the work being done in the Holy Land at the time of his third visit there in 1876: BRUMMANA, 1st mo. 8, 1876. While my fellow-travellers and Th. Waldmeier have gone to a distant village to attend to matters of business, I have been left to my own reflections, and I have in an unusual manner missed the sympathy and the words of cheer in times of trial that I was sure to receive from her who has been called up higher before me. Her words were as balm to my troubled breast, but now I plod on alone. My life would be too sad and weary to be borne did I not trust that an Eye of compassion beholds me here even as when in my native land surrounded by loved friends. We left England on the 9th of 11th mo., and spent several days in France attending ten meetings in that country; then embarking at Marseilles for Alexandria, where we spent a few days meeting old acquaintances and attending to what seemed called for. Again we went on board ship, and next day came to Port Said at the mouth of the Suez Canal, the morning after we were in Joppa. Here we visited the institution under the instruction of Jane Arnot, a woman of _great faith_ and of _much works_, who has a school of sixty girls. We found her occupying a new house erected on the very spot where our tent was pitched a few years ago, and where we had a meeting one First day afternoon with the people of Joppa. We reached Beirut the 31st of 12th mo., and the next day came to Brummana, where we received a warm welcome. Hanne Ferach, my little Bethlehem girl, rushed forward and grasped the hand of her old friend with the cordiality of a loving daughter; also several of the citizens came to bid us welcome to their town. All this was unexpected, and, to speak honestly, it moved our hearts and was a delightful ending of a long journey. We are much pleased with the work begun here. On First day our meeting frequently numbers over one hundred, the Bible meeting in the middle of the week over thirty. In the room where I am setting a teachers' meeting is going forward preparatory to the labors to-morrow, which will be the first of the week. Sitting around the table are ten preachers and teachers; two of these are female. Their conversation is all Greek to me, but it is very interesting to see them arming for their work from such an armory. The Sabbath-school numbers sixty, while there are six schools in operation through the week, reaching at least two hundred and thirty children; all these are emphatically Bible-schools. CHAPTER XVIII. _AS A FRIEND._ "Be ye complete in Him." "God's own hand must lay the axe of inward crucifixion unsparingly at the root of the natural life; God in Christ, operating in the person of the Holy Ghost, must be the principle of inward inspiration _moment_ by _moment_, the crucifier of every wrong desire and purpose, the Author of every right and holy purpose, the Light and Life of the soul."--UPHAM. Eli Jones was a birthright member of the Society of Friends, and as far back as there is any record the family had been a Friends' family, so that he inherited an inclination to the manners and views of the Society; and it was as much expected of him that he would make these views his own as it was that he would be a worthy son of his parents and grandparents. Quakerism was the air which a Friend's child breathed seventy-five years ago, and it was a poor child that longed for another atmosphere. It was a startling revelation to a boy that there were people in the world who said _you_ to one person, and it required an explanation. Eli had little opportunity of reading the lives of the Friends of former times, and he had no way of finding out the "philosophy of Quakerism," but his father and mother and the whole circle of his connections had a definite idea of what they believed, and their lives were more teaching than many books would have been. The different meetings were regularly attended by the young members, and they early became accustomed to the ways of doing the necessary business. He learned to respect the body which transacted its business so quietly and orderly, and which had such a loving and successful plan for reaching the state and standing of the different members. The monthly readings of the "Queries" placed each soul in the silent confessional before its Lord, while the general "Answers" gave opportunity for efficient counsel. It was a living Church, and its light shone before men. There were excellent examples of pure Christian character in the Society at China--ministers, elders, and members who would deeply impress the young, who thought of no other course than following in the steps of their predecessors. The quiet strength and sweetness of the best members of the Society, their guilelessness and sincerity, have had great weight in holding young men, and have done what austere teaching could never have done. The call to confess Christ, as they proclaimed it, was also a call to a higher manhood and nobler living. Eli Jones early loved Friends, and his love has continually augmented. He has done his work in the Society, going out on his own various missions each time with its sanction; and he has experienced fully the help which comes from the united and loving support of the Church at home. His life has been widely useful in great measure because he was a Friend, for the work he has done could properly have been done only in Friends' way, and he could never have succeeded under the restrictions of any other church organization. He was qualified to be a Friend minister, but he was not adapted to be one of any other denomination. About forty years ago, as he was beginning to preach, there appeared in New England a new phase of thought. Its centre was at Concord, Mass., and its adherents were called _Transcendentalists_. They held, among other things, that to really know man must have something in him which transcends human knowledge or the knowledge of the senses. In order to know truth a light must shine into man's mind from the Source of light, and who ever would know himself, the world and the Supreme Being must have a God-given teacher in his own breast; but these men maintained that this was a _natural_ endowment of the human mind--a wonderful gift, but given in the _same way_ as memory. The difference between Transcendentalism and Quakerism has been thought slight; it is, however, immense. The Society of Friends has never believed that man by _nature_ has any power or light within him capable of satisfying his longings or of gaining salvation for his soul. While Friends do not lose sight of the facts that Christ the Son of God came to be a perfect ensample for us; that He came to give us life, and to give it more abundantly; that He is the Light of the world; that the true follower of Christ should strive to be Christ-like, to come up to "the full stature of Christ;" and that there can be no compromise with any sin, but a gradual growth in firm character, high manliness, a daily striving for sincerity and purity,--their great theme for the comfort of a lost world has been that there is life in the acceptance of Christ; that there is health through our abiding union in Him, and thenceforth growth and development by virtue of our oneness with Him whose blood cleanses and whose Spirit quickens. Manliness and high morality, necessary graces of the Christian, have been attainable by all nations and all ages to a higher or lower degree. "_Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners_," and all men of every degree are there included. Felt necessary in all ages, foretold in types and by inspired prophets, and heralded by messengers from heaven, at length, in the fulness of time, the Saviour came. He came not to bring a creed or bonds or forms: He came to bring salvation, freedom, spirituality. He came to publish a new kingdom, which could be entered only through Him. He finished His work fully, and, about to depart, He promised to "pray the Father, and he shall give you another comforter (strengthener), that He may abide with you for ever, even the Spirit of truth; whom the world cannot receive, because it seeth Him not, neither knoweth Him: but ye know Him; for he dwelleth with you, and shall be in you;" having said before, "Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that believeth on me, the works that I do shall he do also; and _greater works shall he do; because I go unto my Father_;" "Howbeit, when the Spirit of truth is come, He will guide you into all the truth;" "That was the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world." Whoever believes the truth of the gospel record to its fullest extent, and actually accepts salvation through Christ, becomes not only a better man, but a new man; he will live henceforth not for this world, but for that which is to come; he will conquer and throw aside all his besetting sins; and he will be a "living epistle" publishing the greatness of the good news to all others: furthermore, no work for his Lord will seem to be too great to be undertaken, for the promise is, "greater things shall ye do; for I go unto my Father." Now, Eli Jones while a young man accepted his Saviour and experienced this new birth, and, seeking first the kingdom of God, he has not ceased to labor for the greatest possible bettering of the world. This, he believed, could be best done by spreading a knowledge of Christ and by endeavoring to bring about a literal fulfilment of His teaching. Christ, the source of life, the source of light, and a perfect example to be followed, has been his theme. Peace, total abstinence, and high education came in course as proper causes for him to uphold. He has always believed in supreme guidance, and before undertaking work has waited until the inward ear heard the voice, and so his going forth has been blessed. His whole life testifies that he has not deceived himself, and that he has not worked for his own material gain. He has always stood against formalism and spoken for spirituality, and he has wished for life to so abound that formality in any way could not exist. He has felt that all Christ's devoted followers must in some way, by life or voice, obey the command given to the first apostles: "Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature;" and the message which he has carried has always been, "Ye must be born again." The equality of man and woman and the equality of all men and all women, equality of worth before the Creator, has made him earnest to gain for woman her _real rights_, and he has felt the necessity of raising in the social scale all who have been bound down in any degree by the bonds of prejudice. Points of doctrine have been little discussed by him, for he has felt called to live and preach the gospel, the same tidings which Paul went to Macedonia to declare--not to discuss and argue in regard to questions which can be settled only when we enter "the land which is very far off." There are some things which must be clearly fixed, great cardinal truths on which to be wrong is to be wholly wrong; but a broad spiritual interpretation of the whole Bible, by the aid of the Holy Spirit, gives any seeking man enough teaching on necessary points to guide him; and Eli Jones has gladly received in addition all the help he could receive from the _wisdom given_ to other men and women, such as fathers, counsellors, and elders. Penn asked, "How shall I know that a man does not obtrude his own sense upon us as the infallible Spirit?" and he answers, "By the same Spirit." Whatever is said contrary to the Scriptures, though the guidance of the Spirit is professed, must be accounted a delusion.[11] No man regrets more than Eli Jones that there are those who speak their own words as the truth given to them, for words become lifeless whenever the brain is allowed to speak for the Spirit, whenever any one deceives himself and gives his own thoughts for oracles; and he has felt that Friends, of all people, should beware of self-love and self-will, and that the individual members should ever be ready to receive benefit from the counsel of others. Each human being has a special field to till in the great vineyard. He who has climbed a height is more than ever duty bound to reach down hands of help to the weak. The gifts differ, but it is every man's business to find out for what he was sent, and then do the mission--do it "ever in the great Taskmaster's eye;" do it for no reward, but for the truth's sake; and He who sends the workmen into the field will send the basket for their supply. Whether doing quiet work at home or more extensive work abroad, Eli Jones has had one mind--to obey orders; and whenever he has been free to do temporal work for his own support and for his aid in gospel work, he has improved every opportunity, imitating the example of the tentmaker, while Friends have generously furnished the means for him to go out into distant fields. [11] _New England Discipline_, p. 14. He has lived to see a decided change come over the Society in his own section--a change almost universally apparent. In his early manhood came the great separation of the "Hicksites," and he felt keenly the want of harmony in 1840-45, when John Wilber opposed Joseph John Gurney; but he has ever hoped that the small body of spiritually-minded Friends would hold fast to their faith, maintaining harmony throughout, and not provoking or exaggerating differences of opinion. Most who grew old with him have passed away, and some with the belief which saddened their old age that the end of their Society was near. He has continually--and never more than in his old age--believed in the progress of humanity; he has seen in history and in his own life how one generation carries on the truth rejected by the former one; and in his thoughts faith and hope have been united. He trusts that in God's plan there is endless progress, and until something higher and purer and more perfect than Friends' conception of Christ's work and teaching appears the Society will be needed, and there will not be wanting those who hold fast the excellent spiritual truths of Quakerism, and a practical Christianity lived out with daily circumspection in their thoughts and words and deeds. He is impressed, as were the founders of our Society, with the truth that Christianity is both a faith and a corresponding life. The words of his old age have been not less acceptable and effective than those of his early manhood, and he has not changed his message. The earnestness with which he has pleaded for the essentials, the liberality he has shown in regard to non-essentials, and the rounded completeness of his life have given him a wide influence and have made him justly loved; but his strength has always been his calm faith in Jesus Christ. CHAPTER XIX. _HIS PLACE AS A WORKER._ "Quit you like men." The people of a city or country in which is some great natural wonder or some magnificent work of man become so accustomed to its grandeur that only the largest-minded of them continue to appreciate its excellence and gain culture from it. This is not true of men. A man who has the qualifications to instruct and the power to inspire his deemsmen will have renewed power, and will gain a stronger influence over all of them, as age brings matured wisdom. Few greater blessings can come to a community than to have a strong man working like leaven in the midst of it, and few posts of honor are more to be coveted than to be a part of all that is best in one's environment. Eli Jones has decidedly influenced his township, and he has the satisfaction of feeling in his old age that he is without enemies and in possession of a numerous company of friends, the "uncle" of all who know him. He has had the good fortune--or, better, the good judgment--to know just what his place was. He has done each duty, never wishing that he might have found something greater to do, and now his services combined into one whole make a record which men of great fame often fail to gain. One of the best tests of a man's power is his influence over the young. There is a time in early life when there is a longing for real help, when a young person feels groping in the dark for the right road, which he wants, but cannot find. Eli Jones has been at hand to throw, by his counsel and Christian advice, light on the right path, and many a man and woman stands to-day fixed firmly in a good place and on a high road to a better because he spoke a good word or reached out his hand when there was need of just that word or encouragement. His love of education and his fondness for books have made themselves felt. He has been one of the foremost in founding and sustaining two schools--"Oak Grove Seminary" and the "Erskine High School." The latter partly owed its existence to him. He has started and built up a number of libraries, and he has wished to leave coming sons and daughters supplied with a fountain from which to draw. Not a few of the college graduates who have gone out from China received their first impulses to higher aspirations from him, in one way or another. In temperance work he has taken his part. He began to speak for total abstinence as a boy, which has been his theme ever since, and he took active part in securing a majority for the Prohibition amendment in the State of Maine. For many years he was an active member of the "Sons of Temperance," and as Grand Worthy Patriarch of that organization he did much permanent good in the State. In this work he was intimately associated with Ex-Governor Sidney Perham, Neal Dow, John Kimbal of Bangor, D. B. Randal, the aged patriarch of the Methodist Church, and others of the ablest advocates of the Maine law. It was once a law of the State that the selectmen of each town should appoint some suitable man to fill his cellar with various liquors, and whose sole right it should be to sell such articles. For one year Eli Jones was appointed to act as liquor-agent for the town. Strange picture, that of a well-known Quaker minister and prominent advocate of total abstinence holding the office of drink-dispenser to his townsmen! It can be imagined with what feelings the toper would enter his yard, make known his desire, and what words of advice he would receive instead of the foaming glass. It is needless to say that no cellar was stored that year, and during his term of office the community abstained. In 1852, at the time of his first visit to England and Ireland, but few Friends in those countries had heartily espoused the cause of total abstinence. Since that time a great change has taken place. "To hail from Maine is _now_ no discredit to the visitor. _Then_ a specimen from Maine was looked upon with some distrust." It will not be out of place to refer here to his connection with the origin of the "United Kingdom Alliance." Its essential declarations are as follows: "1. That it is neither right nor politic for the state to afford legal protection and sanction to any traffic or system which tends to increase crime, to waste the national resources, to corrupt the social habits, and to destroy the health and lives of the people. 2. That the traffic in intoxicating liquors, as common beverages, is inimical to the true interests of individuals and destructive of the order and welfare of society, and ought therefore to be prohibited. 3. That the history and results of all past legislation in regard to the liquor traffic abundantly prove that it is impossible satisfactorily to _limit_ or _regulate_ a system so essentially mischievous in its tendencies.... 7. That, rising above class, sectarian, or party considerations, all good citizens should combine to procure an enactment prohibiting the sale of intoxicating beverages, as affording most efficient aid in removing the appalling evil of intemperance." This was a union against intemperance on a most uncompromising platform, and its work during the last quarter of a century has been enormous. The simple facts of Eli Jones's connection with this organization are as follows: As he was returning from Dublin yearly meeting to London he found himself in company with Nathaniel Card, a Friend of Manchester, England. Their conversation turned upon temperance, for our friend had not been silent on this subject during his stay in Ireland. Nathaniel Card became much interested, and wished to take an American temperance paper, as well as to have a copy of the Maine prohibitory law. He was given the address of Neal Dow, and a correspondence was opened. About eighteen months after this conversation, Eli Jones being in Manchester, three gentlemen called on him. Nathaniel Card was one of them, who as speaker said, "We are the officers of the British and Foreign Temperance Alliance, and whatever results come from its formation _began_ with our conversation on our return journey from Ireland." Many English Friends have been connected with this organization, and Eli Jones had the opportunity at the time of his later visits to England to attend some of the meetings and to hear the beneficent results of its far-reaching influence. His work for the advancement of peace has been lifelong. He has strained his eyes to catch glimpses of a better era, in which the literal and spiritual teaching of Christ shall be fulfilled in a universal brotherhood of men and nations; and he has lived to see already "a flood of prophesying light." When over eighty years old he was sent as a delegate to the Friends' Peace Conference at Richmond, Indiana, in 1887, and his voice was often heard discussing with younger men and women the wisest course for binding nations into families by bonds of love, so that rust may dull the carnal weapons of war, "And the cobweb be woven across the cannon's throat, To shake its threaded tears in the wind." He has always looked with joy on the advance of the human race, and he has had uncompromising faith in actual and triumphant progress. Nothing has made his crowning years more bright than the thought, ever present with him, that the good is gaining a gradual ascendency, and that man's lot, already a happy one, is becoming more happy. He has seen nations that have sat in darkness rising to stand in the joy-bringing light, and he has trusted the future will bring mature fruit. This buoyant hope has not only made his life joyous, but has pervaded all the messages of his later years, and he has shown that optimism which every true Christian must feel, for his Master "doeth all things well." He felt called above everything else to preach the gospel, but he was sent to preach not only from the text which John the Baptist gave, but also he has "spoken unto men to edification." He has held up the perfect mark, the goal, "a life hid with Christ in God." Every power of man, physical, moral, mental, spiritual, is to be developed and expanded to its fullest extent, and then brought into strict obedience to the will of God. We are not in our place until we yield the same obedience to the celestial laws that we yield to the laws of gravitation. Character--which implies integrity, purity, unselfishness, love, patience, self-forgetfulness, and temperance--means the truth we have received, made our own, and put in action. Hence Eli Jones has spent his life telling all people to seek first of all the kingdom of heaven, which is righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Ghost--to give their whole lives and beings to the Lord, and to build up pure Christian characters. The strength and manliness of his life have made his messages weighty, and the clearness of his thought, with his abundance of strong English words forcibly arranged, has caused his speaking on whatever subject to be effective. His speaking has always been from the fulness of his heart and with all the energy of his individuality. Never has he been known to speak weakly or unemphatically. If he had no message, he kept his seat, and if he rose to speak it was because he had something which he deeply felt and which it was important for those present to hear. Of medium height, possessing a very large head, penetrating, earnest eyes, and impressive in his movements, his rising always gained him attention. His voice, which in childhood had been imperfect, grew clearer and more emphatic with use, and by constant attention to careful enunciation he gained the power of distinct expression to such a degree that after having on one occasion found it necessary to speak continuously in the Newport meeting-house for three hours, he was told by those in the farthest galleries that not a word had been lost. In his most earnest appeals he is decidedly eloquent, and many there are who have heard in his vigorous words that call which lifts souls from dreamy thought to action. Not one of his sermons has been put on paper, for he spoke as the words came to his mouth, and reporters were not present; but there was a clearness and connection as marked as was the strength of the individual parts, so that his utterances if printed would be highly valued. If those men do us the greatest service who give us the clearest view of our relation to God and our duty to man, then we owe him gratitude, for he successfully helped feet that were failing to find a surer foothold on the abiding base of the Rock of Ages. Further, he performed the true part of the citizen of a democracy, the part of one who sees the brother and sister mark on every forehead. Every person who hopes and prays for the highest success of the principles of our government will have moments of trial for his faith as he sees the multitudes of responsible citizens who exercise their high privileges in town and State moved by no higher thought than the accomplishment of a selfish aim; he will feel a deeper gloom still when he learns in how many hearts respect for pure men and sacred principles and reverence for the Ruler of men and nations have been obscured by the mists of party schemes and personal self-love. Eli Jones as a Quaker has clearly proclaimed the only basis on which a democracy can build with a reasonable hope of a beautiful and permanent structure. In a nation where every man is a legislator, every man must "Feel within himself the need Of loyalty to better than himself, That shall ennoble him with the _upward_ look;" nor can he be a safe sharer in the rights of government who has not intimate converse with the Voice which calls for an _inward_ look. Through a life of over eighty years he has sought to act at the ballot-box so that the largest number of human beings might feel the good effects of his vote. Again, his life is an interesting example of continuous development. Though beginning early to obey the voice of duty in regard to public speaking, he had reached nearly the age of forty before he was really at work. Year after year since he has seen with clearer vision, and, catching the teaching of the nautilus, he has made "Each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut him from heaven with a dome more vast," and, feeling more truly each year the serious business of a denizen of earth, he has doubled his diligence to quit himself like a man. There has been a deep vein of humor running through his whole life, and the genuine "mother wit" often found in New Englanders has shown itself in him to a marked degree. His answers to difficult questions always come at once, and have a keenness which goes to the marrow of the subject. Those who have listened to his conversation and heard his illustrative anecdotes need no example to call to their mind his native humor, for it has continually shown itself. The uniformity of his disposition should be spoken of. Calm and equable under trying circumstances, he was a strong support to his beloved wife when in feeble health she seemed almost weighed down, and he was especially fitted by this quality for the perplexing difficulties which necessarily beset a laborer in foreign lands. His ripe years have been passed at the foot of China Lake near his boyhood's home, and he has sat in the meeting as a father in the midst of his family. Now and then called forth for short service, he has loved to hasten back and to be at home. At the time I write he is still permitted to dwell among us, and we are fortunate in having before our eyes one who has the weight of many years of experience and wisdom. When riding with him around China Lake one lovely summer day some of us younger members of the party pointed out a church-spire in the distance, and asked him if it was not a beautiful picture--the spire rising from the abundant green of the surrounding trees and pointing to the cloudless blue sky. Slowly he said, "Yes, but it would be better if we knew that all who sit there owned what is above the spire;" and we felt, as we looked at his genial face lighted up as he gazed aloft, that "his citizenship was in heaven" and that "for him to die" would be "gain." There is a domain on earth which only the true servant enters, and there is a realm of which we do not speak definitely that opens its gates to admit those who hear the "Well done!" of the great Master. Blessed indeed is he whose life has been a preparation for the city where no sun is needed, but where the glory of God is the light, and the lamp thereof is the Lamb. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained except in obvious cases of typographical error. Some mismatched double quotation marks were left as in the original. 
10369	----	Proofreaders MEMOIR AND DIARY OF JOHN YEARDLEY, Minister of the Gospel. EDITED BY CHARLES TYLOR. "Should time with me now close, I die in peace with my God, and in that love for mankind which believes 'every nation to be our nation, and every man our brother.'"--_Diary of J. Yeardley._. PHILADELPHIA: HENRY LONGSTRETH, 1336 CHESTNUT STREET. 1860. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. FROM JOHN YEARDLEY'S CONVERSION TO THE COMMENCEMENT OF HIS PUBLIC MINISTRY, 1803-15. Birth and occupation Joseph Wood, of Newhouse Anecdote of Thomas Yeardley John Yeardley's conversion He enters T. D. Walton's linen warehouse Joins the Society of Friends Marriage with Elizabeth Dunn--Commencement of his Diary A. Clarke's "Commentary" Enters into business on his own account Visit of Sarah Lameley Call to the ministry CHAPTER II. FROM HIS ENTRANCE ON THE MINISTRY IN 1815, TO HIS COMMISSION TO RESIDE IN GERMANY IN 1820. First offerings in the ministry Is unsuccessful in business Removes to Bentham His views on the Christian ministry Visit of Hannah Field Is recorded a minister Visits Kendal and Lancaster, in company with Joseph Wood Visit to Friends at Barnsley Journey to York Letters to Thomas Yeardley CHAPTER III. FROM HIS COMMISSION TO RESIDE ABROAD IN 1820, TO HIS REMOVAL TO GERMANY IN 1822. Prospect of residing in Germany Visit from John Kirkham Liverpool Quarterly Meeting Public meeting at Wray Visit of Ann Jones Journey to Leeds Death of Joseph Wood Illness of Elizabeth Yeardley Her death John Yeardley goes to Hull Extracts from Elizabeth Yeardley's letters Testimony concerning Joseph Wood CHAPTER IV. HIS FIRST RESIDENCE IN GERMANY, 1822-24. Sails to Hamburg--His lodging at Eppendorf Arrives at Pyrmont Friedensthal Religious service with Thomas Shillitoe Establishment of the Reading and Youths' meetings at Pyrmont Mode of bleaching Visiters at the Baths attend Pyrmont meeting J.Y. visits Minden and Eidinghausen Plan for helping the Friends of Minden Journey to Leipzig Returns to England CHAPTER V. FROM HIS RETURN TO ENGLAND IN 1824, TO THE COMMENCEMENT OF HIS FIRST CONTINENTAL JOURNEY IN 1825. Mental depression Journey with Elizabeth H. Walker through the Midland Counties Yearly Meeting Returns to Friedensthal Humiliation Certificate for the South of France Martha Savory's visit to the Continent Journey to Rotterdam Chapter VI. HIS FIRST CONTINENTAL JOURNEY, 1825-26. John Yeardley and his companions leave Pyrmont Visit Elberfeld, Creveldt, Mühlheim, &c. Neuwied--the Inspirirten Journey to Berlenburg Are placed under arrest at Erndebrück Set at liberty by the Landrath of Berlenburg The Old and New Separatists Gelnhausen and Raneberg Pforzheim--H. Kienlin Stuttgardt, Basle, &c. Zurich--the Gessner family Berne Geneva Journey to Congenies Religious service in the South of France St. Etienne Return to England CHAPTER VII. HIS MARRIAGE WITH MARTHA SAVORY, 1826-27. John Yeardley goes into Yorkshire Death of his parents Marriage with Martha Savory Biographical notice of Martha Savory Letter from Martha Yeardley J. and M. Y. take up their abode at Burton, near Barnsley CHAPTER VIII. THE SECOND CONTINENTAL JOURNEY, 1827-28. PART I.--GERMANY. J. and M.Y. sail to Rotterdam Minden, &c. Journey to the shores of the North Sea Visit to the colonists on the _Grodens_ Fredericks-Oort Frankfort Darmstadt--Durkheim Stuttgart Kornthal Wilhelmsdorf CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND CONTINENTAL JOURNEY, 1827-28. PART II.--SWITZERLAND. Schaffhausen Beuggen Zurich Hofwyl--Geneva--A. Bost Lausanne Neufchâtel Berne and the neighborhood Montmirail--Neufchâtel Locle--Mary Anne Calame Journey through France Guernsey--Accident on the water CHAPTER X. HOME OCCUPATIONS AND TRAVELS IN ENGLAND AND WALES, 1828-33. Illness of Martha Yeardley Letter from M.A. Calame Yearly Meeting Letter from Auguste Borel--Public meetings in Yorkshire Death of James A. Wilson--Journey through the Western Counties Various religious engagements Journey through Wales with Elizabeth Dudley Visit to Lancashire Removal to Scarborough Establishment of a Bible-class at ditto Prospects of a journey to Greece Argyri Climi Yearly Meeting of Ministers and Elders CHAPTER XI. THE THIRD CONTINENTAL JOURNEY, OR THE JOURNEY TO GREECE, 1833-34. PART I.--THE JOURNEY TO ANCONA. Paris Death of Rachel Waterhouse Nancy Phalsbourg--Strasburg--Pastor Majors Ban de la Roche Basle Neufchâtel Polish Count and Countess Geneva Journey through Italy Letters from Friends in England CHAPTER XII. THE THIRD CONTINENTAL JOURNEY, 1833-34. PART II.--GREECE. Corfu Count F. Sardina Santa Maura Wigwam village on the mainland Cephalonia--Zante Patras--the Gulf of Corinth Galaxidi--Trying situation Castri (the ancient Delphi) Journey to Athens Athens Corinth Detentions--Vostizza Patras Corfu CHAPTER XIII. THE THIRD CONTINENTAL JOURNEY, 1833-34. PART III.--THE RETURN FROM GREECE. Letters from John Rowntree and William Allen Ancona Florence The Custom-house--Piedmont Geneva Lausanne Berne Zurich--Schaffhausen Basle--Death of Thomas Yeardley Death of M.A. Calame Neufchâtel Return to England--Death of A.B. Savory CHAPTER XIV. FROM THE END OF THE THIRD CONTINENTAL JOURNEY IN 1834 TO THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE FOURTH IN 1842. Divisions in the Society of Friends Employment of leisure time Girls' Lancasterian school at Scarborough Death of Elizabeth Rowntree--Letter from M.Y. to Elizabeth Dudley Visit to Thame Visit to Lancashire Visits to the Isle of Wight Death of John Rutter Prospect of revisiting the Continent CHAPTER XV. THE FOURTH CONTINENTAL JOURNEY, 1842-43. Amiens Paris Letters from E. Dudley and J. Rowntree Lyons Nismes--Boarding-school for girls Letter from John Rowntree Montpélier Lesengnan Maux Saverdun Toulouse Montauban--Castres Tullins--Grenoble Geneva Lausanne Neufchâtel--Paul Pétavel Locle Berne Basle Carlsruhe--Frankfort Accident to J.Y.--Vlotho CHAPTER XVI. REMOVAL TO STAMFORD-HILL, AND COMMENCEMENT OF THE FIFTH CONTINENTAL JOURNEY, 1843-48. Removal to Berkhamstead Removal to Stamford-hill Visit to the families of Gracechurch-St. Monthly Meeting Death of J.J. Gurney and I. Stickney Prepare for revisiting the Continent Brussels H. Van Maasdyk Charleroi--Spa Bonn Mannheim, Strasburg Basle Berne-Neufchâtel Grenoble Privas--Vals Nismes--Congenies CHAPTER XVII. COMPLETION OF THE FIFTH CONTINENTAL JOURNEY, 1849-50. Letter from J.Y. to John Kitching Elberfeld--Mühlheim Bonn Kreuznach--J.A. Ott Mannheim Stuttgardt--Death of Elizabeth Dudley Kornthal Kreuznach Bonn Return home--Resume their journey Berlin--A. Beyerhaus Warmbrunn Illness of Martha Yeardley-Töplitz Prague--Translation of tracts into the Bohemian language Kreuzuach--Neuwied CHAPTER XVIII. DEATH OF MARTHA YEARDLEY, AND JOHN YEARDLEY'S JOURNEY TO NORWAY, 1851-52. Illness and death of Martha Yeardley J.Y. visits Ireland Prospect of a journey to Norway Homburg--Illness of J.Y. Christiana--Christiansand Stavanger Excursion up one of the fiords Bergen Meetings at Foedde and other places Obernkirchen CHAPTER XIX. HIS JOURNEY TO SOUTH RUSSIA, 1853. Passport--Sails from Hull Petersburg Moscow Journey to Iekaterinoslav Kharkov Rybalsk--The German Colonies The Molokans The Crimea--The Tartars A suspicious halting-place--Simpheropol Feodosia Odessa--Constantinople Smyrna Syra--Malta Nismes--Bagnères de Bigorre Pialoux CHAPTER XX. FROM HIS RETURN FROM RUSSIA TO HIS LAST JOURNEY, 1853-1858. Visits Bath The Yearly Meeting--Life of J. J. Gurney Visit to Minden--Religious service in Yorkshire Goes again to Minden Neuveville Paris Visit to Bristol and Gloucester Quarterly Meetings Minden Visit to Birmingham, Leicester, &c. Goes to Nismes Visits Chelmsford, &c. CHAPTER XXI. LAST JOURNEY AND DEATH, 1858. CONCLUDING REMARKS. Religious Mission to Asiatic Turkey Voyage to Constantinople Sun-stroke Meetings in the neighborhood of Constantinople Is seized with paralysis, and returns home His death--Remarks on his character Notes of some of his public testimonies MEMOIR OF JOHN YEARDLEY. CHAPTER I. FROM JOHN YEARDLEY's CONVERSION TO THE COMMENCEMENT OF HIS PUBLIC MINISTRY. 1803--1815. John Yeardley was born on the 3rd of the First Month, 1786, at a small farm-house beside Orgreave Hall, in the valley of the Rother, four miles south of Rotherham. His parents, Joel and Frances Yeardley, farmed some land, chiefly pasture, and his mother is said to have been famous for her cream-cheeses, which she carried herself to Sheffield market. She was a pious and industrious woman; but, through the misconduct of her husband, was sometimes reduced to such straits as scarcely to have enough food for her children. Before they left Orgreave they were attracted towards the worship of Friends, and several of the family, including two of Joel Yeardley's sisters, embraced the truth as held by the Society. In the year 1802 they removed to a farm at Blacker, three miles south of Barnsley, and attended the meeting at Monk Bretton, or Burton, near that town, where the meeting-house then stood. At Blacker it was John's business to ride into Barnsley daily on a pony, with two barrels of milk to distribute to the customers of his mother's dairy. His elder brother Thomas worked on the farm. Their attendance at Burton meeting brought the family under the notice of Joseph Wood, a minister of the Society, residing at Newhouse, near Highflatts, four miles from Penistone. Joseph Wood had been a Yorkshire clothier, but relinquished business in the prime of life, and spent the rest of his days in assiduous pastoral labor of a kind of which we have few examples. To attend a Monthly Meeting he would leave home on foot the Seventh-day before, with John Bottomley, also a Friend and preacher, and at one time his servant, for some neighboring meeting. He would occupy the evening with social calls, dropping at every house the word of exhortation or comfort. The meeting next day would witness his fervent ministry. In the afternoon they would proceed to the place where the Monthly Meeting was to be held the following day, which they would attend, filling up the time before and after with social and religious visits. In the intervals of the Monthly Meetings, when not engaged on more distant service, it was his practice to appoint meetings for worship in the villages around Highflatts, and very frequently to visit those places where individuals were "under convincement," particularly Barnsley and Dewsbury, where at that time many were added to the Society. On his return home from these services he would spend the day in an upper room, without a fire, even in the severest weather, writing a minute account of all that had happened. It was in 1803 that Joseph Wood first had intercourse with Joel Yeardley's family. Under date of the 19th of the Fourth Month, he says, speaking of himself and some other concerned Friends:-- We felt an inclination to visit Joel Yeardley's family, who are under convincement, and who have lately removed from near Handsworth Woodhouse. We went to breakfast. He and Frances his wife, with Thomas and John their sons, the former about nineteen, the latter seventeen years of age, received us in a very kind and affectionate manner, expressing their satisfaction at our coming to see them. They appeared quite open, and gave us a particular account of the manner of their convincement and beginning to attend Friends' meetings, which was about four years ago. I believe there is a good degree of sincerity in the man and his wife, and the two sons appear to be tender and hopeful. The next month Joseph Wood repeated his visit, and gives an account of the interview in the following words:-- 5 _mo_., 1803.--Having ever since I was at Joel Yeardley's the last month, felt my mind drawn to sit with the family, and this appearing to me to be the right time, I set out from home the 14th of the Fifth Month, in company with John Bottomley. Got to Joel Yeardley's betwixt four and five o'clock. After tea, Thomas Dixon Walton and Samuel Coward of Barnsley came to meet us there. In the evening we had a precious opportunity together, in which caution, counsel, advice, and encouragement flowed plentifully, suited to the varied states of the family. I had a long time therein first, from 1 Cor. xv. 58; John Bottomley next. Afterwards I had a pretty long time, after which J.B. was concerned in prayer. At the breaking up of the opportunity I had something very encouraging to communicate to their son Thomas, who, I believe, is an exercised youth, to whom my spirit felt very nearly united. Joel Yeardley unhappily did not long remain faithful to his convictions. He not only himself drew back from intercourse with Friends, but was unwilling his sons should leave their work to attend week-day meetings, and did all in his power to prevent them. This is shown by the following narrative from Joseph Wood's memoranda:-- As William Wass and I were going to attend a Committee at Highflatts, on our Monthly Meeting day, in the morning, we met with Thomas Yeardley of Blacker, near Worsbro', a young man who is under convincement. I was a little surprised to see him having on a green singlet and smock frock. He burst out into tears; I inquired the matter, and if something was amiss at home; he only replied, "Not much;" and we not having time to atop, proceeded, and he went forward to my house. This was on the 19th of the Ninth Month, 1803. After the Monthly Meeting was over, I had an opportunity to inquire into the cause of his appearance and trouble, and found that he was religiously concerned to attend weekday meetings, which his father was much averse to; and in order to procure his liberty he had worked almost beyond his ability; but all would not do, his father plainly telling him that he should quit the house. The evening before, he applied to him for leave to come to the meeting at Highflatts to-day; but he refused, and treated him with very rough language. However, as the concern remained with him, he rose early in the morning and got himself ready; but his father came and violently pulled the clothes off his back, and his shirt also, and took all his other clothes from him but those we met him in, telling him to get a place immediately, for he should not stop in his house. Being thus stripped, he went to his work in the stable; but, not feeling easy without coming to meeting, he set out as he was, not minding his dress, so that he might but be favored to get to the meeting. This evening we had an opportunity with him in my parlor, much to our satisfaction. The language of encouragement and consolation flowed freely and plentifully towards him through William Wass, John Bottomley, and myself; and afterwards, in conference with him, we found liberty to advise him to return home (he having before thought of procuring a place), believing if he was preserved faithful, way would in time be made for him, and that it might perhaps be a means of his father's restoration; as at times, he said, he appeared a little different, not having wholly lost his love to Friends, and always behaved kindly to them. He took our advice kindly, and complied therewith. After stopping two nights at my house, he returned home. Joseph Wood did not suffer much time to elapse before he paid another visit to Blacker, to comfort the afflicted family. It was from this visit, as we apprehend, that John Yeardley dated his change of heart. "I was convinced," he said on one occasion, "at a meeting which Joseph Wood had with our family." 7 _mo_. 17, 1803.--Thomas Walker Haigh and William Gant accompanied us to Joel Yeardley's, where we tarried all night; but the two young men from Barnsley returned home after supper. Joel was from home, but after tea we had a religious opportunity with the rest of the family, in which I had a very long consolatory and encouraging testimony to bear to the deeply-suffering exercised minds from John xvi. 33. Afterwards I had a pretty long time, principally to their son John, who I believe was under a precious visitation from on high. He was much broken and tendered, and I hope this season of remarkable favor will not soon be forgotten by him. On his return home Joseph Wood wrote him the following letter:-- Newhouse, 10 mo. 24, 1803 BELOVED FRIEND, JOHN YEARDLEY, Thou hast often been in my remembrance since I last saw thee, accompanied with an earnest desire that the seed sown may prosper and bring forth fruit in its season, to the praise and glory of the Great Husbandman, who, I believe, is calling thee to glory, honor, immortality, and eternal life. And O mayest thou be willing in this the day of his power to leave all and follow him who hath declared, "Every one who hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for my name's sake, shall receive an hundred-fold, and shall inherit everlasting life." Not that we should be found wanting in our duty to our near connexions, for true religion does not destroy natural affection, but brings and preserves it in its proper place. When our earthly parents command one thing, and the Almighty another, it is better for us to obey God than man, and herein is our love manifested unto him by our obedience to his commands though it may sometimes clash against our parents' minds. At the same time it is our duty to endeavor to convince them, that we are willing to obey all their lawful commands, where they do not interfere with our duty to Him who hath given us life, breath, and being, and mercifully visited us by his grace. I thought a remark of this kind appeared to be required of me, apprehending if thou art faithful unto the Lord, thou wilt find it to be thy duty at times to leave thy worldly concerns to attend religious meetings, which may cause thee deep and heavy trials; but remember for thy encouragement, the promise of the hundred-fold in this world, and in that which is to come, eternal life. Thou art favored with a pious though afflicted mother, and a religiously-exercised elder brother, who, I doubt not, will rejoice to see thee grow in the truth. May you all be blessed with the blessing of preservation, and strengthened to keep your ranks in righteousness, and may you be a strength and comfort to each other, and hold up a standard of truth and righteousness in the neighborhood where your lot is cast. Do not flinch, my beloved friend; be not ashamed to become a true follower of Christ. When little things are required of thee, be faithful; thus shalt thou be made ruler over more; when greater things are manifested to be thy duty, remember the Lord is able to support, who declared by the mouth of his prophet formerly, "Mine heritage is unto me as a speckled bird, the birds round about are against her." But if the Lord be on our side, it matters little who may be permitted to arise against us, for his power is above all the combined powers of the wicked one, and he will bless and preserve those who above all things are concerned to serve him faithfully, which that thou mayest be is the sincere desire of thy truly loving and affectionate friend, JOSEPH WOOD. The word which had been so fitly spoken took deep root in John Yeardley's heart, and on the following New-year's day he went up to Newhouse to converse with his experienced and sympathizing friend. On the 1st of the First Month, 1804, (writes Joseph Wood,) John Yeardley came to my house, on purpose to see me. He got here betwixt ten and eleven o'clock in the forenoon, attended our meeting and tarried with us until after tea, and then returned home. He is a hopeful youth, tender in spirit, and of a sweet natural disposition; was convinced of the truth in an opportunity I had at his father's house, and, I hope, is likely to do well. I love him much, and much desire his preservation, growth, and establishment upon the everlasting foundation, against which the gates of Hell are not able to prevail. Shortly after this, we obtain from John Yeardley's own hand an insight into the depth of those religious convictions which had so mercifully been vouchsafed to him. The manner in which this interesting memorandum concludes is quaint, but it expresses a resolution to which he was enabled to adhere in a remarkable degree throughout the course of his long life; for of him it may be said that, beyond many, his pursuits, his aims, and his conversation were not of the world, but were bounded by the line of the Gospel, and animated by its self-denying spirit. _Blacker_, 2 _mo_. 9, 1804.--As I pursued these earthly enjoyments, it pleased the Lord, in the riches of his mercy to turn me back in the blooming of my youth, and favor me with the overshadowing of his love, to see the splendid pleasures that so easily detained my precious time. He was graciously pleased to call me to the exercise of that important work which must be done in all our hearts, which appears to me no small cross to my own will, and attended with many discouragements; yet I am made to believe it is the way wherein I ought to go; and I trust Thou, O Lord, who hast called, will enable me to give up, and come forward in perfect obedience to the manifestations of thy divine light, so as a thorough change may be wrought, that I may be fitted and prepared for a place in thy everlasting kingdom. Though at times I am led into great discouragement, and almost ready to faint by the way, fearing I shall never be made conqueror over those potent enemies who so much oppose my happiness, O be Thou near in these needful times, and underneath to bear me up in all the difficulties which it is necessary I should pass through for my further refinement, whilst I have a being in this earthly pilgrimage. Strong are the ties that seem to attach me to the earth; but O! I have cause to believe, from a known sense, stronger are the ties of thy overshadowing Spirit than all the ties of natural affection. Great and frequent are the trials and temptations, and narrow is the way wherein we ought to walk; alas! too narrow for many. O may I ever be preserved, faithfully forward to the eternal land of rest! Dear Lord, who knowest the secret of all hearts, thou knowest I am at times under a sense of great weakness; but thou, who art always waiting to gather the tender youth into thy flock and family, hast mercifully reached over me with thy gathering arm. Mayst thou ever be near to strengthen me in every weakness; and make me willing to leave all, take up my daily cross, and follow thee in the denial of self, not fearing to confess thee before men. Always give me strength to perform whatsoever thou mayest require at my hands; wean my affections more and more; attract me nearer to thyself; and lead me through this world as a stranger, never to be known to it more but by the name of JOHN YEARDLEY. In the Third Month Joseph Wood again addressed his young friend by letter, encouraging him to be steadfast in trial, and to beware of the gilded baits of the enemy; and promising him, that if he followed the Lord faithfully, his works should appear marvellous in his eyes, his wonders be disclosed to him in the deeps, and he on his part would be made willing to serve him with a perfect heart. In the Sixth Month, again visiting Blacker, he had a "precious, heart-tendering religious opportunity with all the family." About this time Joel Yeardley was so much reduced in his circumstances as to be obliged to give up farming, which compelled his sons to seek their own means of livelihood. Thomas and John went into Barnsley, where they applied themselves to the linen manufacture, and were taken into the warehouse of Thomas Dixon Walton, a Friend, who afterwards married a daughter of Thomas Shillitoe. In the First Month, 1806, Joseph Wood records another interesting interview with his young friend:-- 1 _mo_. 7.--I called on Thomas Dixon Walton and John Yeardley, with whom I had a religious opportunity in which the language of encouragement flowed freely; I being opened unto them from Luke xii. 32; "Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom." In the Third Month of this year John Yeardley made application for membership in the Society of Friends, and was admitted in the Fifth Month following, being then twenty years of age. His brother Thomas had joined the Society some time before. The brothers are thus described by one who knew them intimately:--Thomas, as a man of homely manners, of hearty and genial character, and greatly beloved; John, as possessing a native refinement which made it easy for him in after-life to rise in social position, but whose reserved habits caused him to be less generally appreciated. The call which John Yeardley received, and which he so happily obeyed, to leave the world and enter by the strait gate into the kingdom of heaven, was accompanied, as we shall afterwards see more fully, by a secret conviction that he would one day have publicly to preach to others the Gospel of salvation. A sense that such was the case seems to have taken hold of Joseph Wood's mind, in a visit which he made him some time after his admission into the Society. 1 _mo_. 29, 1808.--Sat with T.D. Walton and his wife, and his man John Yeardley. I had two pretty long testimonies to bear from Colossians iv. 17. I had to show the necessity there was for those who had received a gift in the ministry to be faithful, and, as Satan was as busy about these as any others, to be careful to withstand his temptations, that nothing might hinder our fulfilment of this gift, nor anything be suffered to prevail over us that might hinder its proper effect upon others. After Thomas was gone to breakfast, my mind was unexpectedly opened in a pretty long encouraging testimony to John, from John xxi. 22--"What is that to thee? follow thou me;" having gently to caution him not to look at others to his hurt, but faithfully follow his Master, Jesus Christ, in the way of his leadings. In 1809 John Yeardley married Elizabeth Dunn. She was much older than himself, "plain in person," but "full of simplicity and goodness," and of a "most lovable" character. Like her husband she had come into the Society by convincement; and like him she had partaken in a large degree of the paternal sympathy and oversight of Joseph Wood. She had been a Methodist, and was one of the first who joined with Friends at Barnsley in the awakening which took place there in the beginning of the century. John Yeardley and his wife inhabited, on their marriage, a small house at the southern extremity of the town, whither very soon afterwards was transferred the afternoon meeting which it was customary to hold at some Friend's house in Barnsley. The morning meeting continued to be held at. Burton until 1816, when a new meeting-house was built in the town. They had only one child, a son, who died in infancy. John Yeardley commenced his Diary in 1811; and this valuable record of his religious experience, and of his travels in the service of the Gospel, was maintained with more or less regularity to the end of his life. The motive which induced him to adopt this practice is given in the following lines, with which the manuscript commences:-- It may seem a little strange that I should, in my present situation, attempt to keep any memorandums of the following kind; but feeling desirous simply to pen down a few broken remarks as they may at times occur to my mind, I apprehend no great harm can arise; and if, by causing a closer scrutiny into my future stepping along, they should in any degree exercise my mind to spiritual improvement, the intended purpose will be fully answered. The first entry is dated the 6th of the Tenth Month, 1811:-- _First-day_.--Have been sweetly refreshed at our little meeting this morning. I have long felt assured that Time calls for greater diligence in me than has hitherto been rendered. And when I consider the innumerable favors and privileges which I enjoy at the hands of Divine Providence, beyond many of my fellow-creatures, and the few returns of gratitude I am making, it raises in me an inexpressible desire that my few remaining days may be dedicated, in humble obedience, to Him whose great and noble cause I am professing to promote. How unstable is human nature! On sitting down in meeting this evening I got into a state of unwatchfulness, which continued so long as to deprive me of the refreshment my poor mind so often stands in need of. In the entries which follow, the progress of the inward work and the preparation for future service are very evident:-- 13_th_.--Went to our morning gathering in a low frame of mind, and was made afresh to believe that were we more concerned to dwell nearer the pure principle of Truth when out of meetings, we should not find such difficult access when thus collected, but each one would be encouraged to come under the precious influence of that baptizing power which would cement and refresh our spirits together. O then, I firmly believe, our Heavenly Father would in an eminent manner condescend to crown our assemblies with the overshadowing of his love, and enable us not only to roll away the stone, but to draw living water as out of the wells of salvation. 17_th_.--"Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me," was a language which secretly passed my mind in meeting this morning; and though inwardly poor as I am, yet I dare not but acknowledge it a privilege to be favored even with a good desire. 24_th_.--Was a little refreshed at our morning gathering, my spirit being exercised under a concern that I might not rest satisfied with anything short of living experience; and I felt comforted with a lively hope that He whom my soul loveth will not fail to manifest his divine regard to one who is sincerely desirous to become acquainted with his ways. O, how shall I render sufficient thankfulness for such a favor, thus to be made once more sweetly to partake of the brook by the way. Thought the evening sitting rather dull, though the ministry of T. S. was lively, which is a confirming proof that however favored we may be at certain seasons, yet if at any time we suffer our attention to be diverted from the real object, it frustrates the design of Him who I believe intends that we should wait together to renew our strength. In the Eleventh Month Henry Hull, from the United Slates, accompanied by John Hull of Uxbridge, visited Burton, and had good service their, both amongst Friends and with the public. They lodged at John Yeardley's, and, in describing their labors and the pleasure he derived from their society, he records his thankfulness at being placed in a situation in life such as afforded him the opportunity of entertaining the Lord's servants. His disposition was lively and strongly inclined to humor, and he early felt the necessity of having this natural trait of character subjected to the rule of heavenly wisdom. Under date 27th of the Eleventh Month he says:-- I feel a little compunction for having these few days past given way too much to the lightness of my disposition, and not being sufficiently concerned to seek after that stability and serious reflection which never fails to improve the mind. On the 26th of the Twelfth Month he records a state of spiritual poverty. Such, he says, has been the instability of my mind, that my "Beloved is unto me as a fountain sealed." But, he adds, I feel a little tendered this evening, on reading over a few comfortable expressions in a letter from my friend, Joseph Wood. This condition of mind continued for some months, when he thus breaks forth:-- 3 _mo_. 8, 1812.--How pleasant it is once more to be favored with a few drops of living water from the springs of that well which my soul has had for many weeks past to languish after, and which I trust has been wisely withheld in order to show me that, although it is our indispensable duty to persevere in digging for it, yet it is only in His own time that we are permitted to drink thereof. His just appreciation of the nature of meetings held for the discipline of the Church, and of the spirit in which they are to be conducted, is shown in an early part of the Diary. 3 _mo_. 15.--Was at our Preparative Meeting. The queries having to be answered, I was led into deep thoughtfulness respecting the same, and inwardly solicited that the Father of mercies would lend his divine aid, in the performance of such important duties; which I have reason to believe was in some measure answered, for they were gone through with a degree of ease and comfort to my own mind. May I ever keep in remembrance the testimonies of his love which are so often manifested! 8 _mo_. 17.--Meeting for discipline at Burton. The forepart was conducted, I think, to edification; but in the latter, one subject occupied much time unnecessarily, and did not conclude to general satisfaction. When some whose spirits are not well seasoned, speak to circumstances which they may not have sufficiently considered, it sometimes does more harm than they may at first apprehend. The entries in the Diary at this time shew many alternations of discouragement and comfort, and of that deep searching of his own heart from which he seldom shrank, and which is the only way to the liberty and peace of the soul. 4 _mo_. 12.--In contemplating the gracious dealings of the Almighty with me from time to time, I have been led to query, Is it not that I might, by patiently submitting to the turnings and overturnings of his most holy hand, become fashioned to show forth his praise? But alas! where are the fruits? Is not the work rather marring as on the wheel; can I, in sincerity say, I am the clay, Thou art the potter? I feel weary of my own negligence; for it seems as if the day with me was advancing faster than the work, I fear lest I should be cast off for want of giving greater diligence to make my calling sure. O may he who is perfect in wisdom strengthen the feeble desire which remains, and melt my stubborn will into perfect obedience by the operation of his pure spirit. In the next memoranda which we shall transcribe we see when and how his mind was imbued with the love of Scriptural inquiry and illustration. Two or three good books well read and digested in younger life often form the thinking habits of the man, and supply no small part of the substance, or at any rate the nucleus, of his knowledge. This shows the vast importance of a wise choice of authors, at the time when the mind is the most susceptible of impressions, and the most capable of appropriating the food which is presented to it. Those who knew John Yeardley will recognise the intimate connexion between these early studies and the character of his future life and ministry. If any should think his language on this or kindred subjects marked by excessive caution, they must bear in mind the comparative by unintellectual circle in which he moved. I trust, he writes, under date of 4 mo. 28, a few of my leisure hours for two or three weeks past have been spent profitably in perusing some of A. Clarke's Notes on the Book of Genesis; and although I am fully aware that the greatest caution is necessary, when these learned men undertake to exercise their skill on the sacred text, yet I am of opinion, if used with prudence and a right spirit attended to, it may tend considerably to illustrate particular passages. I think this pious man has not only shown his profound knowledge of the learned languages, but some of his observations are so pertinent and so judiciously made, as may have a tendency to produce spiritual reflection in the mind of the reader. 5 _mo_. 24.--Having read with some attention Fleury's "Manners of the Israelites," by A. Clarke, I am convinced that even a slight knowledge of those ancient customs tends to facilitate the proper study of the sacred writings; for many of the metaphors so beautifully made use of by the prophets and apostles, and even our dear Redeemer himself, to convey a spiritual meaning, seem to have had an evident allusion to the antique manners and customs which I find explained in this little volume. The commotions referred to in the reflections which follow, were no doubt the great European war which was then raging. Buonaparte, it may be remembered, was at that time making preparation for his Russian campaign, and a universal alarm prevailed as to the final result of his insatiable lust of conquest. 5 _mo_. 7.--In viewing the commotions of the times, it has induced me seriously to consider the great importance of procuring, as far as ability may be afforded, a free access to the never-failing source of our help; and in a little contemplating this subject I have been comforted in a hope that, if we only abide stedfast and immovable, He whom the waves of the sea obeyed will in his own time speak peace to the minds of his tossed ones, and a calm will ensue. The perusal of Elizabeth Smith's "Fragments" occasions him to remark how profitable it is to read the writings of others; but he wisely adds:-- I am often desirous not to rest satisfied with a bare perusal of these, believing they are only advantageous to us so far as they stimulate to a closer attention to that inward gift, which alone can enable us to witness the same experience. It is often a query with me, how am I spending this precious time, which passes so swiftly away never to return? and, in order to answer this query aright, how desirable it is to dwell with thee, sweet solitude! to turn inward, to examine and correct the defects of our own disordered minds; how delightful it is to walk alone and contemplate the beautiful scenes of nature. Yet in these retired moments, when viewing the works of a divine hand springing up to answer the great end for which they were created, I am often deeply perplexed with a distressing fear lest I should not be found coming forward faithfully to answer the end of Him who has created man for the purpose of his own glory. The meetings for the discipline of the Society were often times of spiritual refreshment to him. 6 _mo._ 23.--I left home to attend our Quarterly Meeting at York. The meetings for business were generally satisfactory; on re-examining the answers to the queries, divers very weighty remarks were made. I thought the two meetings for worship favored seasons; and, although I left home with reluctance, I cannot but rejoice at having given up a little time to be made a partaker of the overflowing of that precious influence which, I trust, made glad the hearts of many present. The extracts which follow develope still further the progress of his inner life, and the secret preparation of the future preacher of the Gospel and overseer of the flock of Christ. 6 _mo._ 29.--A deep-searching time at meeting yesterday, wherein I was given to see a little of my own unworthiness The secret breathings of my spirit were to the Father and fountain of life, that he might be pleased more and more to redeem me from this corrupted state of human nature, and draw me by the powerful cords of his love into a nearer union with the pure spirit of the Gospel. 7 _mo._ 6.--Thought an awful solemnity was the covering of our small gathering yesterday morning, under which I felt truly thankful to the Dispenser of every gift; and was enabled to crave his assistance to maintain the watch with greater diligence, and pursue the ways of peace with alacrity of soul. 29_th and_ 30_th._--The General Meeting at Ackworth was large, and I thought very satisfactory through all its different sittings. The meeting for worship was a remarkable time; the pure spring of gospel ministry seemed to flow, as from vessel to vessel, until it rose into such dominion as to declare the gracious presence of Him who is ever worthy to be honored and adored for thus condescending to own us on such important occasions. Iron is said to sharpen iron; and I thought it was a little the case with me at this season, feeling very desirous to enjoy that within myself which I so much admire in others. 8 _mo_. 13.--Many days have I gone mourning on my way, for what cause I know not; but if I can only abide in patience till the day break and the shadows flee away, then I trust the King of righteousness will again appear. 25_th_.--In contemplating a little the character of that good man, Nehemiah, I cannot but think it worthy our strictest imitation, when we consider the heartfelt concern he manifested for the welfare of his people, in saying, "Come and let us build up the wall of Jerusalem, that we be no more a reproach." This proved him to be a man of a noble spirit and a disinterested mind, and, I say, worthy our strictest imitation; for to what nobler purpose can we dedicate our time than in endeavoring to build up the broken places which are made in the walls of our Zion? In the following entry is shown a just insight into the nature of man, and a discernment of the uses and limits of human knowledge. Although John Yeardley's talents were not brilliant, and his opportunities were scanty, he possessed that intellectual thirst which cannot be slaked but at the fountain of knowledge. At the same time he was sensitively alive to the necessity of having all his pursuits, of whatever kind, kept within the golden measure of the Spirit of Truth. 11 _mo_. 11.--In taking a view of some of the temporal objects to which my attention has of late been more particularly turned, with a desire to enlarge my ideas and improve my understanding in some of the more useful and extended branches of literature, it has excited in me a considerable degree of caution, lest thereby I should, in this my infant state of mind, too much exclude the operation of that pure in-speaking word which has undoubtedly a prior right to govern all my actions. But I have long been convinced that the active mind of man must have some object in pursuit to engage its attention when unemployed in the lawful concerns of life, otherwise it is apt to range at large in a boundless field of unprofitable thoughts and imaginations. I am aware that we may be seasonably employed in suitable conversation to mutual advantage, and I trust I am not altogether a stranger to the value of _sweet retirement_; but there is a certain something in every mind which renders a change in the exercise of our natural faculties indispensable, in order to make us happy in ourselves and useful members of society; and it is under these considerations that I am induced to apply a few of my leisure hours towards some degree of intellectual attainment, in the humble hope that I may be preserved in that path which will procure at the hands of a wise Director that approbation which I greatly desire should mark all my steps. The next extract from the diary will find a response in the hearts of many who read these pages. 1813. 2 _mo_. 17.--Never, surely, was any poor creature so weary of his weakness! Almost in everything spiritual, and even useful, I have not only been as one forsaken, but it has seemed as though I was to be utterly cast off. When I have desired to feel after good, evil has never failed to present itself. O, when will He whose countenance has often made all within me glad, see meet to return and say, "It is enough!" 6 _mo_. 27.--The thoughts which he put into writing under this date seem to have been occasioned by entering into business on his own account. Am now about to enter the busy scenes of life, which sinks me into the very depth of humility and fear, lest the concerns of an earthly nature should deprive me of my heavenly crown, which I have so often desired to prefer even to life itself. But O, should there remain any regard in the breast of the Father of mercies, for one who feels so unable to cope with the world, may he still be pleased to preserve me in his fear, and not only to take me under the shadow of his heavenly wing, but make me willing to abide under the guidance of his divine direction! 7 _mo_. 15.--"Cause me not to return to the house of Jonathan the scribe, lest I die there." These words of our weeping prophet have sensibly affected my heart this morning, under a prevailing desire that my gracious rather may not permit me to remain as in the prison-house of worldly affairs, lest I die my spiritual death there. We shall see that he was not successful in business; and it may be that the disappointments he experienced in this way were in some sort an answer to these ardent prayers to be kept from the spirit of the world. Under date 21_st_ of the First Month, 1814, he writes: I trust the few temporal disappointments I have met with of late have been conducive to my best interest, having had a tendency to turn my views from a too anxious pursuit after the things of time to a serious consideration of the very great importance of a more strict reliance on the never-failing arm of divine support, for the want of which I believe I have suffered unspeakable loss. About this time he had frequently to mourn over the difficulty of fixing his mind in meetings for worship. He often complains of "wandering in the unprofitable fields of vain imagination;" but sometimes also he bears a joyful testimony to the Lord's power in enabling him to unite in spirit with the living worshippers. The fear of man is one of the most universal of the besetments which try the faith of the Christian; and it may be encouraging to some to see on this point the confession of one whose natural character was that of a strong and independent mind. 2 _mo_. 6.--I am too apt to let in that slavish fear about men and things which render me unable to cope with the world, and even unfits me for properly seeking after the assistance of my Maker. O, may He who sees my weakness enable me to overcome it! During the summer of this year, several parties of Friends travelling in the work of the ministry came to Burton; Sarah Lamley of Tredington, with Ann Fairbank of Sheffield; Ann Burgess (afterwards Ann Jones); Elizabeth Coggeshall from New York, with Mary Jefferys of Melksham; and John Kirkham of Earl's Colne. The labors of these Friends are recorded by John Yeardley with delight and thankfulness. He accompanied John Kirkham to Sheffield, where they found Stephen Grellett. How sweet it is, he remarks, to enjoy the company of these dedicated servants, whom their great Master seems to be sending to and fro to spread righteousness in the earth! I often think it has a tendency to help one a little on the way towards the Land of Promise. When I consider these favors, I am led to covet that a double portion of the spirit of the Elijahs may so rest on the Elishas that others may also be raised to fill up the honorable situations of those worthies, when they shall be removed from works to rewards. But of all the above-named, the visit of Sarah Lamley and Ann Fairbank was for him by far the most memorable, and was the means of developing that precious gift of ministry to which he had been called from his youth. The extracts from his Diary which are given below speak of this visit, and most instructively describe the time and manner in which he first received his gift, as well as the weight which the approaching exercise of it brought upon his mind. 5 _mo_. 27.--Sarah Lamley and Ann Fairbank lodged six nights with us, and I accompanied them to Dirtcar and Wakefield. I can acknowledge their innocent and agreeable company has been truly profitable to me, and has united me very closely to their spirits in tender sympathy. 7 _mo_. 30.--Such a load of exercise prevails over my spirit, that it requires some extra exertion to support it with my usual cheerfulness of countenance. If I go into company, I find no satisfaction; for I cannot appear pleasant in the society of my friends, feeling it irksome to discourse even on matters of common conversation. From the feelings which have attended my mind, it is evident that the cloud is at present resting on the tabernacle, and I never saw more need for me to abide in my tent. And O that patience may have its perfect work! for there is much to be done in the vineyard of my own heart, before I can come to that state of usefulness which I believe the Great [Husbandman] designs for me. The secret language of my heart is, May his hand not spare nor his eye pity until he has subdued all in me which obstructs the progress of his divine work! 31_st_.--I trust I was once more favored, in meeting this morning, to put up my secret petition in humble sincerity to the Shepherd of Israel, that he would be graciously pleased to help my infirmities. In the afternoon meeting I thought the petition was measurably answered; for towards the conclusion the rays of divine light so overshadowed my mind as to induce a belief that I should be assisted to overcome that spirit of opposition which has too long existed to the detriment of my best interests, if there was only a willingness to abide under the forming hand. 8 _mo_. 1.--I now feel freedom to give a short account how it was with me under this concern from its commencement down to the present time. I remember well, about the year 1804, when in my father's house at Blacker, once being in my chamber, in a very serious, thoughtful frame of mind, receiving an impression that if ever I came to receive the truth which I was then convinced of, to my everlasting benefit, I should have publicly to declare of the gracious dealings of Divine Goodness to my soul. The impression passed away with this remark deeply imprinted in my mind, that if ever a like concern should come to be matured, I should date the first intimation of it from this time. I was apt to view it for a long, time as the mere workings of the enemy on my mind, and when it has come before my view, I have often secretly said, "Get thee behind me, I will not be tempted with such a thing." By these means I put it from me, as it were, by force, not thinking it worthy of notice and often praying to be delivered from such a gross delusion. At other times it would come with such, weight on my spirit, that I could not avoid shedding tears, and acknowledging the power which accompanied the revival of so important a matter; and was led to query, If there is no real intention of a heavenly nature, why am I thus harassed? and O the fervent sincerity in which I desired that the right thing might have place, and if it was wrong, that I might be enabled to find a release in His time who had appointed the conflict! And I do believe, could I then have come at a perfect resignation to the divine will, I might have been brought forward in a way which would have afforded permanent relief to my own mind; but such was my dislike to the work, that I suffered myself to be lulled into a state of unbelief as to the rectitude of the concern. Thus many outward circumstances transpired, and some years passed over, with my only viewing the matter at a distance, until He who first laid the concern upon me was pleased to bring it more clearly home to me, and seemed at times to engage his servants, both in public and private, to speak very clearly to my condition. And although I had a concurring testimony in my own mind to their declarations, yet I had always an excuse to flee unto by secretly saying, It may be intended for some one else; until the Most High was graciously pleased, by the services of his sincere handmaids, Sarah Lamley and Ann Fairbank, in their family visits to Friends of Barnsley, as mentioned last Fifth Month, to speak so clearly to my situation in their private opportunity with us, as to leave no room for excuse; but I was forced to acknowledge, Thou art the man. Indeed, Sarah Lamley was led in such an extraordinary manner, that I had no doubt at all but that she was favored with a clear and fall sense of my state. She began by enumerating the many fears which attended the apostles in their various situations; how that Satan had desired to have some of them that he might sift them as wheat in a sieve; "but," added she, "I have prayed for thee, Peter, that thy faith fail not, and when thou art converted strengthen thy brethren." And how it was with Moses when the Almighty appeared to him in a flame of fire in the bush, and that it was not until the Most High had condescended to answer all Moses' excuses that he was angry with him, and even then he condescended to let him have Aaron, his brother, to go with him for a spokesman. Also how it was with Peter when the threefold charge was given him to feed the lambs and the sheep. "It is not enough," said she, "to acknowledge that we love the Lord, but there must be a manifesting of our love by doing whatsoever he may command." Methinks I still hear her voice, saying, "And O that there may not be a pleading of excuses, Moses-like!" Thus was this valuable servant enabled to speak to my comfort and encouragement, which I trust I shall ever remember to advantage; but O that I may be resigned to wait the appointed time in watchful humility, patience, and fear! for I find there is a danger of seeking too much after outward confirmations, and not having the attention sufficiently fixed on the great Minister of ministers, who alone is both able and willing to direct the poor mind in this most important concern, and in his own time to say, "Arise, shine; for thy light is come." 12 _mo_. 22.--My poor mind has been so much enveloped in clouds of thick darkness for months past, that I have sometimes been ready to conclude I shall never live to see brighter days. Should even this be the case I humbly hope ever to be preserved from accusing the just Judge of the earth of having dealt hardly with me, but acknowledge to the last that he has in mercy favored me abundantly with a portion of that light which is said to shine brighter and brighter unto the perfect day. We shall leave for the next chapter the relation of his first offerings in the ministry, and conclude this with a striking passage which we find in the Diary for this year. John Yeardley was all his life very fond of the occupations of the garden. A small piece of ground was attached to his house at Barnsley, which he cultivated, and from which he was sometimes able to gather spiritual as well as natural fruit. Under date of the 22nd of the Seventh Month, he writes:-- A very sublime idea came suddenly over my mind when in the garden this evening. It was introduced as I plucked a strawberry from a border on which I had bestowed much cultivation before it would produce anything; but now, thought I, this is a little like reaping the fruit of my labor. As I thus ruminated on the produce of the strawberry-bank, I was struck with the thought of endless _felicity_, and the sweet reward it would produce for all our toils here below. My mind was instantly opened to such a glorious scene of divine good that I felt a resignation of heart to give up all for the enjoyment of [such a foretaste] of _endless felicity_. CHAPTER II. FROM HIS ENTRANCE ON THE MINISTRY IN 1815, TO HIS COMMISSION TO RESIDE IN GERMANY IN 1820. 1815.--After the long season of depression through which John Yeardley passed, as described in the last chapter, the new year of 1815 dawned with brightness upon his mind. He now at length saw his spiritual bonds loosed; and the extracts which follow describe his first offerings in the ministry in a simple and affecting manner. 1 _mo._ 5.--The subject of the prophet's going down to the potter's house opened so clearly on my mind in meeting this morning that I thought I could almost have publicly declared it; but not feeling that weight and certainty which I had apprehended should accompany the performance of such an important act, I was afraid of imparting that to others which might be intended only for my own instruction; and so it has ended for the present. But I am thankful in hoping that I am come a little nearer to that state of resignation which was so beautifully exemplified by our great Pattern of all good, who when He desired the bitter cup might pass from Him, nevertheless added, "Not my will, but thine be done." And if I am at all acquainted with my inward feelings, I trust I can in some degree of sincerity say that my heart desires to rejoice more in the progress of this state of happy resignation, than at the increase of corn, wine, or oil. He first opened his mouth in religious testimony in the First Month of this year. The occurrence seems to have taken place in his own family; it yielded him a "precious sense of the Divine Presence." He began to preach in public a few months later, but not without another struggle against the heavenly impulse. The friendship which Joseph Wood entertained for John Yeardley strengthened with revolving years. When he visited Barnsley, he was accustomed to lodge at his house; and writing to him in the year 1811, about a public meeting which he felt concerned to hold, he says, "I can with freedom write to thee, feeling that unity with thy spirit which preserves us near and dear to each other, and in which freedom runs." In the Fourth Month of this year, when Joseph Wood received a certificate to visit some of the midland counties, J.Y. felt desirous "of setting him a little on his way." On the 14th, he says, we went to Woodhouse, where we had a meeting, and my friend was enabled to speak very closely to the states of many present. When in the meeting, I felt a very weighty exercise to attend my mind with an intimation publicly to express it. But this exposure I dared not yield to, under an apprehension that it might be wrong in me, considering the occasion on which I had come out; but truly I left the place under a burden which I was scarcely able to bear. It was on the 20th of the Fourth Month that he began to speak in public as a minister of the Gospel. He thus records the event:-- I felt myself in such a resigned frame of mind in our little week-day meeting, that I could not doubt the time was fully come for me to be relieved from that state of unspeakable oppression which my poor mind had been held in for so many years past. Soon after I took my seat, my mind became unusually calm, and the presence of the Most High seemed so to abound in my heart and spread over the meeting, that after some inward conflict I was unavoidably constrained publicly to express it, in nearly the following words: "I think I have so sensibly felt the precious influence of divine love to overshadow our little gathering, that I have been ready to say, It is good for us to be here; or I might rather say, It is good for us to feel ourselves under the precious influence of that protecting power which can alone preserve us from the snares of death." This first [public] act of submission to the divine will was done with as much stability of mind and body as I was capable of; and I thought the Friends present seemed sensible of my situation and sympathized with me under the exercise. I trust the sweet peace which I afterwards felt was a seal to my belief that I had been favored with divine compassion and approbation in the needful time. In the Fifth Month John Yeardley attended for the first time the Yearly Meeting in London. He describes the business as very various and instructive, but bewails his own condition as that of "one starving in the midst of every good thing." It seemed at times, he says, as though Satan himself was let loose upon me, and permitted to try my faith and patience to the utmost; but I hope the conflict had its use in teaching me to know that it is not by might, nor by power, but by the Lord's Spirit, that we are enabled to prevail. This was the commencement of another season of spiritual poverty. In reading a few of his memoranda during this time, many a Christian traveller may see his own mourning countenance reflected as in a glass. 11 _mo_. 8.--I have for a long time felt so depressed in spirit, and so inwardly stripped of every appearance of good, that I have often secretly had to say with tried Job, "O that I were as in months past, as in the days when God preserved me!" 16_th_.--Death and darkness are still the covering of my poor mind, and I am ashamed to acknowledge that I have for months past sat meeting after meeting a victim to the baneful consequences of wandering thoughts, scarcely being able to recollect myself so much as to ask excuse of Him who sees in secret. In these times of deepest desertion I am selfish enough to feel a longing desire for a ray of light or a smile from the countenance of Him, under whose banner I have many times sat with the greatest delight in days that are past. O, how hard it is to regain divine favor when once sacrificed through the sorrowful act of disobedience! O may I sit as in dust and ashes, and, with the noble resignation and spirit of a true, dedicated follower, say, I will patiently hear the indignation of the Lord, because I have sinned against him! Nevertheless, even in his times of deepest humiliation, moments of heavenly comfort were interspersed. 11 _mo_. 23.--A more improved meeting than I had reason to hope from cross occurrences, which are too apt to ruffle the unstable mind. Daring our silent sitting together, I was comforted in contemplating the many encouraging passages we have left on sacred record; two of which, spoken by one of large experience, were particularly solacing to my exercised feelings: "Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivereth him out of them all;" and "The young lions do lack and suffer hunger, but they that seek the Lord shall not want any good thing." O, thought I, if we could only procure Him on our side who has the thoughts of all men in his keeping, what should we have to fear! We should then be brought to acknowledge that it behooves a Christian traveller to crave the assistance of Him who can enable us to suffer with becoming fortitude and resignation all the afflicting dispensations of life, rather than desire to be preserved from meeting them. The hard mutter which is the subject of the next extract embodies a difficulty that has perplexed many. It is always encouraging to find companionship in doubts and trials, and perhaps the consideration which pacified the mind of John Yeardley may be helpful to some who are tried in the same way. The passage, no doubt, has reference to his own want of better success in business. 11 _mo._ 30.--When any circumstance in the common course of life, which has appeared to turn up in the direction of Divine Providence, has not answered my expectation, or on deliberate consideration it has not seemed prudent for me to step into it, I have sometimes felt greatly discouraged, and been ready to conclude, How could this thing be ordered under the direction of best wisdom! But let me ever remember, He who has his way in the whirlwind knows what is best for us; and were it not for these incitements to an exercise of feeling, the mind would be apt to lie dormant, and not be preserved alive in a proper state to prove all things and hold fast that which is best. About the end of the year he was obliged to spend several days in London on business. The course of his affairs seems to have been uneven, and the great city was probably uncongenial to his retired habits. He says:-- 12 _mo_. 15.--I do not remember that my feelings were ever more discouraging, both inwardly and outwardly. When the mind is ruffled about the things of time, it is hard work to make any progress towards the land of peace. I try to get to the well of water; but truly it may be said I have nothing to draw with. Yet even under these circumstances his daily religious practices--those which no competitor for the meed of peace and the crown of glory can dispense with--were not without avail. 16_th_.--In reading and retirement before I left my room, I received a little hope that I should be preserved in a good degree of patience through the cross occurrences of the day, which was measurably the case. The life of a Christian is very much the history of outward and inward trials. How happy it is when these serve only to deepen his experience! The nature of John Yeardley's spiritual trials has been fully shown: his temporal crosses have also been glanced at; they consisted mainly of want of success in business, in which, indeed, he was little fitted to excel, under the keen competition of modern times. 1816. 1 _mo_. 4.--A new year has commenced, but the old afflictions are still continued, both inwardly and outwardly; for even in temporal affairs disappointments rage high. But O what a privilege to sink down to the anchor-hope of divine support! This is what I can feelingly acknowledge this evening to be as a brook by the way to refresh my poor and long-distressed mind. O, how ardently do I desire that this season of adversity may be sanctified to me for everlasting good, and prove the means of slaying that will in me, which has too long been opposed to the will of Him who paid the ransom for my soul with nothing less than the price of his own precious blood. The difficulty of making his way in the commercial world increased until the risk of "failure began to stare him in the face." The fear of such a result sank him exceedingly low; but through all he was permitted to keep his footing upon the rock, and to behold a spiritual blessing under the guise of temporal adversity. 7_th_.--Surely it is a mark of divine favor to feel the supporting hand of my heavenly Father underneath, to bear up my drooping spirits in this time of adversity. I think I was never more sensible of his powerful arm being made bare for my deliverance; and yet, unaccountable to tell, I am almost afraid to trust in him. O, my soul, wherefore dost thou doubt, when thou feelest the glorious presence of thy Redeemer's countenance to shine upon thee? In the meeting this morning, he continues, my mind was profitably exercised in contemplating the following subject. When our dear Lord was about to perform the miracle of feeding the multitude, he commanded them to sit down upon the grass. They were undoubtedly hungry, and this might create in them too great an anxiety to be satisfied in their own time; but that all things might be done in order, and without interruption, they were commanded to sit down and wait the disposal of their food from the bountiful hand of their great Master. In looking at the subject, I thought it a lively representation of the state of mind we ought to labor after, when favored to feel hunger and thirst after righteousness; not frustrating the design of the Most High by being too anxious to be filled in our own will and way, but patiently waiting the time of Him who giveth to all their meat in due season, and that which is most convenient for them. And what greater privilege could we desire than to be fed at the Lord's table? 9_th_.--As my precious wife and I were consoling each other this evening, she remarked that the dispensation we were now suffering under was probably in answer to our prayers. This brought strikingly to my remembrance a secret petition which I have frequently put up in the most fervent manner I have been capable of, when deeply lamenting my unsubjected will; I have even cried out aloud, "O make me willing; do, Lord, make me willing, make me willing!" O then may I submit to the means, if for this end they are appointed, and resign my all, body, soul and spirit, into the hands of Him who gave them; and may I patiently endure the swelling of Jordan in a manner that will enable me to bring from the bottom, stones of everlasting memorial. After this he was led for a while by the Good Shepherd into the green pastures and beside the still waters. 1_st mo_. 15.--Our Monthly Meeting at Wakefield, and a heavenly meeting it was. 29_th_.--I left home for a journey into the north on business. I had many precious seasons of retirement as I rode along, and I humbly trust my soul has been enabled to cultivate a more intimate acquaintance with her Beloved, in such a way as will not easily be erased from my remembrance. Notwithstanding the deep and varied experience he had passed through, his unwillingness to expose himself as a preacher of the gospel was still strong, and sometimes obstructed the performance of his duty. 8 _mo_. 20.--Joseph Wood had a public meeting at Pilley. I felt something on my spirit to communicate to the people in the early part, but thinking the meeting was not sufficiently settled to receive it, I reasoned away the right time; another did not offer during the whole meeting for me to relieve my poor mind, so I brought my burden home with me, which indeed proved such as I really thought I should have sunk under. The "severe stripes," as he terms it, which he received on this occasion at length produced a willing mind. 9 _mo_. 10.--I went with my dear wife to attend the burial of my cousin Joseph Watts at Woodhouse, and was at the meeting there on Fourth-day the 11th. It was largely attended by relations and friends. I felt so sensibly the danger that some present were in of trifling away the reproofs of conviction, that I could not forbear reviving the language which was proclaimed to the Prophet Jonah, when he had fled from the presence of the Lord and was fallen asleep in the ship, "What meanest thou, O sleeper, arise, call upon thy God." After commenting a little on the subject, I sat down under great solemnity which seemed to cover the meeting, and I can thankfully say the fruit of obedience was sweet to my taste. 12 _mo_. 1.--Went to meeting this morning with a fearful apprehension lest I should have to expose myself in that which is so contrary to my natural inclination. And so it proved; for I had not sat long, before I was made willing to express what rested weightily on my mind, and that was the case of Gideon, when the angel appeared to him under the oak as he threshed wheat. I commented a little on the subject, which afforded me great satisfaction and joy. In the following entry, notwithstanding the tardy obedience which it records, we find his commission as one of the Lord's watchmen sealed upon his mind. 1817. 4 _mo_. 7. In meeting yesterday morning I was enabled publicly to relieve myself of a little matter which had been a burden on my mind for two or three meetings past, in which I had felt pretty smartly the rod which, is held over the head of the disobedient. In this instance, human nature seemed stubborn in a double degree, but after it was over I felt my peace flow as a river. Methinks I now hear this language proclaimed in the secret of my heart: I have made thee a watchman unto the house of Israel; therefore hear the word at my mouth, and give them warning from me. O what an important charge! May I duly consider the weight of it, and so watch over my own conduct, in thought, word and action, that I may not be pulling down with one hand that which I may be endeavoring to build up with the other. If I am to be an instrument in the hand of the Almighty, may he graciously condescend to prepare and sharpen the arrows he may see meet to shoot through the medium of his poor servant, so that they may sink deep, wound the hypocrite, and comfort the pure divine life in the hearts of his children. A few weeks after this, John Yeardley attended a remarkable meeting held by Joseph Wood, in which they were made to sit in heavenly places in Christ Jesus. 4 _mo_. 29.--I attended another public meeting appointed by J.W. at Middletown, about ten miles from here. When I entered the town I felt very flat, and was ready to say, The fear of the Lord is not in this place; but after the meeting was gathered, I soon found what poor creatures we are, to judge of these things without waiting for best direction; for I think it was the most extraordinary time I ever knew. My friend bore a long and powerful testimony, to the tendering of many present. If I ever forget it while in my natural senses, I fear I shall be near losing my habitation the truth; for it was as if heaven opened, and the Most High poured down his blessed Spirit in an unbounded degree. All this time his business affairs went on more and more adversely; and although he never failed punctually to meet all his money engagements, his want of success led in this year to a change of residence to Bentham. Three months before he left Barnsley he writes:-- "Surely there is a vein for the silver, and a place for gold where they fine it." Pecuniary difficulties seem as if they would eat up every green thing; but I hope and trust that He who has often said, Peace, be still, will so regulate the heat of the furnace that I may be able to bear it with becoming patience, until there be nothing left in me but what resembles the pure gold fit for the Master's use. When I reflect on what my poor mind has passed through for more than two years past, I am convinced nothing short of that Arm which brought the Israelites through the Red Sea could have supported me. And O, should he ever loose my hands, that I may serve Him freely, may I never forget the many covenants made with Him who has so often heard and answered my prayer when in deep distress! Through the assistance of some of his Barnsley friends, an offer was made to him of a situation in a flax-spinning mill at Bentham, which was then or had lately been the property of Charles Parker, a minister in the Society of Friends. He accepted the offer; and an extract from a letter to his wife, when on a journey, will show the motives under which he acted in this important step. Hawkshead, 6 mo. 28, 1817. MY VERY PRECIOUS DEAR, When I wrote thee last, my time and feelings would not permit me to say much on our impending prospect of leaving Barnsley; but since then this very important subject has obtained my most serious and weighty consideration, and I am now free to communicate to thee my feelings, in order that thou mayest weigh them duly and compare them with thy own while we are separated. In the first place, in taking such a step, we must be reconciled to sacrifice our present comfortable home, our relations and friends--in short, all that may seem near and dear to us as to the outward. With respect to our spiritual prospect, I must confess, if any service is designed for me in the Church militant, I have sometimes apprehended it might be within the compass of our present Particular and Monthly Meetings; but should this be ordered otherwise in best wisdom, I trust I shall be relieved from the oppressive feeling, and in a short time see my way clear. On the other hand, if this change takes place, we have a probability of a comfortable living, and of being relieved from the extreme anxiety attendant on trade, when the whole responsibility rests on our own shoulders. H.R. [one of the firm who had offered to employ him] seemed rather desirous for me to come. If we should agree, he wants me to go over directly to lay down plans for a few weavers' houses, and to make other arrangements to save time until we could remove. I don't much like the situation of the house in the town, but I think another might be had if required. They have a nice one in Low Bentham, with a good garden attached, which would be at liberty in next Fifth Month; this would be a pleasant walk from the mill by the water-side all the way, which might be useful to my health after being confined in the warehouse, and much nearer to the meeting. It is a very small meeting indeed; there are only about two female Friends; but, should we be in the right place, the smallness of the number would not preclude our access to the divine spring. I don't know how we shall come on with the thread trade, but it seems as if we were to be done out with both thread and linens, for there is scarcely any thing selling with me on this journey. John Yeardley and his wife removed to Bentham in the Eighth Month, 1817. Bentham is a considerable village on the north-west border of Yorkshire, a few miles from the foot of Ingleborough; and it was at that time, according to the division of the county adopted by the Society of Friends, comprised in the Monthly Meeting of Settle. After a season of deep spiritual poverty, during which he found no place for the exercise of his gift, John Yeardley began to speak in ministry in the little meeting to which he now belonged. On recording the circumstance he remarks:-- Thus does a gracious Father lead on his children step by step, baptizing them first into one state and then into another, in order to qualify them to drop a word in season for the comfort of others. Little did I think under the recent buffetings of the Enemy, that I should ever have had to open my mouth again in the way of declaring the everlasting goodness of a gracious Redeemer. This memorandum was made a few days after the occurrence to which it refers, on his return from Settle Monthly Meeting, and is accompanied the record of a fresh unfolding to his mental eye of the need of gospel laborers, and of his own vocation to the work. In my return I had rather an unusual opening into the state of society, and the great want of laborers therein; and querying with myself, By whom shall the Lord send? I thought I felt the weight and power of the everlasting gospel upon me to preach, so that I was willing to say, Here am I; send me. O the importance of this language! May the same Spirit, which I trust raised it in my heart preserve me in every state to the end of time! Amen. The extract which follows treats of the same subject,--the calling and exercise of the ministry. From this, and from the whole tenor of what has been extracted from the Diary, will be seen in what his ministry consisted, and what was the call and the power which was required in every successive exercise of it. May it serve as a word of caution and instruction to such as are disposed to reduce this heavenly gift to a mere effort of Christian good-will, or to consider the exercise of it as placed, whether in regard to time or subject, at the disposal of the minister. It will be observed how John Yeardley, in after life so abundant in word and doctrine, and so catholic in his ideas and sympathies, received his vocation as a divine gift immediately from above, and served in it an apprenticeship altogether spiritual, and apart from human learning or instruction. 10 _mo_. 26.--I have been very much instructed to-day in reading and reflecting on the 37th chapter of Ezekiel. When the prophet was asked if the dry bones could live, he was wise enough cautiously to answer, "O Lord God, thou knowest;" but when he was commanded to prophesy unto them, and say, "O ye dry bones, hear the word of the Lord," this was hard work, yet there was no conferring with flesh and blood. No reasoning from probabilities, nothing but an implicit faith and dependence on the divine power which was then upon him, could have enabled him to do it. O what an instructive lesson! When the poor instruments may feel so weak and the state of things so low, that there may not be the least probability of good arising, it is enough if they can only do the will of their great Master, and be enabled to say with the holy prophet, "I prophesied as the Lord commanded." John Yeardley did not take his actual farewell of Barnsley until the end of the year. The reflections which he has recorded on leaving his home of so many years are very characteristic of the man:-- 1818. 1 _mo_.--The Twelfth Month was spent at Barnsley in settling my affairs. Just before I left Bentham for that purpose, I was exceedingly unhappy at the idea of leaving my home, friends, &c. at Barnsley, and thought the parting feeling would be almost more than I could support. I was enabled to pray fervently to the Father of spirits, that he would be pleased to afford me strength to bear the change with Christian fortitude, and resign all to the disposal of his divine will; and thankful I am to relate, he so answered my request that I could leave the place to which I had been so long attached without a sigh. I have no doubt my removal, without consulting more of my friends, will appear strange to many. This I could never feel liberty to do; nor could I make any person living acquainted with my entire motive, but my precious wife. Whatever may be the opinion of others, this is a matter which rests between me and my God; and I often think it a favor that we are not accountable to man, who views too much the outside appearance, while He with whom we have to do looks at the heart. After I had left Barnsley I went to Pontefract, to spend a few days with my friends there, where my poor lass had been for a week. I don't know that this time was unprofitably spent; but this I know--it never requires more care and watchfulness to be preserved in a seasonable frame of spirit than when the mind is set at ease to enjoy the company of a few intimate friends. We are too apt to get our thoughts dissipated, and thus our conversation becomes less seasoned with grace than it would be if the girdle of truth were kept tightly bound. The next entry notices a remarkable interview which, he had with a woman Friend from America:-- 15_th_.--This day a meeting has been held at the desire of Hannah Field from North America. I stepped down to see her at J. Stordy's; and in the few minutes we were together, before she took leave, she addressed herself to me in a very feeling manner. Although she was an entire stranger, she spoke so pointedly to my state of mind, and expressed the reward of faithfulness in such encouraging terms, that my feelings were in nowise able to resist the power which attended, but I was forced to acknowledge it as a nail fastened in a sure place. Amongst some letters addressed by Elizabeth Yeardley to Susanna Harvey of Barnsley, is one in which mention is made of the visit of Hannah Field to Bentham; and, although the passage does not relate to the private interview described above, it is interesting as the reminiscence of a remarkable woman. Bentham, 2 _mo_. 2, 1818. We have been favored lately with a visit, unexpected but highly acceptable, from that great minister, Hannah Field, from America. She very much resembles Sarah Lamley; and when she began, it seemed as if one had been informing her of the state of the meeting. Her discourse began with the parable of the Ten Virgins, which was very beautiful but awful. Addressing herself again, she was very consolatory and affecting. She is tall and inclined to _embonpoint_; her age fifty-three. In the Third Month of this year, the Monthly Meeting from which he had recently removed, that of Pontefract, recorded its approval of his ministry. It is not usual for meetings to do this in the case of one who has gone to reside elsewhere. The practice at that time was, in Yorkshire at least, in issuing a certificate of removal for a Friend who had begun to exercise the ministry and was still under probation, to notice the fact of his preaching, without pronouncing a judgment upon it. But when the usual document of removal was asked for at the Monthly Meeting, on behalf of John Yeardley, the meeting paused upon the words which noticed his offerings in the ministry, and solemnly resolved then and there to give him a full certificate as a minister in unity, and to "recommend him as such to the Quarterly Meeting." It happened that men and women Friends were together, the latter remaining whilst Joseph Wood laid a concern for some religious service before the joint meeting. John Yeardley remarks on this act of his late Monthly Meeting:-- The concurrence of my friends with my small offerings cannot but feel comfortable and encouraging to a poor timorous creature like me; but the awful consideration of ranking among the servants who speak in the Lord's name humbles me to the dust. Surely those who are designed to minister before the Lord in his holy temple ought to bear the inscription of holiness upon them. The means by which this inscription, is obtained is so painful to flesh and blood that we are always ready to shrink from the operation. When we have borne the furnace heated to a certain degree, we are ready to fancy nothing but pure gold remains; until the refining hand sees meet to administer fresh [trials], then we are ready again to cry out, If it be thy will, let this cup pass by. In the Sixth Month he joined Joseph Wood and William Midgley of Rochdale, in visiting some neighboring meetings. Of Kendal, which was one, he says it appeared to him "as if a remarkable revival was taking place in those parts;" and he concludes his short account of the journey with an acknowledgment of the satisfaction he felt in having given up to this little service. Joseph Wood in his diary relates the same visit more at large. We have extracted the account of that portion of it in which John Yeardley was engaged, and believe the reader will find it interesting in several respects. 1818. 6 _mo_. 10.--Reached my beloved friend John Yeardley's house, in Bentham, about half-past eight o'clock, where we took up our quarters, and where we were favored with a renewed feeling of that love which had many times nearly united our spirits together. On the 11th we spent this day very comfortably with these long-beloved and truly valuable friends, and in the evening Lad a public meeting appointed for Friends and people of other societies in their meeting-house in Bentham, about a mile and a half from their house. We walked thither, it being very pleasant through the fields. The meeting began at half-past six, and held two hours and a quarter. A pretty many who usually attend meetings, and a great concourse of people of other societies, attended, that the meeting-house, both above and below stairs, was well filled, and several were in the passage and in an adjoining room. A precious solemnity mercifully overshadowed us, whereby the minds of many were prepared to receive what the Lord was pleased instrumentally to communicate to the many different states; and O that they may individually profit thereby! for sure it was a time of favor unto many. I had a very long testimony to bear therein, first from Isaiah lviii. 1, 2. John Yeardley held a pretty long time next, from John ii. 4. I next, from 1 Cor. xiv. 19. On the 12th we set out for Wray in Lancashire, five miles, John Yeardley being our guide, taking his wife and Ann Stordy along with him in a taxed cart. We had a very pleasant ride thither, down a beautiful valley, through which the river Wenning runs; had on our right hand a line view of Hornby Castle, now in part gone to decay. Got to Wray about half-past ten, and went to the meeting, which began at eleven o'clock. Twenty-three persons attended, one of whom appeared to be of another society. I sat therein for a considerable time in a very low state, and feeling a concern to stand up, I gave up, although in great weakness: different states opened and were spoken to in the authority of the gospel; and I had a long testimony to bear from Luke xv. 8. John Yeardley had a pretty long time next, from Lam. iii. 26; afterwards I was concerned in prayer, and felt truly thankful for the renewed mark of divine favor, and secretly rejoiced that my lot was cast here. On the 13th John Yeardley accompanied Joseph Wood to Kendal. It was with difficulty, says J.W., we got into the town for the crowd of people; the Parliament being dissolved, and a new election of members about to take place; and there being an opposition in this county; Henry Brougham, the favorite candidate of the people, against the Lonsdales. They were waiting his arrival in the town to canvass for votes. After tea I went to Thomas Wilson's; his house was nearly opposite the inn where Henry Brougham put up. When he arrived the populace took his horses from the carriage, and hurried him into the town, and to the inn, four flags flying and a band of music went before him. After he alighted he went into an upper room, and addressed the largest multitude of people that I ever saw collected, from the window, for about an hour, in a very impressive manner; and so great was the crowd in the street that many fainted. All was quiet, and, after he had done, they separated in a becoming manner. On the 14th we attended their meetings in Kendal. The forenoon meeting began at ten o'clock. It is large, and was pretty open and satisfactory. I had a long testimony to bear therein, first, from John xv. 14. John Yeardley had a pretty long time next. He opened from these words: "O thou, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, manifest thyself that thou yet reignest in Israel." I next, from Proverbs ix. 12. After visiting several other meetings, Joseph Wood came to Lancaster, where he was again met by John Yeardley. On the 21st we attended both their meetings in Lancaster. The forenoon meeting began at ten o'clock. When we got there we were agreeably surprised to find dear John Yeardley, who had walked this morning fifteen miles to meet us. The meeting was large of Friends, and it proved a time of renewed visitation unto many who were afar off, and of encouragement to those who were nigh. I had a very long testimony to bear therein, from Matt. xxii. 12. John Yeardley had a short but very acceptable time next, from Esther iv. 14. Afterwards I was concerned in prayer. Elizabeth Yeardley speaks of this visit in one of her letters:-- J.Y. went to Lancaster, though the day was unfavorable. He trudged on foot to meet Joseph Wood, and got in good time for the meeting, fifteen miles distant, and returned home the same evening. J. W. was very much favored all the time he was in those parts; he really appears endowed with astonishing powers. The same letter affords a glimpse of the social position, which John and Elizabeth Yeardley occupied at Bentham:-- We are very quiet, have kind neighbors, a very pleasant habitation, and little society, plenty of books both of the religious and amusing kind, and leisure to meditate on the one thing needful, which is to fit us for that place to which we are fast hastening:-- "For who the longest lease enjoy Have told us with a sigh, That to be born seems little more Than to begin to die." (13_th of Seventh Month_, 1818.) John Yeardley, no less than his wife, found in Bentham a seasonable retreat from the harassing cares of the world. A memorandum made in the autumn of this year shows that the doubts with which he was perplexed on the subject of his removal from Barnsley, were entirely dispelled, and that the change in his abode and position had been the happy means of relieving him from the load of anxiety which once seemed ready to crush him. 1819. 9 _mo_. 15.--The tender, merciful Father who shelters our heads in battle has covered mine when many things were hot upon me. He has provided a retreat for me until the fury of the oppressor be overpast. I have often wondered at the cause which drove me from my former residence, but I now begin to see pointedly the hand of Providence bringing me to this place of quiet retreat. Should He who has brought me thus far see it to be for my good to set me on the banks of deliverance, may I have no desire to live for anything but to sing his praise! After being recognised by the Church as a minister, he was again tried with a season of spiritual desertion; and this phase in his religious history, with his reflections upon it, and the holy resolution and hope with which he concludes, may be useful in strengthening the faith of others under similar circumstances. 10 _mo_. 4.--O what a stripping time have I had since I wrote last! My pen would fail to set forth the inward desertion I have experienced for months past, so that my poor mind is almost worn out with waiting and watching in the absence of the Bridegroom of souls. My enemy seems to have set up his throne in me, and leads my wandering thoughts captive at his pleasure. I have no weapons of my own to fight him with, and it seems as if Infinite Goodness had refused me the grant of that armor which I have before experienced the means of putting my adversary to flight. For what end this may be I know not, but the suffering time is hard to the natural part. If I am left to perish, O may it be in praying, trusting and believing in my Redeemer's love! and if I am not suffered to behold again the brightness of his glorious countenance here on earth, may I be favored with it shining on me in heaven! At the commencement of this year, 1819, apprehending himself required to pay a religious visit to the families of Friends in Barnsley, he consulted Joseph Wood on the subject, who encouraged him "not to be afraid to pursue" the path which had been opened before him. In relation to this prospect of service, J.Y. has the following pertinent remarks on the ministry:-- 2 _mo_. 19.--If I am suffered to go, may the humble spirit of Jesus go with me, and put a word in my heart that may prove as a sword in my hand, with which I may fight his battles! This is the only way in which his servants can minister so as to reach the witness in the hearts of his children. We might speak on subjects which might seem right and fit in themselves, but it is as our hearts come to be acted upon immediately by the Spirit of truth, the same principle which prepares us to utter sound words, prepares also a counterpart in the minds of others to receive them. Thus it may be said we become _one_ in spirit and truly edified together in the love of the Gospel. In order to perform the visit, J.Y. had, in the good order in use amongst Friends, to receive the concurrence of his Monthly Meeting. 3 _mo_. 10.--Was at the Monthly Meeting, where I mentioned to my friends my prospect of visiting Barnsley, and obtained their sympathetic concurrence, with a copy of a minute expressing their full unity and approbation. My feelings on the occasion were very different from what I had anticipated. A divine solemnity appeared so to cover the minds of all present, that the enemy was trodden under foot, and not a fear was suffered to approach. What condescending goodness of a tender Father to his weak children! Some interesting notice of this service, and of the journey which he made to perform it, is contained in his Diary. 13_th_.--The evening before I set off, I was earnestly engaged in supplicating for divine protection both inward and outward; and an assurance was given me that it should be granted, and in a manner so clear as I had no right to expect. These words were as if spoken distinctly in my outward ears: "A hair of thy head shall not be hurt." In the confidence of this promise I went forth, and found it mercifully made good; for though I was overturned in the mail on the road, a hair of my head was not hurt, and not so much as a fear was suffered to come near. On the 18th, after visiting all the families, he attended the Week-day Meeting, where he had to review his labors, and to address the assembled Friends "nearly in these words:--In the course of my little proceedings among my friends in this place, I have sometimes been baptized for the dead, while at other times I have been made to rejoice in the resurrection of life: I hope this is a language my friends will understand." After this he preached to them on the case of Nicodemus, saying that there may be a time when our Heavenly Father, in his tender compassion for our infant state, permits us to come to Jesus by night or in secret; yet when he is pleased to say, "Arise, shine, for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee," danger will betide us if we then flinch from an open confession. Some time after he had finished, a woman Friend rose and uttered a few words. She had never before been able to overcome the force of her natural fears. In noticing this circumstance, J.Y. says he does so because, before he went to Barnsley, he asked that if his small services were acceptable, the Most High would give him a sign, by owning his labors with his sensible approbation, and making him an instrument to help forward his work in the hearts of his children. On another occasion, in allusion to a similar occurrence, he has the following reflections:-- "The Jews require a sign, and the Greeks seek after wisdom; but we preach Christ crucified." I am like the two former, because I dare even to ask a sign and to seek after wisdom; but to be like the latter is what I covet most sincerely--to preach Christ crucified, not only in words, but in life and conversation. If I err in sometimes asking for a sign, I trust it will be forgiven, because it is done in the simplicity of my heart, to know my Father's will, and we have examples of this having been granted to the worthies in times of old.--(12 _mo_. 8.) In the Twelfth Month of 1819, John Yeardley attended the Quarterly Meeting at York, and has some religious service on the way. His account of this little journey is preceded by some instructive reflections on his own infirmities and lack of ready obedience. 9 _mo_. 15.--I feel exceedingly discouraged at my own obstinacy in not keeping more humble, watchful, and attentive to the inward monitor. I am sensible loss is sustained in a religions sense by giving way too much to an airy disposition. 12 _mo_. 12.--When I consider the many years which have elapsed since I first enlisted under the Lord's banner, I find cause deeply to reproach myself for want of a more early and implicit obedience to the _divine will_; the want of which, I fully believe, has been the means of plunging me into seas of trouble and years of perplexity. I fear the time lost will never be redeemed. O, should I ever have to warn others to beware of the rock on which I have split, surely it may be done through heartfelt experience indeed! And as the glorious light of the sun begins mercifully to verge from under the cloud, O, may I never, never forget the sacred covenant made in the days of my deep distress, that if the Lord would loosen my bonds, then would I serve him freely. 25_th_.--I went to Thornton to R.W.'s, and next day to Lothersdale Meeting, accompanied by D.W. and some other part of R.W.'s family. The forepart of that meeting was very trying, at which I did not wonder, if we might judge from a previous feeling; for ever since the prospect of this little visit presented to my view, I felt a load on my spirit which I could not by any means cast off. On entering the place, I thought, when our dear Lord sent forth his disciples, he commanded them to take neither purse nor scrip; and that if this state of poverty of spirit was any badge of discipleship, some of us might claim to wear it. The language of the weeping prophet came also before me--"O that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people." It was hard work for me, a poor stripling, to have to intimate such close things; but the conclusion was easier to the natural part, I having to address a few to whom the language seemed to go forth, of "Mary, the Master is come, and calleth for thee." I went from thence to the Quarterly Meeting at York, which was thinly attended. The meeting for worship seemed a cloudy season; however a little matter impressed my mind which I was thankful in being enabled to get rid of, though hard to flesh and blood, it being the first time my voice has been heard in this Quarterly Meeting in ministry. The meeting for business was long and tedious, being protracted four and a half days by an appeal. It was disagreeable in its nature, but was conducted in a way to afford information and instruction to the minute observer of men, manners and things. 1820.--Our first extract from this year's diary contains a short but beautiful reflection:-- 2 _mo_. 18.--I am convinced it would be better for us to live more in the inward spirit of prayer; we should live in nearer union with the Father of love; receive more of his heavenly embraces; the heart would be prepared to know more of his holy will, and receive power to perform it. When John Yeardley left Barnsley he commenced a correspondence with his brother Thomas, which lasted until the death of the latter, J.Y.'s letters have been preserved, and supply us with much that is valuable in his character and Christian experience. The following extract shows the power of sympathy which he possessed towards those with whom he was entirely intimate:-- 4 mo. 24, 1820. Thy affectionate letter I received with pleasure, though some parts of its contents penetrated the deepest recesses of my heart, and excited in me every tender sympathetic feeling of a brother and a friend. I rejoice that thou hast found freedom to speak so candidly the undisguised language of thy heart; to me it seems like a voice from the dead, because I conceive it to be the voice of that awakened principle in thee which, as in many others, may have been held too long in captivity through the predominance of the surfeiting cares of the world. Whenever thou inclinest to unbosom to me thou mayest do it with freedom and in confidence, for, be assured, if thy complaints cannot meet with relief, they will at least meet with a welcome reception and a heartfelt condolence; for I could have no claim to the least of the Christian virtues, if I were destitute of a feeling regard for the sufferings of a friend, and especially a brother. A few months afterwards he was again called upon deeply to sympathise with his brother. The occasion this time was the perplexity in matters of business in which Thomas Yeardley was involved. He expressed his feelings in a letter in which he not only gives the soundest Christian counsel, but also shows how he was himself indebted to the same maxims for the preservation of his honor and of his spiritual life and usefulness. The firm and practical manner in which the subject is treated render his remarks of permanent value. Bentham, 8 mo. 7, 1820, MY DEAR BROTHER, Thy affectionate letter of the 24th I have received, and need not tell thee how sensibly I am concerned for thy present situation. I do hope thou wilt not lose sight of the object thou hast now in view, to get relieved in some way from the excessive load of business which presses upon thee, for we can none of us carry fire in our bosoms too long without being burnt. We shall not be justified in the sight of Him with whom we have to do, if we do not endeavor to place ourselves in such a situation as will best answer the end for which he has designed us. It would convict us of a very weak and erroneous idea of a Supreme Being, to suppose that he could not or would not prosper our endeavors with equal success in a more restricted way of trade, when our motives are purely to serve him faithfully. Surely, He who cares for the sparrows will not suffer _us_ to fall to the ground without his notice. Thou wilt be ready to say it is an easy matter to speak of these things on paper; but believe me, my dear brother, I know a little of what I say. There was a time when I was as extensively engaged in business, _according to my means_, as you are now. I have had large sums of acceptances to provide for, with nothing towards them but what was in the uncertainty of the drapers' hands. When I have set out on a journey I have had to take the distressing fear along with me, that if I failed of getting in almost every shilling that was due to me, I failed in paying my acceptances. Add to this, the painful prospect of losing my property until I could not pay my just debts, and then mention a situation which would place an honest mind in a greater degree of perplexity. O! had it not been for the preserving hand of my gracious Redeemer, I had never lifted up my head above the waters which were ready to overwhelm me. In the midst of all this I received a firm conviction, that if I wound up as speedily as circumstances would admit, I should measurably be safe; but if I suffered the impression to pass away disregarded, I might be hurled along with the stream and never more be able to recover myself. It seemed as if my eye was fixed on a star which shone quite on the other side of the [waters]; and I was thus enabled to wade through, without, knowing what course to take when I got to the other side. I do not mention this as being in the whole applicable to thy case; but as a fellow Christian traveller towards the celestial city, I earnestly intreat thee, in the love of the gospel, never to consider thyself on a level, or at liberty to act in full scope, with the man of business, who thinks himself created to pursue the things of time without being responsible to his Creator for endeavoring to reach a situation in life which would enable him to prepare for eternity. Thou wilt not be long at a loss what to do if thou dost not overlook the secret motive in thy own breast. Do not grieve at losing a little of what thou hast; it will come again, if for the best, and may bring the double reward of peace. If thou attendest to that directing Hand which has hitherto preserved thee as a monument of thy Heavenly Father's mercy, thy victory is already sure, though thou mayst not know it. It is not for the test, consequently not permitted, that we should always see our way. Were this the case there would be no exercise of faith. The servant of the prophet was blind as to the power which preserved them, when he saw a host of the enemy encamped against them: he cried out, "Alas, my master, how shall we do!" But his master answered, "Fear not; for they that be with us are more than they that be with them;" and the prophet prayed that the young man might be made to see. And when his eyes were opened, what did he see? Why, he saw the mountain full of horses and chariots of fire round about them. The Lord's chosen people are continually encircled with these chariots of fire, otherwise it would not be possible to be so mercifully preserved from harm. Should it be insinuated to thee that thou art not of this chosen race, let me tell thee, we become children of the Most High as soon as he has raised in us a desire to serve him, and we become willing to abide under his protecting wing whatever changes may take place in our own feelings during the operation of his holy hand upon us. Nothing is more important in the life of a Christian than the manner in which he turns to account the opportunities for serving his Lord which continually spring up before him. 6 _mo_. 23.--Going last evening to Wenington, to repeat my French lesson, my friends there asked me to call with them on a sick person; feeling quite free to do so, I went with them. On sitting quietly by the bedside, a little matter came before me, which was communicated from these words: "Affliction cometh not forth of the dust." On my return home, I could not but reflect on the necessity of having our bow strung, and being always alive to the interest of souls, and endeavoring to imitate the example of our great Master, whose whole life was employed in continually going up and down doing good. CHAPTER III. FROM HIS COMMISSION TO RESIDE ABROAD IN 1820 TO HIS REMOVAL TO GERMANY IN 1822. In 1822 John Yeardley went to reside in Germany. As his residence abroad constituted one of the most remarkable turns in his life, and exercised a powerful influence on the rest of his career, we shall develop as fully as we are able the motives by which he was induced to leave his native country. By means of his Diary we can trace the early appearance and growth, if not the origin, of the strong Christian sympathy he ever afterwards manifested with seeking souls in the nations on the continent of Europe, and especially amongst the German people. The first hint concerning his desire to go abroad is contained in the account of a dream, under date of the 2nd of the Ninth Month, 1818, regarding which he felt much disappointed, because he could not recollect the names of the places in Germany about which he had in his dream been interested. The next year (the 19th of the Fifth Month) he had a second dream on the same subject, in which he supposed his friend Joseph Wood was about to go on a religious mission to the Continent, and he brought out his Atlas to find the places for him. On being asked if he meant to accompany him, he said he "was not prepared to answer at present." In the relation of a third dream, which he had the next year (the 25th of the Eighth Month, 1820), the locality to which his mind was attracted is first indicated. "Pyrmont and Minden," he says, "rested very closely with me, and to them I felt bound." It might not have been worth while to have made allusion to these dreams, which ought perhaps to be rather as the continuation or echo of his thoughts than as their original source, but for the deep importance which John Yeardley himself attached to them. He considered that by them was first made known to him the divine will respecting his future course; and that his longing desire to recover the name of the forgotten locality of the first dream was answered in the last. It can admit of little doubt that the same conviction of their more than common significance, which led him to cherish as sacred the remembrance of these night-visions, helped to form and sustain his resolution in carrying out the project with which he connected them. Just before the occurrence of the last dream, his faith in the heavenly source of the invitation which, whether waking or sleeping, he had received, to go over and help his Christian brethren on the Continent, was confirmed by a prophetic message from John Kirkham, who, in the course of his religious travels, again visited Yorkshire. 8 _mo_.--Our dear friend, John Kirkham, from Earl's Colne, Essex, slept at our house on Second-day, the 7th, and had a meeting with our few on Third-day. How wonderfully was he enlarged; and I could not but admire how he was favored to speak to the states of some present. I could set my seal to every word he uttered, and say, This is the very truth. Before he left us he had a select opportunity in our family, and said a great deal stout being faithful to our own vision. He seemed to answer a question in my mind as fully as I had any right to expect; for I had almost asked it as a sign that if I were not deceived in my vision he should be led to speak on the subject. He said emphatically, "We cannot be faithful to the vision of another man, we do not know it except it be revealed to us; but we must be FAITHFUL TO OUR OWN VISION." On the 9th I accompanied him to the Monthly Meeting at Settle, and I once more desired that, if my feeling in former times had not deceived me, this servant of the Lord might be led to speak on the same subject; and indeed he scarcely said anything else but what had the strongest bearing on my request. What encouraging favors do I receive at the hands of so good a Master! A few months later we find the charge to foreign labor renewed, with intimation of the wide field in which he would have to work; an intimation which was amply verified in his future travels. 11 _mo_. 26.--At meeting something involuntarily entered my mind like this, I will make thee a preacher of righteousness to many nations. I felt not only a desire to be made willing to be sent, but also a desire to be prepared. A few days after noting this impression he thus communes with himself on this topic, which now began to absorb the greater portion of his thoughts. 12 _mo_. 3, _First-day_.--As I walked alone to the meeting this morning, I thought within myself, What can be the cause that I so often feel drawn in spirit towards the land of ----? My thoughts have now for a long time past so frequently and so involuntarily revolved on the subject that I begin to be very jealous over them, and to query whether it is the workings of self-imaginations. If this is the case, O that I may be relieved from them. But however unaccountable my feelings may be, a secret love towards some unknown souls in ---- is so strong at times, that if I had wings I should for my own inward peace visit them in body as I now do in spirit. It seems as if my spiritual eye saw in those parts what we may call a seed (the seed of the kingdom sown in the heart) that wants to take root downwards and spring upwards, but which is almost choked with the tares of superstition. Are there not scattered up and down in ----, many whose souls are verging from under the clouds of thick darkness, and from under the bonds of idolatrous superstition, towards that glorious liberty which is brought to light by the gospel? Something in me secretly craves an opportunity to tell those precious creatures that the time appears near at hand when this glorious gospel light will shine so clearly that they will discover a Saviour in the secret of their own hearts; and it is to him (I could tell them) that they must look for the perfection of their salvation. Should there be anything of the right savor in my heart concerning this matter, I humbly hope that in due time it will be brought to maturity, and my way made plain and easy--_plain_, so that I cannot possibly mistake the pointing hand of divine wisdom, and _easy_, so that when I hear the command I may be enabled to obey. A very instructive time at meeting. The subject abovementioned glanced in my view, and with it the Dover-failing objection, If I am at all "apt to teach," can it or will it be required of me to leave those here and others in this land who have need of instruction? This objection was immediately answered in a way which I never before experienced. They have, besides many teachers, the unerring light of Jesus in their own hearts unto which they know they ought alone to look for direction. And if they neglect or overlook the means in themselves, it is not in my power, a poor instrument, to do them any good. So it may be said of others to whom I may apprehend myself called. It all revolves on this single and important point,--What is the _divine will_ concerning me? If I can only know this and am enabled to do it, all will be well. In the Autumn he attended Liverpool Quarterly Meeting, an occasion which was one of the most memorable seasons of his life. His narrative of it is very characteristic:-- 9 _mo_. 19.--My dear wife and I left home to attend Liverpool Quarterly Meeting. Through mercy we arrived safe there, but I, as usual when from home, felt very low and poor in spirit, and was ready to call in question my coming to the place. For although I received, as I thought, a proper signal before I left home, yet one or two circumstances occurred to discourage me from going, which I pressed through with some firmness; however, such was my uneasiness the first night in Liverpool, that I was very desirous, if my being there was in right wisdom, something might turn up to convince me that I had not done wrong in leaving home. And blessed be the name of Jesus, I had not been long in the first meeting (their Monthly Meeting the day before the Quarterly,) before I was perfectly satisfied. There were present Willett Hicks and Huldah Sears from America, and Mary Watson from Ireland. In the early part of the meeting my mind was engaged in meditating on--"God will enlarge Japhet and dwell in the tents of Shem," and so it proved. The silence was broken by W. Hicks with these words: "Great men are not always wise, neither do the ancients understand wisdom." Others present were much favored, and the meeting ended in heavenly harmony. After it was over I found to my surprise and joy, my brother and sister from Barnsley, whom I had expected to come to Bentham to accompany us to Liverpool, and their not coming to Bentham first was one of the causes which had discouraged me in leaving home; for I once had concluded, in my wavering, to leave my going for their determination, thinking if they came it would be the means of getting me off, if not, I should give it up; but it so fell out that they took the nearest way to meet us there, without writing us word, and it would have been a great disappointment had I not been there. I should not have written so much about a seeming trifle but to show the necessity of firmness in doing what is pointed out, unless some reasonable cause prevents. Now to the opening of the Quarterly Meeting for worship, which was like the day of Pentecost, when the place was filled with a rushing mighty wind from heaven. The first stream of ministry flowed again through W.H., who appeared from these words: "In the last day, that great day of the feast, Jesus stood and cried, saying, If any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink." It was indeed applicable; for all seemed athirst, and were invited and admitted to drink of the waters of life freely; those who were afar off drew nigh, and those who were near were enabled to acknowledge the might of Him who had called them to his footstool, and crowned them with his presence. Huldah Sears and Mary Watson were also much favored in testimony. What opened on my mind to express was this: "God speaketh once, yea, twice; yet man perceiveth it not." I thought we were bound to acknowledge that our God still reigned in Israel, and was condescending to speak to his people. Immediately afterwards M.R. appeared a long time in supplication, and then H.S. both very powerfully; so that goodness seemed to rise higher and higher, until we swam in divine life. This blessed, heavenly meeting will be remembered by some to the latest period of time. After this event John Yeardley speaks of being favored with more enlargement of love towards the members of his small meeting; and also of having, when attending a public meeting at Wray with Joseph Wood, to kneel down in prayer for the congregation. 10 _mo_. 20.--To my humbling admiration, he writes, I had in the conclusion to kneel down and call on the name of the holy and high God of the whole earth, that he would be pleased to continue the blessing which he had already condescended to pour down on our heads. This is a most awful act of worship: I trust the intimation to it was attended with proper weightiness of spirit. This meeting was a remarkable season, and is thus described in Joseph Wood's journal:-- _Bentham_, 10 _mo_. 20.--We [J.W. and James Harrison] set out for Wray, our beloved friend John Yeardley being our guide. We called by the way at Thomas Barrow's, of Wenington Hall, and drank tea; then proceeded to Wray. There were but few Friends here, but they have a very large ancient meeting-house, and my concern being principally towards the inhabitants, and proper information thereof being given, abundance attended; the meeting-house both above and below stairs was pretty well filled; and their behavior was deserving of commendation. The Lord's presence eminently crowned the assembly, and the truths of the gospel were largely and livingly declared amongst them, and it was a time of extraordinary favor to many. I had first a long testimony to bear therein, from Luke iv. 41. A pretty long time of silence then ensued, and great was the solemnity which appeared to cover the assembly. After which John Yeardley stood up and said, Some were ready to say there was no worship without words, but from the precious solemnity which he believed had covered many minds since the former communication, he was ready to conclude many were feelingly convinced to the contrary. He was then pretty largely led forth in opening the advantage of silently waiting upon God. I a pretty long time next, from Isaiah liv. 11,13. James Harrison next, from Matt. xiii. 44. John Yeardley was next concerned in prayer. The meeting held about two hours and a half. 21_st_.--About the middle of the day my companion (J.H.) called upon me, and betwixt twelve and one o'clock we left here for Lancaster, Thomas Barrow being our guide, and his wife, Charlotte Russell, and Emma Hodgson, accompanying us. Emma Hodgson is the daughter of a clergyman of Rochdale: she had been some time on a visit at Thomas Barrow's and went with the family to the meeting at Bentham when we were there, and was much reached and tendered therein; and attending the meeting at Wray last evening she declared after her return that she was fully convinced of the truth. Returning to John Yeardley's diary for this year, we find some passages from which profitable instruction may be gathered. 11 _mo._ 8 was the Monthly Meeting at Settle; my dear love and I both attended. To me it was a poor low season; if there were any good, I was too much like the heath in the desert,--I knew not when it came. In addition to this, it felt as if I had to mourn over the barren state of some others. O, how I dread the state of a lukewarm Quaker! May I ever be preserved from this sorrowful state of a lukewarm Quaker! I believe it is often the means of bringing a damp over our solemn assemblies. 12 _mo._ 7.--_Query._ What is the most likely means for me to adopt to approach nearer to holiness? _Answer._ To spend more time in retirement silently to wait upon God. The more conversant I am with him, the more I shall know of his will and receive power to do the same. To do the will of the Almighty is the way to perfect holiness. The nearer acquaintance we cultivate with him, the stronger will become the ties of his affection. The more devoted we are to him, the more confidence will he repose in us. Catching then a glimpse of the glorious calling of the Gospel minister, he breaks forth in the following strain:-- If I am ambitious in anything on earth, it is to be eminently useful in His cause. I can say with the wise man, I ask neither riches nor honor, except the honor which cometh from doing the will of God; but I do ask for "an understanding heart." I trust I can say in the deepest sincerity that I could renounce, if they were in my power, the riches and honor of ten thousand earthly worlds in purchase of a double portion of that holy unction which rested on Elisha's spirit. These are bold sayings, but my Saviour tells me that as there is no limitation to his goodness to grant, so there is no limitation in asking of him for the gift of his Holy Spirit. But then what manner of man ought this to be on whom shall be conferred such great honor! Surely it must be left to Himself to prepare the vessel before he pours in the oil. We have already made an extract from the diary of the 3rd of the Twelfth Month in connection with John Yeardley's call to visit Germany. The same diary supplies us with the description of a spiritual opening for the benefit of others with which he was favored in the same meeting. In my minute for First-day last I mentioned its being an instructive meeting to me. Towards the conclusion a simile of this kind arose and spread before my view: As wax when melted by the fire or the candle is then only capable of receiving the impression of the stamp put upon it, so also are our minds only capable of receiving impressions of divine good when our spirits are melted and contrited before the Lord. As these seasons are not at our command, it appeared to me to be of the highest importance for us to endeavor to preserve and improve them as the best means of testifying our gratitude to the great Donor. The impression which the above contemplation made on my spirit proved like a morsel of bread to my soul, which I found I could not conceal, though I struggled hard to eat it alone, it seeming so insignificant to hand to others; but at length I gave up, and felt it to be a time wherein some among the few present were melted as wax before the fire, and had a portion of divine goodness afresh imprinted on their minds; and my spirit craved that they might not prove as "the morning cloud and as the early dew that goeth away." On the 7th of the Twelfth Month Elizabeth Yeardley was suddenly prostrated by an alarming attack of illness, from which, however, she soon rallied, though she never entirely regained her previous state of health. Possibly her husband alludes to this afflictive occurrence in the following memorandum:-- 12 _mo_. 10.--How varied is our passing along in this vale of tears! First-day last was a day of brightness, and this day has been one of comparative death and darkness. I have been made to know something of the saying recorded by the prophet,--"Who is among you that feareth the Lord," &c., "that walketh in darkness and hath no light." This has appeared to be my portion this day, and I find it hard work to "trust in the name of the Lord and stay upon my God." Some further remarks in his diary for this day turn upon the subject of the ministry, and the passage he quotes shows how deep and heart-searching is the work of preparation for an enlarged and effectual gospel ministry, whatever be the denomination among men to which the preacher belongs:-- In the course of reading the life of Mary Fletcher I find much deep instruction and encouragement. Many of her remarks have proved like a goad to spur me on in the way of holiness. An extract made by her from Dr. Doddridge's life aptly speaks the language of my heart, when in my silent breathing to the Almighty I am led to crave an enlargement of my gift in spiritual things:-- "There must be an enlargement of soul before any remarkable success on others; and a great diligence in prayer and strict watchfulness over my own soul previous to any remarkable and habitual enlargement in my ministry; and deep humiliation must precede both." 1821.--The first entry in the diary of this year turns upon the ever-present subject of his going abroad, and is penned under feelings of the deepest solemnity. It is followed the next day by another on the great duty of self-examination. 1 _mo_. 2. This day I have felt singularly impressed with a desire to be more devoted to my Maker. I believe it is his will that I should be more given up to serve him; and if spared with life and strength, my few remaining days must be spent in his cause. A presentiment of this kind has for some time past prevailed with me; and from the calm, awful, and weighty manner in which it is at times brought over my spirit, I am induced to think it cannot be the mere phantom of the imagination. The prospect of a temporary residence on the ---- seems rather to increase than otherwise. How it may terminate, or the time when to move, is yet uncertain to me. O, how the prospect humbles me! I trust I can, in some degree say, with the good old patriarch, that his God shall be my God, and if He will only give me bread to eat and raiment to put on, I desire to serve him. 1 _mo_. 3.--This day I am thirty-five years old. Whether I may be spared as many more, or whether I may only survive as many months, weeks, days or hours, as I have now lived years, is altogether in the breast of Him who has hitherto preserved me as a monument of his mercy. How awful the consideration! To think that we may be called to give an account at any hour of the day, and not frequently to examine the state of affairs between us and our God, is complete infatuation. Strange as it may seem, as it regards myself I stand condemned. I am sensible sufficient attention is not paid to the important work of self-examination. O that this fresh year may produce fresh vigilance! In the Second Month, Ann Jones, accompanied by her husband and Isabel Richardson, visited Bentham on a religious mission. Ann Jones had much service, both in public and private. What she had to declare to John Yeardley in particular was very remarkable, and reminded him of the discourse of Sarah Lamley in 1814. He says;-- She said a good deal which so struck home to my feelings, that I have not been so deeply reached in the same manner since dear Sarah Lamley visited families at Barnsley. (_Letter to his brother._) In the Third Month he found it to be his duty to attend some meetings of Friends in going and returning from the Quarterly Meeting at Leeds. In his diary of the 14th of the Third Month he speaks of making the necessary application to the Monthly Meeting for its sanction, and, in that and some succeeding entries, records his feelings on the occasion, and the help which he received by the way. This was new work to me; how I was humbled before I could be made willing to mention my concern to my friends! which was done in such a faltering manner that I believe many sympathized with me. When I had received the meeting's approbation, I was thoughtful how I should get most conveniently on my way. After our meeting I received a letter from dear S.S., saying that he had felt a prayer raised in his heart, that I might be helped in my undertaking by Him from whom best help comes, and that he was most easy to propose accompanying me on my way in his gig. A very agreeable companion he proved to be, and for this little act of dedication he shall not lose his reward. I left home on First day, the 25th, for Newton, over the Fells. There fell much rain the day before, which swelled the waters so that my wife and I became very thoughtful how I should get over the river to Newton, over which there is no bridge. I thought that should I be favored to get over safe and dry I would take it as a sign for good in the journey; and so it was in mercy granted; for when I came to the water-side, I met a man on horseback who let me ride his horse over. This was in a wild part of the country, with not a house near. Simple as this may appear to some, I could not but acknowledge in it a providence for which I was thankful. At Newton, where I expected to meet only three or four, more assembled than the larger end of the house would hold. I was met by dear D.W. from Stockton; I could not but think we looked like two poor striplings before a great army. I should have sunk under my fears, had I not been enabled to get down to that Power which can bear up above the fear of man. In the afternoon I went to Thornton, and sat down with the family. This was a precious season, and it felt doubly so from our having been on the barren mountains, both literally and spiritually. I went next morning, accompanied by D.W., to Lothersdale. This was also a good meeting: I had reason to believe the God whom I was endeavoring to serve had answered my prayer in sending his angel before to prepare the way; I seemed almost borne off my feet by the power of Divine love. We dined at S.S.'s; and after dinner I could not quit the room without expressing what I felt towards him, which melted us all into tears. S.S. joined me, and we went to Skipton to be at the meeting at five o'clock. Before we came there I felt such a sense of poverty that it seemed as if my spiritual life was going to be taken from me; and even when I got to meeting, the same feeling remained, which introduced my spirit into a state of suffering not easily to be conceived. On our sitting down I felt there was something on the mind of S.S., and I feared lest, by suffering the reasoner to prevail, he should be unfaithful; but he expressed a few words which seemed as the key to the treasury. I went that evening to Addingham, and had a meeting next morning, where I sensibly found a little strength: we seemed to sit under our own vine and fig-tree, where none could make us afraid. We lodged and dined at our kind friend J. Smith's, in whose family I had something given to me to minister. From Addingham they went to the Quarterly Meeting at Leeds, where John Yeardley received intelligence of the sudden decease of his beloved friend Joseph Wood. J.W. had been engaged in testimony and supplication in the meeting at Highflatts on First-day morning, and was taken unwell during the evening, and died in a few hours. After the Quarterly Meeting John Yeardley went to attend the interment, and on his way had a meeting with the Friends at Barnsley. It was, he says, a favored time, and we were humbled and instructed together. We went to Highflatts to tea; when I got to the place where the remains of my dear friend were laid, I stood silently by the coffin in tears, saying in spirit, If it be thy mantle I am designed to wear, may I receive it with humility, reverence and fear! This feeling awfully impressed my mind, because my dear friend had said more than once to me, If I have any place in the body, I bequeath it to thee. The meeting was very large and was a precious season; the occasion on which we were met seemed to give wings to our spirits to fly upwards. This spring Elizabeth Yeardley's disorder began to assume a serious form. A short memorandum from her hand discloses in a touching manner her state, both physical and spiritual. 3 _mo_. 29.--"Regard not distant events: this uneasiness about the future is in opposition to the grace received." This sentence from my old favorite, Fenelon, was much blest to my spirit this evening, when I had foolishly been thinking about future sufferings. O, sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. Perhaps a few rolling suns may, through the merits and mercies of my Lord, see this poor worm translated to his Paradise. The first direct allusion to anxiety on her account which appears in her husband's diary bears date the 5th of the Fifth Month. Her debilitated state seems to have been the cause of their deferring to a future day their contemplated removal to Germany, which was otherwise to have taken place about this time. In the summer of this year he was himself laid for some weeks upon a bed of sickness, with a complaint of the stomach. He viewed this time of suffering as profitable in assisting his resolution to undertake the religious mission to which his mind was still continually directed. In a letter to Thomas Yeardley, of the 1st of the Ninth Month, he says, "Such is my stubborn will that I am not to be effectually pleaded with, until I am brought down into the valley of Jehoshaphat, or judgment." His wife, who was too ill to leave her chamber, has a memorandum respecting her husband's illness, under date of the 29th of the Eighth Month. It seems to have been the last which her pen ever traced. Since I wrote, my dear husband has had an awful attack; but the Lord has again been merciful in restoring him to ease once more. Yesterday (may the Lord enable us to keep covenant) we laid our _Isaac_ on the altar. O, to be wholly our kind, our Heavenly Master's, who cares to provide for us, for soul and body; who takes nothing from us but what he knows would harm us, and gives us a hundred-fold of that which is good in lieu. Prior to this time John Yeardley had not confided to his brother the thought which so long had occupied his mind. In the letter just referred to he speaks of it as "an important concern which had long been the companion of his secret thoughts by day and his visions by night," and says:-- It now seems to be approaching so near a state of maturity that I feel freedom to communicate it to thee. For about three years past I have had an increasing apprehension that it would be required of me to take up a _temporary residence_ among those who profess with Friends on the other side of the water, particularly with the few in the neighborhood of Minden and Pyrmont, and probably at some time with those in the South of France. But my visit is likely to be paid in a way different from any that have been made before. I have never seen that the nature of my concern would require any document from the Quarterly or Yearly Meetings; neither do I think it would answer my present views; because the secret language of my heart has been for many months past, "Go dwell among them, go dwell with them." I should be in want of some employment, and the first thing that presents to my view is to offer my services to a few of my friends in the yarn and flax trade; articles which are largely imported into Yorkshire, and which seem to be the natural production of the country, within the circle where I should be likely to reside. His brother's answer to this letter was most consoling and encouraging: in reference to it he says, it seemed with him as it was with Peter in the prison, when the angel smote him and the irons fell off. And O, he adds, that I may be willing, now that a little light begins to shine, to gird myself, bind on my sandals, cast my garment about me, and follow my Lord, thinking no hardship too much to endure for so good a Master. (_Diary, 9 mo. 21_.) Although in reality not far from her end, his wife's state had not as yet excited immediate alarm. On the 23rd of the Ninth Month J.Y. writes:-- My precious E.Y. is yet so weak that there is a probability of its being an obstacle in the way of our removal; but there is this consolation,--if the work be of the Lord he will not frustrate his own design; if it be not his doing we must submit to have the whole overturned. In a few days he became aware of her critical state. 9 _mo_. 29.--The indisposition of my dear wife has taken such an alarming turn that I yesterday began to have serious apprehensions as to the issue. I have watched with her night and day, and my prayers have been unceasing for her restoration, I trust not without a due reverence to the divine will. But I did not feel as though nature could give her up until yesterday, when as I stood retired by the bed-side of my dear lamb, endeavoring to feel after resignation, I gave her up as fully as human nature, through divine aid, was capable of. Then it sprang in my heart, Where is the man that can offer up an Isaac? He shall go for me, and I will send him. There seems a spark of hope that even now, when the knife is lifted up, the voice may yet be heard,--"Lay not thy hand upon the lad, for now I know that thou fearest me." My precious dear has been to me in my late exercise a never-failing instrument of strength, comfort, and encouragement: in general her faith has been much stronger than my own. Should it please Heaven to restore her, O that there may be an increased desire that it may be for no other cause, but that her heart, her hands and her feet, may unite with mine in sounding forth our Redeemer's praise, if required, even to the ends of the earth. The following entries record the last hours of the dying Christian wife, and the feelings of her bereaved husband:-- 10 _mo_. 25.--Last night we expected my dear lamb would have sunk away. How the awful event is to terminate is known only to Him on whose bosom I trust she has always rested; for in no other place could she be preserved in the state of peace which she appears to possess. 29_th_.--A most awful morning; my dear lamb is no more! She sweetly fell asleep in the bosom of her Saviour, at one o'clock this morning. The closing scene was perfect ease and peace. From the first of her illness she seemed aware how it would terminate, and was perfectly resigned. During our being at Bentham she has often said it was a place provided by Providence to afford her that religious retirement she had long desired, and which she took the most scrupulous care to improve. When in health she would tell me of late that perhaps she might be taken away in order to set me more fully at liberty to do the Lord's work. 11 _mo_. 18.--This day two weeks was the solemn ceremony of committing to the silent dust the remains of my very precious and dearly beloved Elizabeth. I had dreaded the day very much; but through prayer, mixed with a degree of faith, which was mercifully granted, I was wonderfully supported. In the meeting I felt the divine influence so near, and so to prevail over my spirit, that I was constrained publicly to thank the Father of mercies for his goodness. This day I visited, perhaps for the last time, the place which encloses the cold relics of one so dearly beloved; and as I stood weeping over the grave, it sprang in my heart, She is not here but (she) is risen. What an unspeakable consolation to be enabled to leave the dust behind, and hold sweet communion and converse with the spirit. Ever since her departure it feels as though her spirit had never left me, but was hovering and fluttering around me to administer comfort on every afflicting occasion; and O, saith my spirit, that this precious feeling may remain with me for ever. 12 _mo_. 20.--I feel to lament the loss of my dear lamb more than ever, at least so far as I dare. No one but myself knows the comfort which the late awful event has deprived me of; but I no sooner remember the hand which administered it than all complaining is hushed into silence, and I am made to rejoice that she is so safely deposited where trouble cannot reach. From this moment John Yeardley felt himself quite free to pursue the path of duty which had been opened before him, viz., to go and reside in Germany. In the Eleventh Month he left Bentham to sojourn awhile with his brother, and on the 9th of the First Month, 1822, he received a certificate of removal from Settle Monthly Meeting, addressed to the Friends of Pyrmont and Minden, which certified that he was a member of the Society of Friends, and a minister well approved by the church. Before we pursue further the sequence of events, two passages from the diary may be here transcribed, which could not have been inserted in the order of time without interrupting the narrative. The first of these conveys a lesson of practical wisdom, and exhibits the method by which the writer was able to succeed and to excel in what he undertook. It is the true comprehension and resolute acting upon maxims such as these, which makes so much of the difference between one man and another. 1821. 7 _mo_. 2.--No man can excel in everything; therefore it is highly important for each mind to consider attentively for what it is calculated, and what end it is designed to answer by him who created it. As secular affairs are often more expedited by a judicious arrangement, than by hard doing indiscriminately at the mass; so will undertakings of superior importance be more advantageously attained by keeping a single eye, and looking for best direction to make a proper selection of what ought to be done and what ought not to be done. I was long too much wavering on this head, to my great loss; but I now hope it is become a settled point, find I have clearly seen for what service I am designed in the church militant here on earth; therefore, through the assistance of divine grace, I hope to pursue nothing but in subordination to this main design. For a little mind to aim at great things would be to thwart the whole; but to endeavor to be faithful in small things, seems to be the way to attain the end. From the other entry we shall extract only a few words, but they are words fraught with deep instruction:-- 9 _mo_. 7.--"Without holiness no man shall see the Lord." Without purity of heart we cannot see the pointing of the Divine Finger. On the 18th of the Second Month, John Yeardley attended Pontefract Monthly Meeting, held at Wakefield. It was, he says, a precious season; I felt my friends very near to me in spirit, and expressed to them in tenderness and love what lay on my mind; and in the conclusion the power and goodness of the Most High were so awfully felt that I could not forbear kneeling down to offer him thanks, and to supplicate that he would he pleased once more to bind up the breaches in the walls of our Zion, and grant that when we were separated one from another we might never he separated from his presence. I now begin, he continues, to feel very anxious to set forward for my destination on the other side of the water. What an awful situation mine appears to be! O that faith and patience may be granted equal to the occasion! 1822. 2 _mo_. 26.--I never read in my dear lamb's diary but it feels to season my heart with good. It is as though her writings were impregnated with a degree of sincerity and resignation which, were so eminently the characteristics of her innocent spirit. O, I repeat it, that my precious Saviour may be pleased to appoint her angel spirit to be my guardian through life, until I shall be joined with her in heaven and we both unite in singing his praise. About this time his brother, Thomas Yeardley, began to exercise the ministerial office. 3 _mo_. 3.--Attended Woodhouse Meeting, which was to me a very trying one. My brother Thomas spoke the feeling of my heart in something like these words:--"They come unto thee as the people cometh, and they sit before thee as my people, and they hear thy words, but they will not do them." 3 _mo._ 18.--This day was held the Monthly Meeting at Barnsley. The Testimony concerning our much-esteemed friend Joseph Wood was read and signed by the meetings at large. When I consider the legacy, so to speak, which this dear friend used to say he should bequeath to me, this language seems to prevail in my heart:--"Moses my servant is dead; now therefore arise. As I was with Moses, so I will he with thee; I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee."--Joshua i. 2, 5. This is an awful consideration; but why should any despair? May not the faithful mind say, "This God is our God; he will be our guide, even unto death." I desire most sincerely to be kept in humility, whatever the probations may be which are necessary to fit me for the design of Him who hath given me life, breath and being. On the 2d of the Fourth Month he quitted Barnsley, accompanied by his brother Thomas. I think it a favor indeed, he says, to be relieved from a doubting mind as to whether I should go or stay; for I can truly say that, let the result prove what it may. I go with an undivided heart. Elizabeth Dell had a meeting at Pontefract this day, where I met her; it was a very satisfactory meeting, and it was pleasant to meet with several Friends here whom I did not expect to have seen again. The parting opportunity with E.D. has left a savor on my mind which I hope will not soon be forgotten. Before he left England he opened negotiations with several mercantile houses, who gave him orders for linen yarn from Germany. At Hull he writes: 4 _mo._ 12.--My detention here, waiting for a fair wind to Hamburg, has not been unpleasant; my friends are exceedingly kind, but my feelings in a religious sense have been rather depressing. His heart was full of serious thoughts in anticipation of the voyage, which was then more formidable than it is now; but the joyful hope of a glorious immortality, if death should be suffered to overtake him, bore him up above his fears. 14_th_.--May I be preserved in a holy reliance on the Arm of strong Power for help. "O Lord God, who is a strong Lord like unto Thee, or to thy faithfulness round about Thee? Thou rulest the raging of the sea: when the waves thereof arise, Thou stillest, them." O may it please him to carry me in his bosom, and protect me from the dangers of the sea. But should it please him to permit that I go down to the bottom, may I be fully resigned in humble confidence that I shall again arise to shine brighter with him in everlasting glory. Amen. We shall conclude this chapter with a few extracts from Elizabeth Yeardley's letters, which well depict her character and experience; and with a copy of the weighty and pertinent testimony regarding Joseph Wood which was issued by Pontefract Monthly Meeting. * * * * * 7 _mo._ 13, 1818.--The broad way seems more and more crowded, while the road to Zion is thinly scattered with poor wayworn travellers; each, or nearly so, of the former living as if there were to be no hereafter, and earth was to be their eternal home. I have thought that as our Blessed Redeemer's arms were extended wide on the cross to embrace perishing sinners, so do these short-sighted mortals extend their arms and their wishes in grasping unsubstantial vanities, and that craving one of _Mammon_, the most fascinating of all, as it increases with age. 9 _mo_. 24, 1819.--I hope by what I have felt of the keen arrow of adversity piercing the heart, it will teach me, when I see it wounding any of my fellow-mortals, to endeavor to soothe, if I have nothing else in my power towards healing the wound. Let thee and me be determined, in the name of the holy Jesus, to follow him and not look on others. He is leading us into the pure green, ever green, pasture of humiliation, where the sheep of his pasture love to lie. I own the road is not very pleasant; the descent is rugged, and many times the poor traveller is ashamed of being seen hobbling down by his former acquaintance; but when once within the sacred enclosure, the sweet air that breathes humility hushes all stormy passions to rest. I read and read again of all those holy folks being divested of self, and anxiously do I desire to be so too, but by the marks they lay down I am very far from that attainment. However, He who said, Let there be light, and there was light, can add this to the rest of his inestimable blessings showered on my unworthy head. 4 _mo_. 14, 1820.--We are sometimes led to expect pity from people where we think we have a sort of claim, and here we often feel disappointed. Persons at ease cannot feel for the sensations of pain in others, any more than prosperity can feel the seasons of adversity. Couldst thou have a look into the houses and bosoms of the inmates of most in B. or other places, thou wouldst find a something sorrowful, a burden the possessor would be glad to be quit of. Let us, then, go forward with hope, and endeavor to be truly thankful for the many mercies showered on our heads, who have not rendered as we ought that gratitude so greatly His due. O look at the bulk of the population in England, whose children are looking up to them for a meal, and they have it not for them; and then let the tear of thankfulness fall. To be thankful is to feel a spark of heavenly flame; to be thankful is to increase the blessing already poured forth. O that I possessed more of this blessed spirit; for truly it is angelic! * * * * * _A Testimony of Pontefract Monthly Meeting concerning_ JOSEPH WOOD, _deceased_. This our esteemed friend was born at Newhouse, near Highflatts, within the compass of this Monthly Meeting, on the 26th of the Fourth Month, 1750. His parents, Samuel and Susanna Wood, members of our Society, were concerned for the best interest of their children. In his youth he gave way to some of the vanities incident to that period of life, but when approaching manhood he was happily brought under the restraining power of Truth, and often humbled in deep inward exercise. Once being in the fields in the night season, he exclaimed, Lord what shall I do, or whither shall I go? The answer in the secret of his own heart was as intelligible as if spoken to his outward ear,--Whither wilt thou go, Have not I the words of eternal life? Soon after this he attended a neighboring meeting, when a ministering Friend, who was a stranger, stood up with the words which he had received as an answer to his inquiry, and enlarged upon the subject in a manner suited to his tried state of mind. In the year 1779, in the twenty-ninth year of his age, was his first appearance in the ministry, in great fear and broken-ness of spirit: but being obedient to the manifestations of truth, he experienced an advancement therein, and was a good example, adorning his profession by a circumspect life. His testimony was not with the enticing words of man's wisdom, but in demonstration of the Spirit and of power. Neither was he forward to offer his gift, patiently abiding in the deep till he felt the holy fire burn. He was at times led in a plain close manner to the unfaithful professors of truth, but had the word of consolation to the rightly exercised, unto whom he was indeed a nursing father. He was especially useful to such as the Lord was gathering from the barren mountains of an empty profession to the knowledge of the truth, and he was frequent, in solemn supplication for these, and for the awakening of those who were at ease in Zion. His heart being enlarged in gospel love, he was anxious for the salvation of all, and was frequently engaged to appoint meetings amongst those not in profession with us. For this service he was eminently gifted, and his ministry on these occasions was often attended with the powerful baptizing influence of the Spirit, to the convincement of many. He was concerned to impress on the minds of his friends the necessity of a due attendance of week-day meetings, believing that such as were negligent in this duty never experienced an attainment to the state of strong men in the truth. That our dear friend was zealous for the proper support of discipline in our religious body was sufficiently evident from the part he took in the exercise of it in his own Monthly Meeting; for active service in this important branch of church government he was eminently gifted. In the course of his religious labors, he visited the meetings of Friends generally in most of the Quarterly Meetings in England, and many meetings within the principality of Wales; and divers of them repeatedly. During the latter period of his life, feeling his bodily strength decline, he was anxiously desirous that no service required of him should be omitted. His zeal increased with his years, and he became more abundant in labor for the promotion of the Christian cause. In a memorandum made about a year before his death, he writes, "This day I attained the seventieth year of my age. May the remainder of my days be so devoted to the Lord's service, as, when the solemn message of death is sent, I may have nothing to do but to render up my accounts with joy!" In the last Monthly Meeting he attended, he expressed amongst us that he had seen in the vision of life that day, that there were of the youth there present those who, if they were faithful and kept in their innocency, would become instruments of good, and finally would shine as the stars, for ever and ever. The day before his death, the first day of the week, he appeared in his own meeting at Highflatts, in a powerful testimony, beginning with these words of Moses to Hobab: "We are journeying unto the place of which the Lord said, I will give it you. Come thou with us, and we will do thee good; for the Lord hath spoken good concerning Israel." In the course of his testimony he had in strong terms to urge the necessity of a preparation for an awful eternity. In the afternoon of the same day he complained of a pain in his breast and arms, but was not considered in danger. He retired to bed at his usual hour; but he slept little, and quietly departed about five o'clock the following morning, the 26th of the Third Month, 1821; and was buried at Highflatts the 31st of the same; (many Friends and others attended the meeting on this solemn occasion, which was eminently owned by the presence of the Great Shepherd of Israel;) aged seventy-one years, a minister about forty-two years. CHAPTER IV. HIS FIRST RESIDENCE IN GERMANY. 1822-24. John Yeardley left Hull on the 14th of the Fourth Month, and arrived at Hamburg on the 21st. For the purpose of attending the Exchange, and of becoming acquainted with the language, he hired a lodging in the neighborhood of the city, where he remained for some weeks. Writing to his brother, under date of the 23rd of the Fourth Month, he says,-- In the neighborhood of Hamburg, lodgings are not easily obtained for so short a time as a month. We succeeded in procuring a room three miles from the town, at Eppendorf, in the house of three young women, sisters. It is a charming walk, mostly over the fields. It is quite a cross for me to go on 'Change; but as it is the only place for information, I must submit to it, my visit to this place being for instruction in the language and mode of conducting business: but, from what I have yet seen, it will be quite the best for me to proceed into the interior of the country in a few weeks. What his reflections were when he found himself actually an inhabitant of the land where for so long a time he had mentally dwelt, will be seen by the following entry in his Diary. The maxim with which it concludes may be said to be the motto which he inscribed on his shield for the remainder of his life. This morning I am thankful to feel something of a peaceful serenity to cover my mind, and am well contented in being placed on this side of the German Ocean. I consider it an unspeakable blessing that I do not feel so much as a wish to return, until the time may come that I can see clearly that it is right for me so to do. Should I not be favored with health and strength to do what I have sometimes thought designed for me before I set my foot in this land, or should my Heavenly Father see meet to cut short the work in righteousness and not permit that I ever see my native country again, his gracious _will be done_. I leave this as a testimony that none need to fear his rightly sending forth those who ask and rightly wait for his counsel. I do not know why I should thus write: I trust it proceeds from a resigned heart; and I will add, for fear I should never have another opportunity, that I should wish all to know who have known me, that I have no reason to doubt the rectitude of my crossing the water with a prospect of a residence in this country, and that should time with me now close, I die in peace with my God, and in that love for mankind which believes "every nation to be our nation, and every man our brother."--(6 _mo._ 8.) The next day's diary consists of a short but earnest prayer. _First-day morning,_--O, gracious and most merciful Father, be pleased to strengthen my hands for the work that is before me; be pleased to give me the power of speech; be pleased to give me thy word, with power to publish it to those whose hearts thou shalt be pleased to prepare for the reception of it. The family with whom he lodged at Eppendorf strongly engaged his religious sympathy. I spent, he says in his diary of the 8th of the Seventh Month, about nine weeks at E. in a very agreeable manner with the family of three young women. The one who is the mistress of the house is very seriously inclined. She told me she had read a play-book giving a description of our Society in the character of one of its members, and ever since she had had a particular desire to see one of us, and that she could not but admire with thankfulness that she had been gratified in having one to reside under her roof. She had heard of Thomas Shillitoe's being in Hamburg; and when I told her he was now in Norway, she asked me his business there, I told her that our Friends had sometimes a desire to visit their brethren and other religiously-disposed people in foreign lands, and that such was his errand. She replied, "Yes, and I believe it is also yours: this is Gospel love indeed; while so many here will not think for themselves, you come so far to visit and help them." In saying this she was overcome with tears. John Yeardley left Hamburg on the 2nd of the Seventh Month, and arrived at Pyrmont on the 5th. Writing to his brother, he says: I have now had a specimen of German travelling. Thou wilt be sure I was very bold to set off quite alone except the driver, but it proved far easier than I had anticipated. Instead of having a conveyance to seek when I got over to Harburg, there was a man on the steam-packet who offered to take me in his carriage, and the whole of my packages, to Pyrmont. A great part of the country between Harburg and Hanover is very dreary and barren, much resembling Bentham Moor; but the road is much worse, being in many places not less than eighteen inches or two feet deep in sand. When we came near Celle and Hanover, the country became quite different, being very fruitful, and the prospect charming. Nearly all the way from Hanover to Pyrmont it is beautiful travelling, and the road mostly good. Pyrmont and the scenery in the surrounding neighborhood is beautiful beyond description. At Eppendorf he had been cheered by a visit from Benjamin Seebohm and John Snowdon, from Bradford, who informed him that a committee from the Yearly Meeting were on their way to Pyrmont. This was to him most welcome news, and the Friends reached Pyrmont almost as soon as he did; but though their company was so cordial to his mind, their presence did not relieve him from the burden of religious exercise which he began to feel on behalf of the members of the Society in that place, as soon as he took up his residence amongst them. _Diary.--7 mo._ 16.--The Committee from the Yearly Meeting--viz., Josiah Forster, Joseph Marriage, and Peter Bedford--have visited the families of Friends here, and attended the Preparative Meeting which was held on First-day last. Things here appear to be very low every way among those who profess with us; yet there are a few sincere-hearted to whom I already begin to feel closely united in spirit. From the time of my arrival until First-day last, I do not remember ever to have been more oppressed in mind. I could, if I dared, almost have wished myself in England again, for I feared I should not be able to obtain any relief. I went to meeting on First-day in fear and trembling; but, as is sometimes the case, it proved better than I had expected. When we are stripped of all help but what comes from the Lord alone, it is then that he delights most to help us. Through the acceptable assistance of my friend B. Seebohm, I was enabled to communicate what came before me, and the great dread which I had always had of speaking through an interpreter was mercifully removed, for which I was truly thankful. The three Friends were favored most instructively to labor in the meeting for business. They are now gone to Minden; I feel tenderly united to their spirits in much love. John Yeardley's residence was at Friedensthal, a hamlet about a mile from the town of Pyrmont. In a letter to his brother he thus describes the situation of the place, and his own comfortable accommodation:-- My mother inquires as to my mode of living, and if I have comfortable accommodations. Please to tell her that I am provided for in a way which is exceedingly agreeable to me. I have a large airy sitting-room with three windows, and a bed-room adjoining, situated, on one side, under the shelter of a wood, and the other opens to a beautiful and romantic dale. The mode of cooking is just as I would wish it; I am only anxious sometimes that my very kind friends of the house are too much concerned for my help and comfort. It seems scarcely possible to find an outward situation more suited to my wishes. When I have studied in the house, I take my books in suitable weather into the wood, and there walk and read and think. It is true I am sometimes very flat for want of company; but if I incline to go to Pyrmont, they are always pleased to see me, and would willingly have me always with them.--(2 _mo._ 17, 1823.) Very soon after his arrival at Pyrmont, John Yeardley entered into active service in behalf of the gospel. In what religious state he found the people towards whom he had so long been attracted in spirit, and how he was enabled to preach to them the word of life, is exhibited in several entries in his Diary. 7 _mo._ 21.--The Two-months' Meeting was held at Minden; I went, along with several of my friends from here. The first sitting was very large, many coming in who do not usually attend. It was a very solid meeting; I thought there was the good savor of an honest-hearted few to be felt among a mixed multitude. Such was the sweet, peaceful satisfaction I felt after this meeting, that I almost said in my heart, This is enough to repay me for setting my feet in Germany. These are precious seasons, yet I always recur to such in fear, and rejoice with trembling; for in the midst of the Lord's goodness to his children one seems to be falling on one hand, and another on another; so that the language seems to be, "Will ye also go away?" and truly we shall never be able to stand if we look not for help to Him who has the words of eternal life. About this time Thomas Shillitoe arrived in Germany, in the course of his religious visit on the Continent; and John Yeardley, on his return to Pyrmont, united with him in a visit to the families of Friends belonging to that meeting. 8 _mo_. 13.--My feelings are this morning deeply discouraged. I am entering on a visit to the families here with my dear friend T.S., whose company I have had since the 23rd ult. This service is to me a very important one. It is an easy matter to say to a brother or a sister, Be comforted, be strengthened; but it is no light matter to dip so feelingly into the state of our fellow-mortals, as to feel as though we could place _our_ soul in their soul's stead, in order that they might be strengthened and comforted. 8 _mo_. 20.--The visit has been got over to our great satisfaction. In some sittings, deep exercise and mourning; in others, cause of rejoicing over the precious seed of the kingdom, which is alive in the hearts of some. There seems to be a remarkable visitation once more extended, especially to the youth. In conjunction with Thomas Shillitoe he proposed to the Friends, as only one meeting was held on First-days, to have one in the evening for religious reading, holding it at Friedensthal in the summer, and at Pyrmont in the winter. The proposal was immediately complied with, and the institution proved a valuable auxiliary to the edification of the members. 8 _mo_. 25.--The reading meeting this evening has been a precious season; O, how all spirits were melted together! May the blessing of the Lord rest upon this humble endeavor as a means of bringing us nearer to himself. 28_th_,--Our English Friends [Benjamin Seebohm and John Snowdon] have taken their departure. I feel a little solitary, but I think it a great favor to be preserved from a wish to go with them; nothing will do for me but entire resignation to the Lord's will and work. Little did I think when I left my home in England, that a work of this sort awaited me in Germany; indeed, I came blind in the gospel; I knew nothing; but now I see such a field of labor if I am faithful: how shall it ever be accomplished? O, prepare me, dearest Lord, for without thy heavenly hand to assist me I must faint. O, may I ever seek thy counsel; and be thou pleased to lead me step by step, and give strength according to the day. 29_th._--To-day I have for the first time expressed a few sentences in broken German in our little meeting. I do not know whether they might be very clearly understood, but I hope the attempt to do what I conceived to be the Lord's will, will be accepted by him. O, that he may he pleased to give me the power of speech! In the Ninth Month he went to Hanover with Thomas Shillitoe, who had a concern to see the authorities regarding the observance of the First-day. They did not meet with much success in their object; but they made the acquaintance of Pastors Gundel and Hagemann, the latter "nearly blind and very grey, but truly green in the feeling sense of religion," and who rejoiced in his heart to find a brother concerned to reform those things which had long laid heavy on his mind. The two friends travelled together to Minden, where they parted, and John Yeardley returned to Pyrmont by Bielefeld. The neighborhood of this town, he says, is remarkably fine. There is a very high hill, partly formed by nature, and partly by art, from which we can see quite round, without any interruption, even into Holland. Here, from the appearance of the bleach-grounds, I could fancy myself in Barnsley. But, as Sarah Grubb says, I can have no pleasure in fine prospects; my mind in these journeys is always too much exercised with matters of a more serious nature. In the latter part of the month John Yeardley went again to Minden, to unite with Thomas Shillitoe in a visit to the families of Friends. They commenced their visit at Bückeburg, where they had a remarkable interview with the family of the Kammer-rath Wind, which is related at length in T. S.'s journal (vol. i., p. 388). The place which seems in these visits to have engaged J.Y.'s sympathies the most strongly was the village of Eidinghausen. We had, he says, a very favored meeting in the room where their meeting is usually held. In the sitting in the evening, with the family where we lodged, many of the neighbors came in, who seemed to have no wish to leave us. I thought of the words of the dear Saviour, when seeing the multitudes he had compassion on them, because they were as sheep having no shepherd. Truly these have no outward shepherd who cares much for their spiritual interests. I felt my heart much warmed in gospel love towards them, and we invited them to give us their company again next day, which most of them did. In this meeting there was something expressed so remarkably suited to the states of some present, that after it was over a woman confessed it had been as was declared, that she herself was one to whom it belonged; and she gave us a short relation how it had been with her in former days. The love which these simple, honest-hearted creatures manifest towards us does away with all distinctions and the difference of language. O, that He who teaches as never man taught may be pleased to guide them and bring them to himself that there may be one shepherd and one sheep-fold. All our toils in this weary land will not be too much if we can he made the instruments of helping only one poor soul on its way Zionwards. 10 _mo_. 8.--I returned yesterday evening from Minden, with a thankful heart, to come again to my quiet and romantic habitation in Peacedale. The strong fortifications which are made, and now making, around Minden, give it an appearance of gloom and oppression which is scarcely to be borne. O, how uncomfortable do I feel when within its walls; but in its neighborhood there are a few friends to whom I am tenderly united in spirit. He concludes this entry with an allusion to the homely and even hard manner of life to which many of these were accustomed. To some of our Friends in England who are dissatisfied with their outward situation, I would say, Come and see how these live on the Continent. The 29th of the Tenth Month was the anniversary of his wife's death. His diary for this day is an affecting transcript of his feelings on the occasion. The shock which my earthly happiness received this day twelvemonths has been, this evening, piercingly renewed in the recollection of almost every minute transaction which accompanied the awful event of the closing moments of my precious lamb. For truly like a lamb she lived, and was well prepared to become an angel-spirit. O, happy spirit, thou art at rest; then why should I mourn thy loss? Surely He who knows the weakness of our frame will forgive, for he himself gave us the example in weeping over those he loved. The Almighty has been very good to me; he has put it in the hearts of those with whom I reside to care for me with an affectionate interest. O, for greater diligence, that the day's work may keep pace with the day. What shall I do, but pray for more strength to be made able to do all that may be required of me. I never saw the advice of our dear Saviour more necessary for myself than at the present time, "Be ye wise as serpents and harmless as doves." Soon after this he had a return, of his complaint in the stomach, which caused him to exclaim-- We are indeed but dust and ashes; how quickly the slender thread may be cut, and reduce this frail tabernacle to that state of earthly composition from which it was formed. But the spiritual part in us must have an abiding somewhere _for ever_; this is the awful consideration which ought continually to affect our hearts. Is it not a strange infatuation to rank the moments of affliction among the evil events of our lives, when these may prove the very means of bringing back our wandering feet to the path which leads to everlasting life? He then reviews his own situation, his calling and his work. It is often the consideration of my heart, What has brought me into this country? what have I done? what am I doing? and what have I to do? The enemy is not wanting to distress my poor mind on the point of these four important queries. But to the first I can answer, An humble submission to what I believe to be the leadings of Divine Wisdom. To the second, through the assistance of never-failing love, I have done what I could and have found peace. To the third, I am desirous through divine aid to do what I can; and to the fourth, which refers to the future, I must commit it into the hands of the Judge of the whole earth, who alone is able to guide my feet in the sure path. I feel in the present moment desirous to keep eternity continually before my view, and to let outward things hang more fully on the dependence of Him who suffers not a sparrow to fall to the ground without his notice. (11 _mo_. 30.) 12 _mo_, 1.--The reading meeting this evening has been a precious time. Our spirits have been much tendered in reading some account of the lives and deaths of our worthy Friends recorded in Sewel's History. Tears so overpowered the reader and the hearers, that the reading was at times obliged to be suspended until we had given relief to our feelings. In addition to this meeting, John Yeardley established another for the young, to be held on Fourth-day evening, "in which they might improve themselves in reading, and acquire a knowledge of the principles of the Society, with other branches of useful information." The young women were to bring their work; and it was his delight to interrupt the reading with religious instruction, and such remarks as a father makes for the improvement and gratification of his children. We see him here for the first time in a character in which he was well known to the present generation in various parts of England, viz., as an instructor and guide of the youth. In noticing in his Diary the formation of the Youths' Meeting at Pyrmont, he comments with pleasure on the innocent cheerful manners of his audience, and on the advantages which might be looked for from this kind of social intercourse. The last entry in this year records an occasion of near approach to the throne of grace in prayer in the little congregation at Pyrmont. 12 _mo_. 29, _First-day_.--A most remarkable season of divine favor in our evening assembly. The awe which I had felt over my spirit the whole of the day, and not feeling freedom to break my mind in the meeting in the morning, induced me to look to the evening opportunity with fear and trembling, which indeed is always the case when I feel the Master's hand upon me. The most solemn act of worship, that of public supplication, so powerfully impressed my mind, that I believed it right to yield to the motion, which I humbly trust was done in due reverence and humility of soul. Our spirits were so humbled under feelings of good that it seemed as if the secrets of all hearts were presented before the throne of grace, to ask forgiveness for former transgressions, strength to serve the Most High with more acceptance, and to be finally prepared to reign with him in glory. O how these seasons of refreshing will rise up against us in the great day of account, if we are not concerned to improve by them! Grant, dearest Father, that I may experience a nearer and stronger tie to do thy will more perfectly; and let it please thee to remember those in this place and this land for whom my spirit so often secretly mourns and prays. The Diary of 1823 opens with a profound and solemn reflection. 1823. 1 _mo_. 4.--For want of faith we are too much inclined to serve ourselves before we are willing to serve the Great Master, thinking we may be able to do much for him afterwards, when it will more accord with our situation in life. But, alas! this time may never come; if we thus put by the _acceptable season_, our lives may close with our only having performed very imperfectly the part which had been designed for us in the Church militant. Painful would be the sting when appealing to the Judge of the earth, in a moment when we no longer possessed the capability of serving him, should the declaration be, Thou hadst a desire to serve me when in health and strength, but thou wished _first_ to _serve thyself_. My time was not then thy time, therefore _thy time_ is not now _my time_. A letter to his brother, written in the summer of this year (6 mo. 9), gives a description of the mode of bleaching in use in Germany, which will, we believe, be interesting to the English reader. John Yeardley says: Wilt thou not be surprised when I tell thee that I am about to commence yarn-bleaching? Thou mayst be sure there is a pretty certain prospect of considerable advantages, with not much risk, to induce me to make the attempt. The advantages are threefold--safety, expedition and cheapness. The first consists in the simplicity of treatment and safety of the ingredients, no chemical process being made use of; the second arises from the heat of the climate; the last is easily accounted for from the low price of labor and the cheapness of the raw material, which is produced in abundance in the neighborhood. In the country around, for a very considerable distance, almost every family make their own linen; they grow or buy the flax, spin the yarn and get it woven, and either bleach it themselves or send it to others who have better conveniences in water, &c. As the spring commenced, I noticed these little bleaching-plots wherever I went, and often wondered that the color was so good. Knowing that such people could not possibly be at any great expense or risk in the operation, I concluded it must be done by dint of time and labor, supposing that the yarn and cloth must lie at least a few months on the grass; but, on inquiry, I was surprised to find it was made quite white in three weeks or a month. To make a further proof, I sent two bundles of yarn to two different places to bleach; it is now returned of a very good color and perfectly strong, though it has been in blenching only a month and two or three days, and although the greater part of the Fifth Month has been unfavorable for bleaching. As to any risk of the yarn being tendered, it is quite out of the question; it seems to be done by the operation that nature points out. I have found a very convenient place For the purpose of making trial; there is plenty of good clear water. There is a prospect of having honest workpeople, and at very reasonable wages--not more than 6_d_. or 8_d_. a day; there are many honest creatures to be had at these wages who have nothing in the world to do. From the first of my leaving England, I had no expectation of being liberated from this country before the expiration of about four years, and I have always been desirous that something should turn up that would afford me support by suitable employment; so that what I have now in view does not seem to clash with my former prospects. It is (he adds with affectionate feeling) a source of great consolation that I can always unbosom my mind so freely to thee; and I consider it among the greatest blessings I enjoy, that thou hast never yet failed of being made an instrument of support to me, and my prayer is that thou mayst never lose thy reward. Pyrmont is one of the oldest watering-places north of the Alps. The inhabitants are very much dependent on the visitors who resort thither during the three summer months, and amongst whom may frequently be reckoned some of the first families in Europe. This year, 1823, the Prince and Princess of Prussia (the present Regent of Prussia and his consort) were there, and one Fourth-day morning attended the Friends' Meeting. The meeting-house stands in one of the _allées_, and although its position is not central, it is sufficiently public to be an object of attraction to the curiosity of strangers. A memorandum under date of the 18th of the Sixth Month records the royal visit, and John Yeardley's spiritual exercise on the occasion. 6 _mo_. 18.--To-day the young prince and Princess of Prussia, with the Princess their mother, and the Hofmeister, have been at our Fourth-day meeting. They entered with such seriousness on their countenances that I felt my spirit suddenly drawn towards them in love, and a secret prayer was raised in my heart for their everlasting good. Feeling the influence of divine love to increase, I believed it right to kneel down, and in brokenness of spirit I expressed what had opened on my mind, which afforded me peace; and I hope good to others was imparted, although I may say through the unworthiest of instruments. For truly I have for some time been as in a state of death and darkness, owing to my unwatchfulness. O what would I give for more circumspection, that I might be more prepared to receive the _word_, and when command is given, publish the same. But, unworthy creature, I often deprive myself and others of seasons of good through my negligence and barrenness. When will the time come when I can say, all earthly things are under my feet, and the cause of religion and virtue rules predominant in my heart! Lord, hasten the day; and preserve my feet in thy path in the midst of many snares; and rather let me die than be suffered to do anything which would dishonor thy gracious and holy Name, and the profession I am making of thee before the world. Loose my bands, and enable me to say in sincerity of heart, I am willing to serve thee freely. With the cause for self-condemnation, which is alluded to in this entry was no doubt connected the neglect to keep up his Diary; no entry occurs for more than five months previous. It was probably much more difficult in the position which he occupied in Germany to maintain a spirit of watchfulness and self-recollection than among his more experienced Friends in Yorkshire. There is an allusion to this in an entry of a little later date. 7 _mo_. 8.--My mind feels a little more gathered than it has been for some time past; but the little outward difficulties which are continually arising have a great tendency to disperse the best feelings. I think it is almost the greatest lesson that we have to learn, to stand so fast in times of trouble as not to suffer loss. If we would so conduct ourselves that the change of times and seasons should not have such an unfavorable influence on our minds, this would be one great point gained; it would enable us to meet the difficulties of the day in a better state to combat with them. But if daily trials abounded of a nature the most likely to retard his spiritual progress, we shall see that He who had appointed his lot, provided in his faithfulness the needful corrective, and by the discipline of filial fear in the ministry of the word, kept him safe in his sanctuary. The attendance of visitors at the meeting-house was often numerous, although it was seldom that they remained during the whole time of worship. Meetings of this kind were very trying to John Yeardley's faith and feelings; but sometimes they were seasons of heavenly blessing such abundantly to make amends for past humiliation. 7 _mo_. 6.--To-day the small meeting-house and passage were quite filled with strangers, and I was told many went away who could not get in, and some remained under the windows. No creature on earth knows what my poor mind suffers when I go to meeting under such circumstances. Many whom curiosity brings in the expectation to hear words may some times be disappointed, but I hope there are some whose intentions are sincere, and who are desirous to be informed the way to Zion. I hope strength was afforded me to preach Christ crucified. O that the Lord may support me in these very trying seasons, and take from me the fear of man, and fill my heart with a holy fear of offending Him whom I humbly trust I am desirous of choosing to be my Lord and Master. 7 _mo_. 27.--"Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me bless his holy name." Notwithstanding my many seasons of poverty and inward distress, the foregoing language is sometimes put into my heart on my return from our meetings, which are, in the bathing season, almost always crowded with strangers. Their manner of coming in and going out during the time of worship is exceedingly disturbing, and yet I cannot but admire the stillness which prevails when anything is delivered. The help which I at times experience in these trying seasons is wonderful in my eyes. When I am concerned to stand up in His dread and fear, what have I else to fear? This fear would always cast out the fear of man which ever brings death; and yet so weak am I, that after all these precious helps and comforting times, I tremble when the meeting-day comes again lest, I should fail in doing the Lord's will. Such is my fear before I can rise to my feet in meetings that I say with Samson, Be with me this once more that I may bear testimony to thy name; then, if it be thy will let me die for thee, and I will not think it too much, to suffer. O that He would be pleased to enlarge his gift in my heart, and he unto me mouth and wisdom, and give me tongue and utterance to declare his name unto the nations. 7 _mo_. 30.--Our Fourth-day meeting to-day has been a precious heavenly season. Much more weightiness of spirit appeared to exist in the strangers who attended, and consequently more stillness. I had not long taken my seat before I believed it right to stand up with the words of the apostle, "Awake to righteousness and sin not, for some have not the knowledge of God: I speak this to your shame." The women's side was nearly full of richly-clad females; they bore the marks of worldly distinction, and were indeed as fine as hands and pins could make them. But the tenderings of divine love reached the hearts of some among them in a particular degree. I felt such a nearness of spirit towards them that I had great openness in speaking of the things which came before me. After meeting they very willingly accepted of some books. One of them was much reached, and went into the little plantation to weep. Another went to her to comfort her; but she replied, Go from me and leave me alone. We may truly say with the apostle that God is no respecter of persons, but those who fear him and work righteousness will be accepted of him, to whatever nation, kindred, tongue or people they may belong. All distinctions of religious sects and party spirit are laid aside when our hearts become prepared to embrace each other in true Christian love. I do believe the Lord's work is begun in the hearts of many in this land; and the fervent prayer of my spirit is that he may be pleased to carry it on to perfection, and that we may live to see the glorious day when righteousness shall cover the earth as the waters cover the channels of the sea. O Germany, Germany, what does my heart feel on account of thy inhabitants! It seems as if I could tread thy soil for the remainder of my days if I could only be made the instrument of helping on their way those scattered ones who are athirst for the sincere milk of the word of life. One of the females who visited our meetings came to the school room on Seventh-day, and requested the favor of having a few books to peruse and circulate. She said she was from Osnabrück, and that there were a number of people in that place who had a great love to the Friends of our Society. Such opportunities afford the means of circulating a knowledge of the truth to those whose hearts may be preparing to receive it; and if such are only awakened to seek after the ways of holiness, although they may never come to be of our number on earth, they will he found among the number of the saints in heaven. The bathing-list this season already amounts to 2500 persons, in which number there are many who are desirous to inquire the way to Zion. It is much to be desired that the peculiar advantages which Pyrmont affords for spreading in the different parts of the Continent books illustrative of our religious principles should be judiciously embraced, particularly as there appears such an openness to receive them. I can truly say I have been thankful that my lot has been here this summer, and I trust I have not flinched from doing what I believed to be required of me. In his letters to his brother, John Yeardley makes frequent mention of his mother. In the Ninth Month he heard of her being seriously ill, and he thus writes in reference to her state, in a letter elated the 29th of the Ninth Month:-- The state of my dear mother's health is truly alarming; but as I have received no further account from thee, I am flattering my poor panting heart with a comfortable hope that she may have taken a turn for the better, and will yet live to see the hour when we shall once more embrace each other in my native land. If she should be taken away without my being permitted to see her again, it would be a cup which I could not tell how to drink. This brings poignantly to my remembrance one of the most trying hours of my life, and yet the support then received was wonderful. As I rode along the road in the course of this summer on a journey of business, my dear mother was brought to my remembrance in such a very remarkable manner, that I seemed to have a spiritual interview with her; and she was brought so near to my feelings, that I thought it probable I should never see her again until we met in eternity. I scarcely know how I felt, but it was as if my spirit accompanied hers into the regions above. I noted down the circumstance when I got home; for it had made such an impression on my mind, that I should not then have been surprised to have heard of her departure.[1] The following instructive remarks occur in the Diary about this time:-- 10 _mo_. 27.--My retirement and reading this morning has been more tendering to my spirit than for a long time past. I read and considered the institution of the Passover, when the Israelites were led out of Egypt; and it appears clear to me that the sprinkling the door-posts with the blood of the lambs, as commanded, was a type of our Saviour's blood which was shed for our transgressions, and that we must be saved by his becoming our paschal lamb. As the destroying angel only passed over the doors and preserved those who had received the mark, so can we only be saved by being willing to apply the blood of our dear Saviour to wash and cleanse us from our sins. What a beauty there is in the connection of Scripture truths when we read them with a simple heart prepared to receive the right impression which may be opened! The Friends of Minden and the little company of awakened people at Eidinghausen, who on his first coming to Germany had taken so firm a hold of John Yeardley's mind, continued to excite his religious sympathy, and he again visited them in the latter part of this year. (_Minden_.)--On Seventh-day last, the 1st of the Eleventh Month, I left home in company with some of my dear Pyrmont friends to attend the Two-months' Meeting, and to spend a few days with my dear friends of this place. I lodge with Frederick Schmidt, and feel myself perfectly at home. It is a most orderly and agreeable family, consisting of himself, daughter, and housekeeper; and the time passes pleasantly away when I am only enough concerned to improve the opportunities afforded by this good man's company. He was one of the first in this place who was convinced of the religious principles of Friends, and his beginning was small both in temporals and spirituals. I cannot but admire how his endeavors have been prospered. He remarked the other evening in conversation, that it was of great advantage to the Friends to persevere in their outward callings, and not to jump (us he expressed it) out of one thing into another. This would be the means of establishing their credit as men of business. 11 _mo_. 7.--Sarah Grubb mentions[2] that when she visited Minden, she met with great kindness and attention from a councillor of the place, who on their leaving accompanied them a little way out of the town to an inn, where he had provided coffee, and had invited a few of his friends to take leave of them. This was at the house of my worthy host [Frederick Schmidt], who then kept the inn at Kuckuk, and had for some time been under deep [religious] impressions. He related to me that her discourse in the meeting she had Lad in the town had affected him, and yet he could not give her his hand, but went into the garden to weep; but after she had got into the carriage and driven from the door, she suddenly made a stop, came again into the house, and asked for him. He being called, she had a remarkable opportunity with him; she told him she believed the Lord had a work for him to do in this place, and that he would have to stand foremost in the rank, and when the time came he must not flinch from doing what his Master would require. This has in a remarkable manner been fulfilled to the present day, and affords an encouraging example to the poor tried servants of the Lord to be faithful to apprehended duty. Although they may not live to see the effect of their labors, yet their Lord and Master will not leave himself without a witness in the hearts of his people; praised be his name. 14_th_. Since Thomas Shillitoe and I visited Eidinghausen, there has been a remarkable revival to a sense of religion; a number come together in a sort of society every First-day afternoon, to read, sing, and pray for the edification one of another. As all things have a beginning, this may perhaps prove a step to a more perfect way of worship. I had long felt inclined to visit the meeting in Eidinghausen, and had looked towards accomplishing it from Minden. I went there on the 9th inst., and my intention to be there being known a few days before caused many of these awakened people to attend the meeting so that the little school-room was quite full, and many stood in the passage. I was truly thankful to be amongst them, for it proved a most satisfactory season. They are a rustic set of folks, but have each a soul to save or to lose, and all souls are of equal value in the sight of the Judge of the whole earth. Lewis Seebohm kindly gave up his time to attend me as interpreter, for I still prefer help of this sort when it can be done through one who is so feelingly capable. I often feel as a poor wandering stranger in a strange land, and yet I dare not complain. The goodness of the Lord is great towards me; he opens the hearts of those whom I am concerned to visit, to receive me into their hearts and houses, so that it affords me great freedom in speaking to them on serious subjects relating to their best interests, both spiritual and temporal. I am convinced if we mean to be useful to a people of a strange land, all must be done in a spirit of love and humility; with the weak we must be willing to become weak; only we must be on our guard and not flinch from our well-known testimonies. The reflection contained in the passage which follows is of deep significance, and the lesson it conveys is one which the Church has as much need to learn now as at any former period. 15_th_.--We find recorded in the writings of our ancient Friends that occasionally a few words spoken in the course of common conversation made a deep impression on the minds of those to whom they were addressed. The cause must have been that they lived in a more retired state of mind, and were consequently better prepared to feel the smallest of good impressions in themselves, and were also more attentive to embrace every opportunity of improving the minds of others. I fail in this respect; I do not live enough in what may be truly called a spirit of prayer. I must be more watchful over my thoughts, words and actions, and improve my seasons of retirement; for there is no other way of preservation than by waiting and praying for a renewal of spiritual strength. John Yeardley then reverts, as he so often does, to the love of souls in Germany, which was the means of causing him to leave his native land, and which he says had not diminished during his eighteen months' residence among them. To these thoughts he adds some considerations regarding the temporal condition of the Society of Friends there, on account of which he was often very solicitous. The situation and welfare of the Society here have long occupied the warmest feelings of my heart. I am of the mind, with other Friends who have visited these parts, that there is a precious hidden work begun in the hearts of many in Germany, who suffer under oppression, on account of the many discouraging circumstances which have existed among them, and which yet prevail, to the great hindrance of the Lord's work. There are causes for which no human remedy can be prescribed. I have often said in my heart, If the Lord help them not, vain is the help of man. Much has been done for them by our dear Friends in England, and much still remains to be done, in order that they may be preserved together and not become dispersed as though they had never been a people. The effectual means of help seems yet to fail,--that of putting the families in the way of helping themselves by suitable employment. The families who live in the neighborhood of Minden, mostly on small parcels of land, have until now got on with a tolerable degree of comfort, by cultivating their land in summer and spinning yarn in winter; but now the depression is so great that if they could be put into the way of earning threepence a day, they would embrace it with thankfulness. I have been very diffident in proponing any plan for their assistance, knowing that some former proposals have failed of accomplishing the end. But I have consulted with those who are best acquainted with their situation, and we think it safest for them to continue their own employment of spinning yarn, and endeavor to mend their trade by placing it on this footing. They must spin such an article as I can make use of in sending it, with what I buy from other people, to my friends in the linen business in England. I am to give them a little higher price than they can elsewhere obtain, and those who have no flax of their own must have a little money advanced to purchase some, which they must repay in yarn. When the yarn is disposed of in England, and a profit on the same can be obtained, it must be distributed among them as a premium to encourage industry and good management in producing a good article. If this does not answer, I cannot see any thing at present that will. How far this scheme was put in practice we are unable to say, but we believe it was not accompanied by any successful result. In the next entry he speaks of the advantage which he derived from keeping a diary. 11 _mo_. 17.--I was this evening accidentally induced to read over a few of my former memorandums; and it humbled my spirit to retrace the dealings of my merciful Father with me. I am glad that I have from time to time penned down a few remarks by way of diary, although it has been done interruptedly and very imperfectly. It proves a means of enabling me to see a wonderful concurrence in the ways of Divine Wisdom which has led me in a way that I knew not, and hitherto preserved me through the mercies of his love: praise be to his Name now and for ever. Amen. After his return from Minden he accompanied John and William Seebohm, who were going on a journey of business to Leipzig. They went by way of Brunswick and Halberstadt, and returned by Nordhausen and Eimbeck. In this tour through the heart of Germany, John Yeardley made many observations on the state of agriculture, the cities, and the character of the people. Of the last they met with several curious traits, some of them sufficiently annoying. On many great roads, says J.Y., there is a summer and a winter way, running parallel to each other, with a rail across, on which is a notice that the way is forbidden by a fine of 6_d_. or 8_d_, for each horse, that the traveller may know when to take the summer or the winter road. We stopped on the way [they were not far from Wolfenbüttel] to give our horses a little bread, and our coachman drove to the side of the road to make way for carriages to pass. But he had inadvertently gone over the setting on of the road; and the roadmaster came to us, and told us we must not feed our horses there, as it was not allowed to drive over the stones on the side, under a penalty of three shillings per horse. The evening of the same day we fed our horses at an inn, and walked before, leaving the man to follow us. I and my young friend W.S. sought the cleanest part of the way by walking in the course made for the water, which was green and clean; but so soon as we came by the inspectors, who are mostly employed on the road, one of them told us we must mind for the future and keep the right footpath, or pay 6_d_. each. This I considered as an infringement of English liberty, and was ready to reason with him on the subject; but I reflected that I was a stranger, and that it is always better and more polite to submit quietly to the regulations of the country in which we live, than bring ourselves into difficulty through incivility or contention. In returning from Leipzig, J.Y. and his friends committed a more serious offence against the pragmatical regulations of the German States. On our journey homewards we had much perplexity with some cloth, &c. which J.S. had bought in Leipzig to bring to Pyrmont. This arose from want of better information respecting the laws of the Prussian territory. They are exceedingly strict as to duties. All kinds of wares are allowed to pass through the country at what may be called a reasonable excise; but those travellers who have excise goods with them must preserve a certain road, called the Zoll-strasse. It was our lot to miss this road; for apprehending ourselves at liberty to pursue what road we pleased, we took another way. But we found our mistake when we came to the place where the duty is paid; for we were informed we had taken the wrong road, and that transit duty could not be received; we must either pay the full excise as when goods remain in the Prussian territory, or return back until we came again into the Zoll-strasse. It took some time to consider which was best to be done. To be sent about we knew not whither, and on roads scarcely passable, would prove a serious inconvenience; and on the other hand it was exceedingly mortifying to pay for such a trifle so enormous an excise. The officer was very civil, but told us it was not in his power to do otherwise. We concluded it would be best and cheapest to pay dearly for our error rather than be retarded on our journey. We had a regular receipt for what we paid, but inadvertently departing again from the appointed way, we were in danger of paying the full duty a second time, or having the goods taken from us. So much for travelling with excise goods. Early in 1824, John Yeardley returned for a few months to England. He had ingratiated himself so thoroughly into the esteem and love of his Pyrmont friends, that his departure even for a short time was the signal of lamentation through the whole meeting. On the 11th of the First Month he had a farewell meeting at Friedensthal, which was attended by almost all his friends. With his parting blessing he had some counsel to impart. I have so much place, he says, in their minds, that whatever I say, either in counsel or reproof, is always received in love. Such a scene I never witnessed; the dear lambs all wept aloud; we were indeed all melted together. May the Shepherd of Israel never leave them nor forsake them, and may they become willing to follow his leading. I can truly say that on their behalf my pillow has been often wet with my tears. On the 3rd of the Second Month, he left Friedensthal, accompanied by a young Friend whom he was to conduct to a temporary residence in England, and in whose religious welfare he was deeply interested. While waiting in Hamburg for a vessel, he felt keenly his solitary situation in the world. 2 _mo_. 9.--I think I never felt poorer in spirit and more discouraged than at present. It seems as if visiting my native land had no cheering prospect for me. If it were right in the divine sight I could almost wish to spend the whole of my life in solitude; but I must be willing patiently to suffer, and endeavor to fill the place appointed for me on this stage of action. A vessel sailed for England the day before their arrival at Hamburg, a circumstance which at first made him regret he had not used more expedition on the way. But he immediately recollected it might he for the best that he was left behind. This proved to be the case; for the vessel with which he would have sailed, meeting with contrary winds and dark weather, ran aground, and was obliged to put back, and when J.Y. left the Elbe she was lying in Cuxhaven harbor. They landed at Hull on the 19th. CHAPTER V. FROM HIS RETURN TO ENGLAND IN 1824, TO THE COMMENCEMENT OF HIS FIRST CONTINENTAL JOURNEY IN 1825. On setting foot again in England, the dejected state of mind which had accompanied him on the journey returned with renewed force. 2 _mo_. 19.--I do not know how to describe my feelings in landing on my native shore: I feel a poor discouraged creature. May He who knows the sincerity of my heart be pleased to strengthen my poor mind, for I feel almost overwhelmed with fears and difficulties. Still deeper was his emotion on visiting again the home of former days. 2 _mo_. 20.--Left Hull, and came by way of Selby and Wakefield to Barnsley. I felt my heart exceedingly burdened before I reached the place: it seemed as if all the bitter cups I had drunk in former times were going to be handed to me afresh. This may not be, perhaps, altogether on my own account. There is at times a fellow-feeling with others; and on my reaching this place, I soon felt my spirit dipped into sympathy with some of my dear connexions, who are not without their trials. A few days afterwards, in allusion to the religious service of Elizabeth H. Walker of West Chester, U.S., in a public meeting for worship at Barnsley, he says:-- I do not really know what is the matter, but I fear I am going backwards from all that is good. When I look at the usefulness of others, O what an insignificant, useless being I appear! This lowly opinion of himself, however, was not to serve as an excuse for idleness, and it was proposed to him to bear Elizabeth Walker company in a religious circuit in some of the midland counties, previous to the occurrence of the Yearly Meeting. He accepted the proposal; and they travelled together through part of Staffordshire, Warwick, Worcester, and Oxfordshire, visiting the meetings of Friends, and sometimes inviting the attendance of the public. The dispirited state of mind which John Yeardley had brought with him from Germany accompanied him on this journey, and on the 30th of the Fourth Month he writes:-- I walked last evening in the fields, in a solitary frame of mind, being very low in spirits on many accounts. My own unfaithfulness deprives me of strength to cast off my burden as I go along; consequently I grow weaker and weaker, which is indeed diametrically opposite to growing stronger and stronger in the Lord. Lamentable case! O for a alteration for the better! _Fifth-day, the 6th of Fifth Month, at Sibford_.--This is a pretty large meeting, and there are a good many sweet-looking young folks. The lovely countenances of such are always refreshing to me, and it is not much wonder if I have a little more openness for labor, winch was the case in this place. But in general I sit and bemoan my own uselessness. I have been a burden to myself in this little journey, in fearing I might be so to my friends; but I ought to be very thankful that they do not seem to think me so, but are desirous to encourage me. I think if it was otherwise, it would be more than I could bear. In the Fifth Month, he attended the Yearly Meeting in London. At the Meeting of Ministers and Elders, an unusual number of certificates were granted for religious service abroad. These various concerns drew from him the following reflections:-- As I sat under the weighty consideration and disposal of these subjects, I felt a degree of rejoicing to spring in my heart, that there are still members who hold the promotion of the cause of righteousness in the earth dear to the best feelings of their hearts. It is indeed cause of heartfelt gratitude that the Divine Master is directing the feet of his messengers not only to the borders of this isle, but also into distant parts of the earth. During the Yearly Meeting John Yeardley lodged at William Allen's, at Plough-court and Stoke Newington, and was introduced to several Friends with whom he had not before been acquainted. The acquaintance which I have made with many dear and valued Friends in the neighborhood of London has, I hope, been a little strength to me in the best things. It is truly pleasant to be treated with such genuine kindness; but it is nothing for the soul to build upon,--we must look for a more sure foundation than the favor of the great and good. Elizabeth H. Walker had a meeting with the younger part of the Society in London and the neighborhood. In noticing this meeting J.Y. has some discriminating remarks on the exercise of the ministry. During this as well as many other meetings for worship, I sat under religious exercise, but could seldom believe it required of me to take part in the public ministry. I often think, when many exercised brethren and sisters are present; there would be a danger of interrupting the true gospel order, if all were not careful to wait on the Great Minister of the Sanctuary. If we patiently abide under the rightly baptizing power, what we may apprehend preparing in our hearts for utterance may often be delivered by others, and we only have to say, as it were, Amen. We may also be brought into a right willingness to speak in the Lord's name, and still be excused; this may be, perhaps, a preparation of an offering which may be called for at another place. O the importance of knowing the word rightly to be divided, and when and where the offering is required! A part of Elizabeth Walker's errand in coming to Europe was to visit the Friends in Germany; mid it was proposed that John Yeardley should take charge of her and her companion, Christiana A. Price of Neath, on his return to Pyrmont. They went together through Essex and Suffolk, having meetings on their way; but at Ipswich it appeared that C.A. Price's health was unequal to the journey, and Elizabeth Walker proceeded to Hull to cross the water from thence with another company of Friends who were bound for the Continent. J.Y. was thus left to proceed alone to Pyrmont, and he sailed from Harwich on the 19th of the Sixth Month. When in Suffolk he went to Needham to see "dear ancient Samuel Alexander." I had, he says, long known this fatherly man by name and person, but had had no acquaintance with him until now: his company and conversation were exceedingly pleasant and instructive to me. In the evening I took a walk in a large plantation which he had himself planted when young, and had now lived to see afford him a comfortable retreat. John Yeardley was taken ill when in Suffolk, and on settling down again in his quiet home at Friedensthal he writes: 7 _mo_. 15.--I am drinking salt-spring-water, and my health is mercifully restored. The air of this country seems to suit my constitution better than that of England. Time is very precious. I think, to keep a more correct journal of what I do each day might be very useful, by inducing a more narrow scrutiny how each hour is spent; for I know not how many more may be allowed me to prepare for eternity. To this resolution he did not adhere. With the exception of two short entries in the same month, he wrote nothing in his diary for the remainder of the year. The difficulties of his position, perhaps a lack of sufficient employment, and the want of that instant watchfulness without which the disciple is ever prone to stray from his Master's side, seem to have again produced, as they did twelve months before, a season of spiritual famine. His own gloomy condition did not, however, altogether disable him from sympathizing with others. In a letter to his brother of the 4th of the Eleventh Month he says;-- I have of late been in such a low tried state of mind, that I have been discouraged from writing thee, under an apprehension I should say nothing that would afford thee any satisfaction in reading. But though I may not have it in my power to relieve thee, I hope it will not be unpleasant to thee to know that thou art still more dear and near to me than ever thou wast in the times of more apparent outward prosperity. It is a high attainment to know how to set a right value on perishable things, and it requires no small degree of fortitude to bear the depression of apparent temporary adversity, in that disposition of mind which becomes the character of a true Christian. Although, according to our apprehensions, the storm may last long, yet it most assuredly will blow over, and then greater will be our peace than if we had never known a tempest. On resuming his Diary, which he did in the First Month of 1825, John Yeardley gives an account of the events which happened to him during the previous few months. In the Seventh Month 1824, Thomas Shillitoe and Elizabeth H. Walker came to Pyrmont, and to the latter J.Y. gave his assistance in various religious engagements. After her departure he again visited Minden, with the neighboring villages of Eidinghausen and Hille. His visit to the last-named place (1 mo. 13, 1825) was marked by a singular circumstance. Finding a sudden draft [in my mind] to be at the reading meeting in Hille, to begin at two o'clock, there seemed but little time; however, proposing it to my dear friend John Rasche, he was quite willing to accompany me, and driving quickly we came in due time. When the [meeting] was over, the Friends told me they thought it very remarkable that we should come unexpectedly on that day, and that what was communicated after the reading was particularly suited to the state of a woman Friend present, who was laboring under the temptation that she had committed the unpardonable sin, and could find no rest day or night. I could not prevent them from expressing their thankfulness for such a mark of Providential interference, in this way to afford the poor woman a little relief and encouragement. Four days afterwards, having then returned to Friedensthal, J.Y. adds:--"Since our visit to Hille, the person above-mentioned is dead!" The depression under which John Yeardley labored, from the loss of that comfortable presence of his Lord which had been almost from his youth as a lamp shining continually upon his head, seems to have reached its lowest point in the early part of this year. Under date of the 24th of the Second Month he says:-- I have this morning once more been enabled to pour out my sorrowful spirit before the Father of mercies in a way that has afforded me some relief and encouragement. In bitterness, and, I may almost say, in agony of soul have I spread before him some of those circumstances which have been a cause of unspeakable distress to me for many months past, and rendered me unfit for almost every service, temporal or spiritual. Thou knowest, O gracious Father, I long to have my ways and steps regulated by thy holy will. Therefore I beseech thee, have mercy on my faults, and blot out from thy remembrance all my sins, and everything wherein I have in weakness offended thee; and be pleased to give me strength to become more perfectly and lastingly thine. O how sensibly do I feel my own weakness, and that without thee I can do nothing, not for a moment preserve my own steps. In the midst of his discouragement his mind was directed towards the accomplishment of another part of the commission which had been entrusted to him before he left England.--viz., to sojourn for a time amongst the Friends in the South of France. Accordingly, early in the Third Month he went to Minden, and laid before the Two-months' Meeting, his intention of going to Congenies for this purpose, and also of seeking a religious interview with some serious people in the neighborhood of Cologne. This information, he says, was received by my friends with much sympathy and, I trust, weightiness of spirit, and I felt a little strengthened by the expression of their feelings and unity with me in this concern. A certificate of their approbation was ordered to be drawn up. No creature on earth knows how this prospect humbles me. I always think I am dealt with in a remarkable manner,--somewhat different perhaps from others. Notwithstanding all the seemingly insurmountable difficulties which stand in the way, and which are far too numerous to particularize, my peace is connected with my obedience. What will be the result I know not; the way appears not yet quite clear us to the time of departure. O Lord, favor me to wait on thee for the spirit of discernment not to step forth in the wrong time. The obedience which he practised in committing himself in simple faith to this religious prospect prepared the way for a temporal blessing, as well as for the return of inward joy. He little knew, when persecuted by the Accuser of the brethren, and mourning over the weakness of his own corrupt nature, that his Lord was about to provide for him a congenial and helpful companion, in the room of her whose loss had left him solitary in the world. Without this timely sacrifice of his own will, it could not have been so easy for him to make the journey to France in the way in which it was done, and which was the means of bringing about the union which shed so much comfort on the remainder of his life. Between two and three months after the meeting at Minden, he received the information that Martha Savory, accompanied by Martha Towell, was about to pay a religious visit to the Friends at Pyrmont and Minden. He had been introduced in London to Martha Savory as a minister of the gospel, and one who had been abroad in its service, but his acquaintance with her seems to have been slight.[3] On receiving this intelligence he writes:-- The prospect of seeing a few dear Friends from my native land would be cheering, but I am really so cast down that I seem as if I could not, and almost dare not, rejoice in anything. May this low proving season answer the end for which it is permitted! As he apprehended the Friends who were coming from England might require a guide, John Yeardley went to meet them at Rotterdam. His journey, and the singular coincidence of Martha Savory's concern with his own, are described in a letter to his brother, written after his return from Holland. Friedensthal, Pyrmont, 7 mo. 14,1825. MY DEAR BROTHER, On my return from Holland I received thy long and very interesting letter. Martha Savory and her companion Martha Towell are now acceptably with us. They expect to spend two or three months with us, and then we have some prospect of going in company to the South of France. As this has fallen out in a rather remarkable manner, it may not be amiss just to explain it to thee. We were entire strangers to each other's concern; but as soon as my friends in London heard of my prospect from the copy of the minutes of our Two-months' Meeting and of my certificate, dear William Allen wrote to me desiring a more particular description of my views, time of departure, &c., and mentioned at the same time M.S.'s concern, which had already passed the Quarterly Meeting, and it was fully expected she would be liberated [by the Meeting of Ministers and Elders] to visit Pyrmont and Minden, and afterwards, if _suitable company offered_, proceed to some parts of the banks of the Rhine, Switzerland, and Congenies, in the south of France. I wrote to W.A., and explained to him my prospect, which was to visit a few individuals in the neighborhood of Cologne and pass through Switzerland to Congenies. I then received a letter from our dear friend M. Savory, stating that she and W.A. had been much struck with the remarkable coincidence in our views; our prospects being to the same places and in the same way; and that it seemed in the pointing of Truth for us to join in company. Fifth mo. 26th, I left Friedensthal to visit my friends in Minden and its neighborhood; and after spending about two weeks there, I felt very much inclined to give our friends the meeting at Rotterdam. I set off, accordingly, the 7th of the Sixth Month, and travelled seven days through a desert country to Amsterdam, I went almost one half of the way by water, across the Zuider Zee from Zwolle to Amsterdam. After spending a few days in Amsterdam, I went, with J.S. Mollet, who is the only Friend in that city, to Rotterdam, where we met with M.S. and M.T. Thomas Christy, junior, had accompanied them, from London. M.S. had letters of recommendation to many persons in Amsterdam, whom we visited; and though some of them were first-rate characters in the place, it is surprising with what affection and kindness they received us. J.S. Mollet accompanied us to Pyrmont. An account of his journey, both going and returning, is also contained in J.Y.'s diary: it presents some additional notices which claim a place here. Before leaving Minden for Rotterdam, he twice visited Eidinghausen, and saw some young men who were under suffering because of their refusal to serve in the militia. One in particular (he says, in writing up the diary), a sweet young man, at this moment may be in torture. O, how I feel for him! My soul breathes to the Almighty Father of mercies on his account, that he may he strengthened to endure all with patience for the sake of his Lord, who has given him a testimony to bear against the spirit of war and fighting. At the conclusion of the second meeting at Eidinghausen, he says:-- The meeting was fully attended, and I afterwards dined alone in the schoolroom with a light heart. I thought I could say, After the work is done, food tastes sweet. At Rotterdam, John Yeardley and his companions made the acquaintance of a "very interesting missionary student, who believes he has a call to go on a mission to the Greeks, and is waiting for an opening: his name is Gützlaff." At Amsterdam, a letter from Gützlaff introduced them to the priest of the Greek church in that city, Helanios Paschalides, a man of child-like spirit, and long schooled in affliction, who had become awakened to his own religious wants, and who believed himself called to return to Greece and instruct his countrymen. These two interviews are memorable, as being, probably, the commencement of the strong interest which J. and M.Y. evinced in the Greek people, and which issued, years afterwards, in a religious tour in that country. At Zeist, where there is a settlement of Moravians, the ministers, finding the Friends desired to convene their members in a meeting for worship, readily consented. The meeting, writes J.Y., was more fully attended than we had expected. There is much sweetness of spirit to be felt about these people, but a want of stillness. I thought some of the hearers were prepared to see further than their teachers, and the time may yet come when some may be drawn into a more spiritual worship. We left them a few tracts, and they kindly gave us a few little boots of theirs. It is remarkable in what a spirit of love they received us. The Friends reached Pyrmont on the 1st of the Seventh Month, and shortly afterwards made a visit amongst the members from house to house in that place, and at Minden. On the 28th they visited a number of seriously awakened persons at Lenzinghausen, who felt the necessity of spiritual worship, and to whom their hearts were much enlarged in gospel love. Walking in the garden, writes John, Yeardley, in a very solemn and solitary frame of mind before the meeting, I had such a feeling as I scarcely ever remember to have had before. I thought I saw, as in the vision of light, as if a people would be gathered in that neighborhood to the knowledge of the truth. It appeared to me to be in the divine appointment that our dear M.S. was come to visit Germany, and a large field of labor seems to be appointed for her in this land if she is faithful. The next two months were occupied with various religious services, public and private, not omitting meetings at Eidinghausen and Hille, where, as on former occasions, J.Y. found his heart to go out towards the people with strong emotions of Christian love. About 150 attended at the former, and 300 at the latter place. CHAPTER VI. HIS FIRST CONTINENTAL JOURNEY. 1825-6. The time was now come for John Yeardley and Martha Savory to pursue their journey to the Rhine, Switzerland and France. They left Pyrmont on the 11th of the Tenth Month, 1825, and beside Martha Towell, were accompanied as far as Basle by William Seebohm as interpreter. Every member of the party wrote in one way or other an account of the journey, and we have availed ourselves of these various sources in the following narrative. Passing through Paderborn, they arrived at Herdecke on the 13th. Regarding his feelings in this place John Yeardley writes:-- This morning I was greatly dejected, and fearful we might find none of the people whom we were seeking. As I was walking pensively outside the town, I recollected what I once read in "Cecil's Remains,"--that a way may suddenly open before us when we the least expect it. This was now to be verified; for after we had entered the carriage with the intention of going to Elberfeld, and while we were waiting for a road-ticket, I accidentally fell into conversation with our hostess, and making inquiry for people of religions character, learnt that there were a number of such in the neighborhood. The Friends alighted, and sent for a member of this little society who resided in the town. He informed them that a meeting was held at Hageney, about six miles distant, at the house of a pastor named Hücker. Being disposed to visit this pastor, they took their informant with them as guide, turned their horses in the direction opposite to Elberfeld, and drove along a very bad road to his house. They found him occupied in teaching some poor children. He told them that their visit was opportune and remarkable, for that he had been denounced as a delinquent before the Synod of Berlin, which had sent him a string of questions on doctrine and church-government. He had returned a reply to the questions, and was then waiting the determination of the synod, whether he was to be displaced from his cure or not. The Friends examined his answers, and were well satisfied with them: the worship which he and his little flock (about thirty in number) practised was of a more spiritual character than that of the national church. Martha Savory expressed her deep sympathy with him in his difficult and painful situation, and John Yeardley also addressed him in words of consolation and encouragement. At Elberfeld, where they arrived on the 15th, they met with several interesting persons. One of these, a young pastor named Ball, became greatly endeared to them. He informed them that when he had been severely tempted, he had found support and deliverance in silent waiting on the Lord. Another was Pastor Lindel, who resided at some distance from the city, in the Wupperthal; he had been brought up a Roman Catholic, had seen many changes, and suffered not a little persecution. He took them to see a neighbor, an aged man, weak in body, but strong and lively in spirit. This man told them he was present at a meeting at Mühlheim held by Sarah Grubb, about thirty years before; and that, although ninety years old, he recollected the words with which she concluded her discourse: "By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another." This love, say the narrators of the occurrence, was felt amongst us on this occasion, and at parting the good old man gave us his blessing. They quitted Elberfeld on the 19th, and proceeded to Düsseldorf, where the reception they met with was equally open and gratifying. They spent an evening at Kaiserswerth with Pastor Fliedner, who was occupied in vigilantly guarding a little nock of Protestants surrounded by unscrupulous Romanists. He evinced much interest in the management of prisons, and was endeavoring to introduce improvements in that of Düsseldorf: he had met with Martha Savory in one of her visits at Newgate.[4] The next day they went to Düsselthal, and inspected the institution there. The Count Von-der-Recke conducted them himself through every department. His countenance, says John Yeardley, evinces the magnanimity and kindness of his heart; it is remarkable and precious that so young a man should dedicate his whole time and fortune for the benefit of the orphan and the destitute. At Creveldt, the next town where they stopped, Pastor Molinaar and his wife, who were Mennonists received them in a very cordial manner: the latter had seen Thomas Shillitoe at Amsterdam. J.Y. relates several visits which these worthy persons and some of their Christian friends paid to them at the inn. 22_nd._--In the evening Pastor Molinaar came, with his wife and some friends, to tea. They inquired very narrowly respecting our principles. Pastor M. turned the conversation on women's preaching, and, after some explanation, appeared to be pretty well satisfied with our views on this subject. The Mennonists hold strongly to the use of Water Baptism, and the pastor and his wife defended this practice, the latter with much earnestness. But when we had unfolded our sentiments, and William Seebohm had read a passage from Tuke's "Principles," the pastor, seeing that we aimed only at the spiritual sense, acknowledged that he had often queried with himself whether the usage could not properly be dispensed with, and said that he intended still further to examine the question. Our certificates were then read; and after we had conversed on our church discipline, the company separated in mutual love. The Friends inquired of the Mennonists whether any of their Society would incline to sit with them on the First-day evening. Our friend, Martha Savory, told them we could not promise that anything should be uttered, seeing this could only take place through the immediate operation of the Holy Spirit. At the appointed time there assembled about fifty persons. After a short conversation they seated themselves, and when we had sat awhile in silence, M.S. found herself moved to address them in a feeling manner, W.S. interpreting; and I relieved my mind in German as well as I was able. Before we separated, Pastor Molinaar rose, and in the name of the rest expressed his heartfelt satisfaction, adding that he hoped we should remember them for good, as they should not fail to pray for our preservation. 24_th._--We told Pastor M. that it would be agreeable if he and any others of his friends who wished to take leave of us would come to the hotel. At seven o'clock, instead of a few as we expected, there came about thirty. The ladies seated themselves quite sociably, and took out their work, but were evidently prepared to lay it aside in the hope of having another religious sitting. But as we believed there were those present who had come from too great a desire to hear words, we were on the guard not to satisfy this excited inclination; and the evening was spent in agreeable conversation. Before we separated, however, we thought it well to read our Yearly Meeting's Epistle, which was acceptable to all. Pastor M. especially was pleased with the part about church-discipline, and said he considered it of real advantage that the epistle had been read in that company, as there were several young women present who might receive benefit from it. Feeling attracted towards the inhabitants of Mühlheim on the Ruhr, the Friends again turned out of the direct road and crossing the Rhine a little beyond Duisburg, arrived in the evening at Mühlheim. They found a company of Separatists in the neighborhood of the town, some of whom they visited; and the next day they passed over the Ruhr, and, with the assistance of a school-master, convened a meeting for worship. At the time appointed nearly three hundred persons assembled, mostly of the poorer class. They were seated in a large school-room, the men on one side and the women on the other, waiting in silence. They had a good meeting, and at the conclusion the auditory expressed their unwillingness to part, and their desire that those who had ministered to them should visit them again. On the 27th, after calling upon some descendants of Gerhard Tersteegen, our Friends proceeded through Düsseldorf to Cologne. They were disappointed of finding in the neighborhood of this city, that company of religious people on whose account they had felt much interested, and of whom they had heard that "they held principles like the Quakers, and were as obstinate in them as they are." They did no more here than call upon a few serious persons in the city, and then went forwards to Neuwied, hoping there to hear of them. At Neuwied, besides becoming acquainted with the Moravian preachers and others, they were called upon by some of the _Inspirirten_, who invited them to their meetings. They attended one of these; but, being dissatisfied with the manner of the service, and not finding relief for their spiritual exercise, though the opportunity of speaking was offered without reserve, they in turn invited the company to meet with them the next morning after the manner of Friends. The meeting was held to mutual satisfaction, and one of the leading men amongst the _Inspirirten_ expressed the hope that it would be blessed to them; for he was, he said, sensible of the want of less activity and more of silent waiting in their religious assemblies. The society to which these people belonged divided in 1818 into two branches, after an awakening which took place that year; those who separated believing it to be incumbent upon them to lead more self-denying lives, and dwell more closely under the influence of the Holy Spirit. This new connection was the people of whom our Friends had heard; and they learnt that they had retired to a place called Schwartzenau, near Berlenburg, a small town at the eastern end of the barren hilly region known as the Sauerland. The distance of this place from Neuwied is considerable, and the roads amongst the worst in Germany; but John Yeardley and Martha Savory apprehended they could not peacefully pursue their journey without attempting to visit them. Accordingly they left Neuwied on the 1st of the Eleventh Month, and proceeded to Montabauer. The road led them at first amongst some of the choicest scenery of the Rhine; but after a while they left the river and struck into the interior of the country, in a north-easterly direction. The next day they passed through a place where, a few months before, a Diligence had been robbed. The robbers, who had been taken a fortnight after the offence, were then, as they were informed, in Limburg gaol, and were to be hanged the next day. They were ten in number, all members of one family. At Burbach they met with an English landlord, thirty-five years resident in Germany; he was delimited to see his fellow-countrymen, and exerted himself to give them the best entertainment his house afforded. The country they passed through was very hilly, and overgrown with forest; now and then a solitary dwelling was seen in the bottom of the deep valleys. On the 3rd they came to Siegen, an ancient and antique town on the side of a high hill, looking, as one of the party observed, as though they had reached the end of the world. And, indeed, it seemed almost like the end of the civilised world; for they were informed that the road from thence to Berlenburg was in such a miserable condition that they could take their carriage no farther. They resolved, however, to make the attempt, and providing themselves with a tandem horse (_vorspann_) and a guide, and sending on their luggage, they set forth on the way to Letze, a village where they proposed to lodge; but the waters were abroad from the overflow of the rivers, and the road being extremely narrow, and the ruts deep, they made very slow progress. Sometimes the way was so impracticable that they had to take the carriage through the woods which skirted the road. Darkness and rain coming on obliged them to halt for the night at Netphen, and seek shelter in the humble dwelling of a woman, who at first took alarm at the unexpected appearance of so many strangers. The account which the guide gave respecting the travellers dispelled her fears, and she did what she could by hospitality to make up for the scantiness of her accommodation. She gave them also some information respecting the _Inspirirten_, whom they were on the way to visit, speaking favorably of them. The next morning, before they started, they were able to offer her spiritual good in return for her temporal kindness, John Yeardley ministering to her condition under religious exercise; and they trusted his words found entrance into her soul. On the 4th they pursued their way, up hill and down, the carriage sometimes becoming so firmly fixed in the narrow deep ruts, that it was necessary to take out the horses, and for the men of the party, with the assistance of passers-by, to lift it over to more even ground. At length they arrived at Erndebrück, and drove to an inn; but not finding their luggage, they went to another, and while they were preparing to start for Berlenburg, William Seebohm went to the Custom-office to show the ticket of clearance they had received on entering the Prussian territory at Burbach. This ticket should have obviated all delay attendant on the examination of the luggage; but it happened, most unfortunately, that the custom officer was the landlord of the inn they first came to. Their leaving his house without taking refreshment was, in his eyes, an unpardonable offence, and on William Seebohm presenting to him the ticket, his countenance and language betrayed the passion which raged in his breast. He declared their trunks should be examined in the strictest manner; and when they represented the necessity they were under of speedily pursuing their journey, and desired him to despatch the business as quickly as possible, he replied by detaining them until they were obliged to send back the horse and guide, and consent to pass the night under his roof. He then demanded their passports, and finding they had not been _visé'd_ at all the towns through which they had passed, and that the travellers had departed from the route described in them, he sent for a gendarme, and placed them under arrest. They were not allowed to take anything from their trunks without being watched by the gendarme; and when they took out a letter of recommendation, written by Dr. Steinkopf to the clergyman of the place, whom they had requested to call upon them, the gendarme insisted on first reading it. On their expostulating with the landlord at being treated in this manner, instead of making a direct reply, he strutted up and down the room, repeating continually, "Ja, ja, ja, ja! they shall know what they went away from my house for, and that there is a custom-office here." The Friends took their evening meal, as is usual in Germany, in-one of the sleeping-rooms--that which had been allotted to Martha Savory and Martha Towell. Into this chamber, when they had eaten, the landlord brought a party of eight or nine men to take their supper. After supper the men smoked, and some of them did not even refrain from showing their ill-breeding in a more disagreeable way. William Seebohm overheard the landlord and the gendarme say to each other, "These people are travelling this way to visit the Separatists, and strengthen them in their religious opinions; but we will disappoint them." The next morning they were favored with a short season of solemn communion, in which they were given to believe that the Name of the Lord would be their strong tower. Their liberation, in fact, was near; for their envious jailor, finding probably no excuse for longer detaining them, suffered them to depart, but sent the gendarme to guard them as far as Berlenburg. The man proved to be an excellent guide, and being eager to bring them to the magistrate of that town, where they could be more effectually checked in their schismatical object, he was very useful in shouldering the carriage when they came to a stand in the miserable roads. The town of Berlenburg presented a dismal spectacle, the greater part having recently been burnt down; so that they had some difficulty in making their way through the ruins. They were subjected to no delay at the Custom-house, but, before being allowed to go to an inn, were conducted by the gendarme to the Castle, to be examined by the _Landrath_, or magistrate. While John Yeardley and William Seebohm were taken into the justice-chamber, Martha Savory and Martha Towell remained in the carriage, where they were presently surrounded by a crowd, who gazed with astonishment at their equipage, no such vehicle having been seen in the town for many years, and probably never any persons in such attire. Being weary of waiting, and anxious to know the result of the examination, they left the carriage and ascended to the magistrate's room. They were politely received, and arrived just as he had concluded the examination and was declaring the Friends entirely free from, the requisitions of the law. The letters of recommendation which they presented were very helpful in procuring this result. At the Landrath's request, they stated the object of their journey, and the reasons which had induced them to deviate from the route described in the passports, of all which he caused a note to be taken. At the conclusion he politely dismissed them with the salutation, "Go where you will, in God's name;" and the abashed and disappointed gendarme was obliged to imitate his superior and make them a parting bow. The magistrate referred them to two of the citizen, for information regarding the Separatists, but remarked that he considered a visit to Schwartzenau at that critical moment would not be without danger. One of the persons on whom the Landrath recommended the Friends to call was the Inspector of the Lutheran or State Church of the country; and on the 6th, which was First-day, after a time of worship in their own apartment, they received a visit from this personage. Wishing to act with entire openness, they informed him of their desire to see the Separatists, and invited him to accompany them. He gave them the names of several with whom they might freely have intercourse. As the interview proceeded mutual confidence increased, particularly after reading their certificates; and the Inspector expressed himself gratified with the liberality entertained by Friends towards people of other religious persuasions. It snowed all the next day, and the roads were deep in water, so that M.S. and M.T. remained in-doors; but J.Y. and W.S. walked to Homburgshausen, a village about a mile and a-half from Berlenburg, to call upon an aged man, a Separatist of the old connection. He had heard of their arrival, and was overjoyed to see them; he looked upon it as a providential occurrence that they should have been sent there at that juncture. His forefathers, he said, had been settled there many years, and had hitherto enjoyed liberty of conscience; but now he feared they were about to be deprived of that privilege. Before the Friends left Berlenburg, he called at their inn with several more of his society; he appeared to be a truly pious man, and looked, they say, exactly like a _good old Friend_. He declared himself to be fully convinced of the value of silent worship, but said that their people in general were not prepared to adopt it; however they rejected outward baptism, and the use of the bread and wine, and refused to bear arms. He had been many times summoned before the magistrates to be examined upon his religious belief. On one of these occasions the Landrath asked why he did not take the bread and wine, and why he did not have his children baptised. He answered that if he was to conform to these ceremonies it would be as though he had received a sealed letter in which nothing was written. He and his people were solicitous with the Friends to have a meeting with them; but the minds of John Yeardley and his companions were pre-occupied with a desire first to see the New Separatists, who were then under persecution, and they did not think it proper to accede to the request. In reply to a message which they sent to some of the new society, they received, through a young woman (for the men were afraid to come to the inn), a pressing invitation to visit some of them who lived in a retired spot called Schellershammer, not far distant. They immediately accepted the invitation. The road, which was impassable for a carriage, was covered with mud and water. They were received into a very humble dwelling by a pious young man and his family, with whom also they found some of the New Separatists from Schwartzenau. On. sitting down with this company the restraining presence of the Lord was felt, under which they remained for some time in silence. Then the poor people opened to them their situation with humility and freedom. The young man above-mentioned had just drawn up a statement of their religious principles, which had been sent to the authorities. This statement he showed to the Friends, as also a letter to the King of Prussia, which had been prepared by one of their ministers, but which, from its lofty assumption of prophetic authority, they could not approve. These people called their ministers, _Instruments_; and they had fallen into the specious error of attributing to their effusions, whether spoken or written, equal authority with the Holy-Scriptures. On other points their principles resembled those of Friends; as the disuse of outward ceremonies and of oaths, and their testimony against war. It was on these accounts that they were persecuted. They appeared to dwell under the cross of Christ, and to live in much quietness of spirit. Under the existing circumstances the Friends did not feel bound to appoint a general religious meeting with these people. They contented themselves, therefore, with unfolding their sentiments in conversation, giving them books, and before they left Berlenburg, addressing them by letter, in which they enlarged particularly on the subject of the ministry. They also left some copies of their Friends' books with the old society; and both parties declared their belief that the visit they had received was in the order of Divine Providence, and took leave of them in love and confidence. The friends quitted Berlenburg on the 9th of the Eleventh Month, and proceeded towards Frankfort. After a day's journey over bad roads, they were glad to find themselves once more on the _chaussée_. They arrived on the 11th at Frankfort, where they called on a few pious individuals, but stayed a very short time in the city, being desirous of visiting some Old and New Separatists at Lieblose near Gelnhausen, about twenty-four miles from Frankfort. The next morning they accordingly went to Gelnhausen, and had social interviews with members of both associations, but failed to make use of the opportunity they had of holding a meeting for worship with the Old Separatists, which they afterwards regretted. They then went forward to Raneberg, about six miles distant, to see the _Instrument_ who wrote the letter to the King of Prussia which was shown to them at Schellershammer. They found him a young man, inhabiting an apartment in a lonely castle, romantically situated on a high hill. The access to the spot was through a forest, and by a very bad road. Whatever prejudice in regard to him they might have imbibed from the style of his letter was at once dispelled by his appearance; his look was so humble, so devoted, and with such "extreme sweetness of countenance." John Yeardley and Martha Savory conversed with him a long time; he did not rightly comprehend the nature of the Christian ministry, but he listened calmly and patiently to all they had to say. They left some books with him, and received some in return, descriptive of the awakening which gave rise to the division in the society of _Inspirirten_. He was then about to set out on foot to pay a religious visit to the members of his own profession in various parts of the country; when at home he worked at his trade, which was that of a carpenter. The party retraced their steps to Hanau, and the next day pursued their way southwards. They passed through Darmstadt and Heidelberg to Pforzheim. Here they called on Henry Kienlin, whom they found a _Friend_ in principle and practice, and who had given many proofs of his fidelity to his principles by the persecution he had endured from his relations, and the pecuniary loss he had suffered for refusing to comply with ecclesiastical and military demands. He was a man of station and influence in the town. He had not previously had personal acquaintance with any members of the Society of Friends, but had read many of their writings. He accompanied the travellers five miles out of the town to a little flock of Separatists, who had not yet obtained religious liberty, and to whom it was forbidden under a severe penalty to attend meetings held by strangers. On the visiters entering the house of one of them, a number presently collected; and as they stood together, a solemn feeling pervaded the assembly, and John Yeardley was moved to address them in gospel testimony. Henry Kienlin followed, explaining the principles of Friends clearly, and giving them some suitable advice. They were laboring under the want of discipline and organization, and of some one properly to represent their case to the government. Some of them called the next day at Pforzheim, to see the Friends again before they left. The next place where they halted was Stuttgardt, to which city H. Kienlin gave them his company. Here they visited Queen Catharine's Institution, a school for the training of girls in reduced circumstances, as teachers, &c., where 170 young persons were being educated. They were also introduced to a number of pious individuals, and among them to Pastor Hoffmann of Kornthal, whose excellent institution they were unable at this time to visit. An appointment had been made for them to meet at Basle Louis A. Majolier of Congenies, who was to serve as their guide and French interpreter through Switzerland and France, and they felt obliged on being informed of this appointment to pursue their journey more quickly than they otherwise would have done. Returning to Pforzheim, they stopped at Mühlhausen, where they called on Müller, minister of a congregation, consisting of 170 persons, who had separated a few years before from the Catholics. This young man received them with openness and affection, and before they parted, John Yeardley had something to say to him under religious exercise, which he received in the love in which it was spoken. From Pforzheim they went direct to Basle, through Freiburg. On their arrival they were much disappointed to find that Louis Majolier had waited for them many days, and hearing no tidings of them, had returned to Geneva, supposing they had gone on to that city by another route. At Basle they were introduced to many pious persons, conspicuous among whom was Blumhardt, inspector of the Mission-house, who behaved towards them "as a loving and kind father in Christ." He encouraged them in their concern to have a religious meeting with the students. The meeting took place in the evening when the young men were collected for supper and devotion; they received the word which was preached to them in gospel love, and manifested towards our friends no small degree of tenderness and affection. John Yeardley says:-- We had reason to believe there are among them many precious young men who are preparing for usefulness. The grounds on which this place is conducted are different from most of the kind. None are sent out but those who can really say they feel it to be their religious duty to go to any certain people or country. A sweet young man, who was extremely attentive to us, Charles Haensel, is since gone to Sierra Leone to teach the poor negroes, from a conviction of duty. One day during their sojourn, C. Haensel took them to a meeting for worship, held in the house of C. F. Spittler. J.Y. says, we sat until they had performed part of their worship, and then the leader signified to the company that a few Friends from England were present, and told us that if we had anything to offer we had full liberty to do so. Silence ensuing, dear M.S. found herself constrained to address them in a way suited to the occasion; I was also enabled to express what came before me. They afterwards expressed their thankfulness for the opportunity. From Basle William Seebohm returned to Pyrmont, and the English Friends, hoping that they might meet Louis Majolier at Berne, went forward to that city, but were again disappointed. Although they were anxious to reach Geneva as quickly as possible, the attraction of gospel love towards Zurich was so strong that they could not continue their journey until they had visited that city. They arrived there on the 2nd of the Twelfth Month. The state of their own feelings and the refreshing Christian intercourse which awaited them are thus described in the Diary:-- First-day, we sat down to hold our little meeting. It was to me a low time, but I still thought the hand of divine help was near to comfort us, and before the close dear M. S. was drawn into supplication in a way which expressed the feelings of all our hearts. After this season of spiritual refreshment, we called on Professor Gessner, who, with his wife and family, was truly glad to see us. Being near dinner-time, we could not stay long; but their daughter offered to accompany us to her aunt's this afternoon, and accordingly came to our inn, and went with us to "Miss" Lavater, who, with Gessner's wife, is a daughter of the pious author Lavater. She received us with open arms, but spoke only German, or at least but very little French, so that M. S. conversed with her in German. She spoke of Stephen Grellet with much interest and affection: he lives in the remembrance of all in this country who have seen and known him, as well as William Allen. How pleasant it is to find that such devoted instruments have left such a good savor behind them! Wherever we follow dear Stephen, his presence has made a sufficient introduction to us; but I regret exceedingly my own incapability of being sufficiently useful in these precious opportunities which we meet with: but, as we often say in our little company, This is like a voyage of discovery; and our humble endeavors, however weak, may have a tendency to open the way for others who may be made more extensively useful, should such ever be led to visit the solitary parts where we have been. We were invited to drink tea this afternoon by our friend Gessner, and on a nearer acquaintance found this a precious family; his wife is a sweet-spirited person, and their daughters pious young women. One of them, in particular, I thought not only bore the mark of having been with her Saviour, but a desire was also expressed in her countenance to abide with him: may He who has visited her mind draw her more and more by the cords of his love and preserve her from the evil which is in the world! When tea was ended, we dropped into silence, and Pastor Gessner offered up a prayer from the sincerity of his heart, and it was evidently attended by the spirit of divine grace and life. Afterwards dear M.S. and I expressed what was on our minds; I interpreted for her as well as I could, and I hope they understood it. We were all much tendered in sympathy together, and I think the visit to this family will not soon be forgotten: we took leave of them in the most affectionate manner, they expressing sincere desires for our preservation. On their return to Berne they met with some pious ladies: One of whom, says John Yeardley, spoke German with me, and entered pretty suddenly on the subject of the bread and wine supper, or sacrament. She seemed to have lost sight that there is a spiritual communion which the soul can hold with its Saviour, and which needs not the help of outward shadows; but it is remarkable when our reasons for the disuse of such things are given in simplicity and love, how the feelings of others become changed towards us; they then see we do not refuse the administration of them out of obstinacy, but from a tender conscience. On the 8th they drove to Lausanne, and the next day to Geneva. John Yeardley has preserved, in his diary of this part of the journey, a little anecdote of French character which naturally struck him the more forcibly from his having hitherto been conversant only with the phlegmatic temperament of the Germans. The coachman, it should be said, was of that nation. On the road between Nyon and Geneva a little incident occurred which showed us the liveliness of the French temperament. A man got up behind our carriage, and our coachman very naturally whipped him down. The man followed us quietly for a while, but at length his wounded dignity overcame his patience, and he came up to our coachman and began to speak furiously on the impropriety of his having whipped him. Finding he could make nothing of one who understood not what he said, he addressed himself to our friend Martha Towell, and said he knew he had done wrong; but the coachman should have told him to get down, which was customary in their country, and not to have whipped him. M.T. was prepared to appease his wrath by a mild reply, which eased the poor man very much; otherwise I think we should have had more trouble with him; but he seemed to be quieted, and said, Teach your coachman to say, in French, "descendez." They reached Geneva just in time to prevent the departure of Louis Majolier: Who, says Martha Savory, was indeed rejoiced to see us after all his anxiety. But, she continues, great as was our mutual satisfaction at meeting, I am inclined to think it would have been better if this plan had never been proposed, as it was a means of preventing some movements which might have tended much to our relief; and his mind was in such an anxious state about home that he could not give himself to anything that might have opened at Geneva or Lausanne (to which I expected to return), but begged us, very earnestly, to return with him to Congenies, as soon as possible.-- (_Letter to E. Dudley_.) They found the religious world at Geneva in a state of convulsion. The secret poison of infidelity, says J.Y., has a good deal sapped the principle of real religion; and the clergy of the Established Church have preached a doctrine tending to Socinianism. A few young ministers have boldly come forth and separated themselves, and are determined, in the midst of persecution, to preach Christ and him crucified. Some of these seem to have gone to the opposite extreme, for they hold too strongly the principles of predestination. It is a remarkable time in this neighborhood, as well as at Lausanne, where many are awakened to seek more after the substance of religion. At Geneva they formed a friendship with several persons, among whom were Pastors Moulinier and L'Huillier, and Captain Owen, an Englishman. With the last-named they were united in close bonds of religious affection; they were enabled to administer to his spiritual wants, and he was forward to render them assistance in every possible way. The journey from Geneva to Nismes was tedious, occupying more than a week. On approaching Nismes, John Yeardley says, the beautiful olives and vineyards, together with the wild rocky aspect around, form a pleasing sight; and to see them pruning, digging and dunging about the trees, reminds one of the relations of Scripture history. At Nismes they went to see the amphitheatre:-- From the top of which, says J.Y., we had a view of the city and the surrounding neighborhood, which is indeed beautiful. The great number of olives, vines, fig-trees, &c., excite a train of ideas pleasing and indescribable. In travelling through Switzerland John Yeardley had been often brought into a low state of mind, and on approaching Congenies, the final object of the journey, his heart was stirred to its depths. It is very instructive to observe what were his feelings in reaching a place to which his mind had been, so long directed. The road, he says, was better, and the outward prospect a little enlivening; but it is not easy to describe the feelings my mind was under in approaching a place which has so long occupied my thoughtfulness to visit. The prospect is discouraging, but I must be content and sink down to the spring of life, which can alone make known the objects of duty and qualify for their fulfilment. In the midst of all my spiritual poverty a stream of gratitude flows in my heart to the Father of mercies, that he has been pleased to preserve us in many dangers, and bring us safe to this part of his heritage; and if it should be his will that I should have nothing to do but to suffer for his name's sake, may he grant me patience to bear it. Martha Savory's feelings on the same occasion were also those of deep gratitude for the preservation experienced during their journey, united, she says, with an humbling sense of many omissions and great unworthiness, yet of help having been mercifully administered in the time of need.--(_Letter of 2 mo. 10, 1826_.) Edward Brady was spending the winter at Congenies for the sake of his health, and his society was a source of no little comfort to John Yeardley; who, however, still, frequently labored under spiritual depression. Before dinner, he writes under date of the 23rd of the Twelfth Month, we took a walk to M.S.'s windmill, from whence we had a fair view of Congenies and the neighborhood, which is of a wild description. On reflecting on the place and circumstances connected with it, my mind was filled with various ideas, but none of them of an encouraging nature. His discouragement was increased by ignorance of the language, and, with his accustomed diligence, on the morrow after his arrival he commenced learning French. On the recurrence of his birth-day, which was nearly coincident with the beginning of the year, he says:-- I am once more entered on a new year of my life, I fear without the last having been much improved; and to form resolutions of amendment in my own strength can avail me nothing. May He who knows my infirmities assist me to overcome them and to become more useful in his cause. My discouragement still continues; I don't feel those refreshing seasons which I have often experienced in times past; the pure life is often low in meeting, and I am not so watchful and diligent to improve my time and talent as I ought to be. I often feel as one already laid by useless, and the language of my heart is, "O that I were as in days past!" Soon after their arrival at Congenies, Martha Savory met with a serious accident. Thinking a ride would be beneficial to her health, when the rest of the party drove one afternoon to Sommières, she accompanied them on horseback. She had not a proper saddle, and her horse being eager to keep up with the carriage set off downhill at so rapid a rate as to throw her to the ground. The cap of one knee was displaced by the fall, and, although she soon recovered so as to be able to walk, the limb continued to be subject to weakness for some years. As soon as M. S. was sufficiently recovered, she and her companions visited the Friends at Congenies and the neighboring villages from house to house, and also assembled on one occasion the heads of families, and on another the young people of the Society. In reviewing a part of this service John Yeardley says:-- 3 _mo_. 6.--It has been a deeply exercising time, but has tended much more to the relief of our minds, at least as regards myself, than I had anticipated. From the discouraged state of mind I passed through for the first few weeks at this place, I expected to leave it burdened and distressed, but am thankful to acknowledge that holy help has been near to afford relief to my poor tossed spirit, and I have cause to believe it is in divine wisdom that I am here. On the 13th of the Third Month they took leave of their friends at Congenies to return to England, being accompanied by Edward Brady, and during part of the journey by Louis Majolier. By the way they had some religious intercourse with Protestant dissenters at a few places; but at St. Etienne, where they had expected to remain a fortnight, they found the door nearly closed to their entrance; a company of pious persons in this town were at that time so nearly united with Friends as to bear their name. These, says John Yeardley, in a letter, are now reduced to about twenty in number. They have suffered and still suffer much persecution from the Roman Catholics. They are forbidden by heavy fines to meet together, except in very small companies. We met them several times in their small meetings to much comfort; there are a few among them who have stood firm through the heat of trial, and these are precious individuals. The priests are exceedingly jealous. On our arrival in the town we held our little meeting with, these pious people on First-day morning; the priest came to the house of the woman Friend where we had been to demand who we were and where we lodged, and said it was we who had caused them to err, and he would convince us in their presence that we were not only in error ourselves, but had led them into error also. But we saw nothing of him, and left the place in safety, which we considered a great favor; for such has been their rage that they have dared to shoot at some missionaries who have been in the neighborhood (_Letter to Thomas Yeardley, 4 mo. 19_.) The rest of the journey through France was in general dreary, the external accommodation being bad, and the consolation of spiritual intercourse very scanty. At Arras, however, they were refreshed by the company of a Protestant minister, a liberal and worthy man, who had "to stand alone in a large district of weak-handed Protestants among strong-headed Catholics." Arriving at Calais, Martha Savory and Martha Towell, with Edward Brady, crossed over to England, leaving John Yeardley to follow at a later period. On the 14th of the Fourth Month he writes:-- My dear companions left for England. I watched them from the pier until I could bear to stay no longer, and then returned sorrowfully to my quarters, and soon repaired to the little retired lodging we had engaged for me in the country, where I spent a few days in learning French, &c. In taking a retrospect of our long journey I feel a large degree of peaceful satisfaction in having been desirous to fulfil (though very imperfectly) a religious duty; and these feelings of gratitude excited a wish that the remainder of my few days might be more faithfully devoted to the service of my great Lord and Master. The little lodging of which he speaks was "a retired chamber on the garden-wall;" and having left it for a few days to go to Antwerp with the carriage and horses which they had used on the journey, on his return it had already acquired, in his view, something of the character of home. The beautiful green branches, says he, modestly looking in at the window, give me a silent welcome; and the little birds chirruping in the garden, which is my drawing-room and study. I cannot but acknowledge how grateful I feel in being permitted to rest in so quiet a retreat, shut up from many of those anxious cares which have perplexed the former part of my life.--(_Diary, 4 mo. 27_.) The last few words of this memorandum may seem at first sight to refer to his temporary seclusion from the world in his little hermitage at Calais; but there is little doubt that they have a wider significance, and contain also an allusion to his anticipated union with Martha Savory. The prospect of this union seems to have sprung up during the journey, and to have become matured before they separated at Calais; and the effect of it was, amongst other things, to set him free from the necessity of pursuing business any longer as a means of livelihood, and to ensure to him a provision sufficient for his moderate wants. On the 12th of the Fifth Month, John Yeardley left Calais for London. At the inn in Calais, a little incident occurred, the relation of which may be useful to others. A serious Frenchman, who was going on board the same packet, was struck with my not paying for the music after dinner, and was much inclined to know my reason, believing my refusal was from a religious motive. At a suitable opportunity he asked me, and confessed he had felt a scruple of the same kind, and regretted he had not been faithful. This slight incident was the means of making me acquainted with an honest and religious man, as I afterwards found him to be. How important it is to be faithful in very little things, not knowing what effect they may have on others! CHAPTER VII. HIS MARRIAGE WITH MARTHA SAVORY. 1826-27. During his stay in London, John Yeardley attended the Yearly Meeting, and the Annual Meetings of the School, Anti-slavery, and other Societies, with which he was much gratified. Soon after the termination of the Yearly Meeting, he went into Yorkshire to see his mother. 6 _mo._ 13.--I left London in the mail for Sheffield, and on the 14th slept at my dear brother Thomas's at Ecclesfield, who took me on the 15th, to Barnsley. I was truly thankful to be favored to see my precious mother once more. On the 19th, I attended the Monthly Meeting at Highflatts. It is not easy to describe the various thoughts which rushed into my mind on seeing so many Friends whom I had known and loved in former days. The meeting was a much-favored time, although we felt the want of some of the fathers and mothers who are removed. In the next entry there is an allusion to the disastrous commercial panic by which this year was distinguished. 7 _mo._ 24.--Have been very low and deserted in mind for a long time past. It is a time for the trial of my patience, and yet I have many favors for which I ought to be truly thankful. It is a precious privilege to be relieved from the commercial difficulties which at present abound in the trading world. May it be my lot ever to keep so, if consistent with the divine will. 8 _mo._ 21.--Monthly Meeting at Wooldale. The meeting was exceedingly crowded with strangers; there was not room in the house to hold all who came. I had been very low all the morning, and to see such a number of people at the meeting sunk me low indeed. I was enabled to turn inward to Him from whom help alone comes; and blessed be his holy Name, he did not forsake me in the needful time, but was pleased once more to give strength and utterance to communicate what came before me. My certificates from Germany and Congenies were read and accepted, and many Friends expressed much unity and sympathy with me on my return to them, which was a comfort and strength to me. On the 1st of the Ninth Month, he again went to London. During his stay in the city, he took the opportunity of visiting the Industrial Schools at Lindfield, founded by William Allen; a kind of institution which always engaged his warmest sympathy and approbation. With the new turn which was given to the course of his life by his betrothal to Martha Savory, it is not surprising that he should have considered his residence abroad to be brought, in the order of Divine Providence, to a natural termination, and that he now turned his attention to taking up his abode again in his native land. In selecting a place of residence, he seems to have had no hesitation in making choice of the neighborhood of Barnsley; the spot, as the reader may remember, which seemed to him, when he was obliged to remove to Bentham, as that which had the first claim upon his gospel services. The state of his mind, whilst preparing his intended residence at Burton, the same village where he used to attend meeting in his early days, may be seen by the following memorandum:-- 9 _mo_. 26. _At York_.--It was a large Quarterly Meeting. Living ministry flowed freely, and I thought even poor me was a little refreshed: but I have been for a long time in a deplorable state, in a spiritual sense. Since the Quarterly Meeting, my time and thoughts have been much occupied in fitting up our intended residence at the cottage at Burton; and I may truly say, I have been cumbered about "many things," which, I think, has kept my mind in a poor, barren state. O the many weeks that I have had to sit with my mouth in the dust to bemoan my own inward misery! My conflict of mind has been increased by the trying state of my precious mother's health. My attendance on her in this poorly state, and at this season of the year, when I lost my poor dearest Bessie, reminded me strongly of my dear departed lamb. Before his marriage with Martha Savory was accomplished, he was called upon to attend the deathbed of his mother, and to follow the remains of his father to the grave. 11 _mo_. 16.--On the 3rd I left the cottage, and took my luggage to go from Barnsley by the coach to London. Stepped down to take leave of my dear mother, but found her so weak that I could not at all think of leaving her; and was indeed glad that I did not go, for the dear creature continued to grow weaker and weaker till a quarter past three o'clock on Seventh-day morning, 4th of Eleventh Month, when she peacefully breathed her last. She was fully sensible to the close, and also fully sensible that her end was near. Her precious remains were interred at Burton on the 7th, after a meeting appointed for the occasion at Barnsley. In her room, before we left Redbrook [where she had resided], I was enabled to petition the throne of mercy for a little help and strength through the remainder of the solemn scene, which, I think, was in a remarkable manner granted. After having paid the last tribute of affection and duty to our endeared parent, fourteen of our dear friends and relations dined with me at the cottage. It is remarkable that the opening of our residence should be in this awful manner; but we were much comforted in feeling in the midst of all our sorrow, the greatest degree of peace and quietude on the solemn occasion. On Fourth-day, being the day after we had taken leave of our precious mother's remains, I went with my brother and sister to see our poor dear father, who had been ill in bed about two weeks. We arrived about seven o'clock; but, to our great surprise, about an hour before we reached the place, our beloved father had fallen asleep, never to wake more in this world. This was indeed awful, but the Judge of the earth must do right. We attended the interment on First-day, the 12th. The meeting-house at Woodhouse was pretty full, and a good and tendering meeting it was. It felt hard work to labor among a number of worldly-minded people; but I have learned to consider it one of the greatest of privileges to be appointed to service, even though attended with suffering. Since this time my poor mind has felt more tender and more susceptible of good. O that it may continue, and that I may remain humble and watchful for the time to come, and live prepared for that awful change which I. know not how soon may be sent to my dwelling!--(11 _mo_. 16.) On the 18th he pursued his journey to London, and on the 21st, at Gracechurch-street Monthly Meeting, he presented his intention of marriage with Martha Savory. "In a private interview at Elizabeth Dudley's," he writes, "Richard Barrett and E. Dudley expressed their full unity with our intended union, in terms of much interest and encouragement." On the 13th of the Twelfth Month the marriage took place at Gracechurch-street Meeting-house. The time in silence, says the Diary, was very solemn, and acceptable testimonies were borne by William Allen and Elisabeth Dudley. After meeting we adjourned to the Library to take leave, where a stream of encouragement flowed to us from several of our dear friends, which felt truly strengthening. About twenty of our friends and relations dined at A.B. Savory's at Stoke Newington. The day was spent, I trust, profitably, and on parting, about seven o'clock, we had a comfortable time, and something was expressed by my M. and self, and dear W. Allen. After taking a very affectionate leave, we posted on to Barnet. My brother Thomas and J.A. Wilson took us up the next morning; and we four came down in the coach to Sheffield, and [the nest day] to Ecclesfield to dinner, and arrived at our humble cottage the 15th of the Twelfth Month, I trust with thankful hearts. * * * * * It is appropriate to give in this place some account of Martha Savory's character and Christian experience. That our notice is brief and incomplete, is owing to the loss of most of her own memoranda, and of the letters she addressed to those with whom she was on intimate terms. She possessed, it will be seen, an intellectual character and disposition, as well as an experience, very different from those of her husband. It does not follow, however, that this dissimilarity was a hindrance to their joint service in the gospel, any more than to their social harmony and love. It may be, on the contrary, that Martha Savory's quickness of understanding and of feeling, the readiness with which she apprehended the sentiments and condition of others, her conversancy with the allurements of city life, and the perils of unbelief from which she had been rescued, fitted her in a peculiar degree to be her husband's helper in the ministry, especially in their travels on the Continent. She was born in London in 1781, and was the daughter of Joseph and Anna Savory. To an active and vigorous understanding she united a strength of will which would brook little control, together with much energy and fearlessness; and the propensity to follow the vain inclinations of the unregenerate heart displayed itself in an indulgence in much that was inimical to the restraints of Christian principle. Her disposition was generous; all her emotions were ardent, and were seldom subjected to the discipline of a corrected judgment. There were, however, various occasions, even in her very early years, when, through the visitations of heavenly love, her mind was forcibly aroused to a conviction of the need of redeeming grace. She was particularly impressed by the preaching and influence of William Savery, whose home in London was at her father's house. In some memoranda of this period, she remarks, "Frequently in the meetings appointed by him, I was greatly wrought upon by his living ministry;" and notwithstanding that she subsequently wandered far from the way of peace, there is good ground to believe that the remembrance of those truths which had penetrated her heart through the instrumentality of this gospel messenger, was never altogether effaced. Being naturally endowed with a lively imagination and a taste for literature, she sought to suppress the upbraidings of conscience in intellectual pursuits, and employed much time in the composition of verses that were merely a transcript of visionary and romantic ideas, afterwards published under the title of "Poetical Tales." This volume obtained but a limited circulation; for, soon after it had issued from the press, the conviction that it had been an unhallowed and unprofitable exercise of her understanding was so impressed upon her spirit, that, although the sacrifice was considerable, she caused all the unsold copies to be destroyed. It is interesting to observe how, in later years, this talent for metrical rhythm, which had been so misapplied, became consecrated, as were all her faculties, to the promotion of piety and virtue. During the long period in which her mental energies were thus misdirected, a cloud of darkness enveloped her spirit. She had, when about nineteen years of age, imbibed sceptical views in reference to the truths of revealed religion; and as she seldom read the Holy Scriptures, and was almost a stranger to their sacred contents, her imagination pictured an easier way to escape from the power and the consequences of sin than in that self-renunciation which the Gospel enjoins. In some memoranda of her experience, she says, in reference to the snares by which her mind was entangled:--"I was led to a love of metaphysical studies, and fancied I discovered, with clearness, that human vice, and consequently human misery, sprang from ignorance of the nature of virtue, and that if mankind would become instructed they would become good; and that it was only necessary to behold virtue in its native beauty, to love it and to practise it. O how fallacious was this reasoning! 'The world by wisdom knows not God; the natural man receives not the things of the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness to him, neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned.'" At length, however, when, in 1811, Martha Savory had completed the thirtieth year of her life, she became deeply impressed by the conviction that she was wandering on the barren mountains of doubt and error; and through the renewed visitation of divine love, the light of the Sun of righteousness again shined into her heart, and its humbling influence brake the rock in pieces. Some circumstances occurred that were instrumental in promoting this great change. She was introduced into frequent communication with some honored servants of the Lord, particularly with the late Mary Dudley, and her daughter Elizabeth. An attack of indisposition prostrated her bodily strength, and afforded opportunity for serious reflection. Whilst from this cause confined to her chamber, a young person (Susanna Corder), with whom she was only very slightly acquainted, but to whom she was ever afterwards united in an intimate and confidential friendship, was attracted to visit her. The interview was a memorable one; the overshadowing wing of goodness and mercy being permitted to gather their spirits under its blessed influence. On her recovery from this illness, Martha Savory paid a short visit to her new friend, which afforded an opportunity for the manifestation of continued deep Christian interest; and, on her quitting the house, Susanna Corder put into her hand a copy of the "Olney Hymns." When she had proceeded a few steps towards home, she opened the book, and without noticing even the title, instantly cast her eyes on the lines, "The rebel's surrender to grace," commencing-- "Lord, Thou hast won; at length I yield; My heart, by mighty grace compelled, Surrenders all to Thee; Against thy terrors long I strove, But who can stand against thy love? Love conquers even me." She was deeply affected by the remarkable application of the whole of the hymn to the experience which she was then passing through; she could not refrain from weeping, and to avoid the observation of passersby, she walked through secluded streets, giving vent to her emotion; and she afterwards repeatedly expressed her belief that there was, in this apparently casual incident, a divine interposition and guidance; "for," said she, "_every word_ of that hymn appeared as if purposely written to describe _my_ case, so that I could scarcely read it from the many tears I shed over it. It is no exaggerated picture." She now spent much time alone, almost constantly reading the Bible; and so precious was the influence that operated on her spirit, whilst thus employed, and so wonderfully were the blessed truths of the gospel unfolded to her understanding, that, as she expressed it, "every page of it seemed, as it were, illuminated." Sustained by the joy and peace of believing, she was enabled to follow in faith the leadings of the Holy Spirit, and, through divine strength, to become as a whole burnt sacrifice on the altar of that gracious Redeemer, who had, in his rich mercy, plucked her from the pit of destruction. Having had much forgiven, she loved much, and shrunk not from the many and deep humiliations which were involved in such a course of dedication to her Lord. Even her external appearance strikingly bespoke her altered character. There had always been in her countenance an expression of benevolence, but it had not indicated a gentle or diffident mind. In her demeanor and personal attire, she had conspicuously followed the vain fashions of the times; but now, humility, with a modest and retiring manner, marked her conduct; everything merely ornamental was discarded, and the softening, effect of a sanctifying principle imparted to the features of her face a sweetness which, impressing the beholder with a consciousness of the regenerating power that wrought within, was, to more than a few of her acquaintance, both arousing and instructive. She changed her residence from Finsbury to the borough of Southwark, and settled near her friend Susanna Corder, with whom she united in the formation of a philanthropic association, "The Southwark Female Society for the relief of sickness and extreme want." The late Mary Sterry, and several other estimable members of Southwark meeting, together with benevolent individuals among the different religious denominations of the district, soon joined them, and the society became a highly influential channel through which assistance has been variously rendered to many thousands of the indigent poor; and it still continues, though with a reduced scale of operations, to be an important source of help to the sick and destitute. Martha Savory devoted to this work of mercy much time and personal exertion; but a more important service was also designed for her. She felt constrained to give evidence of her love to Christ by a public testimony to the grace which had been vouchsafed to her through Him who is "the way, the truth, and the life." Deep were the conflicts of spirit which she endured ere she could yield to this solemn requirement, but "sweet peace" was, she says, as she records the sacrifice, the result of thus acknowledging her gracious Lord. "This step," she continues, "appears to me to involve the greatest of all possible mental reduction, but I reverently believe it was necessary for me, and mote, perhaps on my own account than on account of others; for, without this bond, and the necessary baptisms attending this vocation, I should have been in danger of turning back, and perhaps altogether losing the little spiritual life which has been mercifully raised." She adds a fervent petition for preservation and guidance, and that, by whatever means, however suffering to nature, the vessel might be purified, and fitted for the Master's use. She first spoke as a minister in the year 1814. The humiliation and brokenness of spirit which marked these weighty engagements, were felt by many, especially among her youthful friends, to be peculiarly impressive, as tokens of the soul-cleansing operations of omnipotent love, and as an awakening call to yield to the same regenerating influence. She was acknowledged as a minister by Southwark Monthly Meeting, in the year 1818, when she had reached the age of 36; and in 1821, with the cordial approval of the meetings of which she was a member, she commenced that course of missionary labor in the gospel, to which she was subsequently so much devoted. Her mission, on this occasion, was to Congenics, where, and in the surrounding villages, she remained twelve months. A letter to one of her sisters, written a few years after her marriage, so fully represents her religious sentiments, and the doctrine she was concerned to preach and maintain, that it may not improperly conclude this outline of her mental and religious character. Burton, 13th of Twelfth Month, 1830. I read thy remarks, my endeared sister, on the present state of things amongst us, with much interest, from having had corresponding feelings frequently raised in my own mind in this day of general excitement on religious subjects. It remains to be a solemn truth that nothing can draw to God but what proceeds from him; and whatever may be the eloquence or oratory of man, if it be not the gift of God, and under his holy anointing, which always has a tendency to humble the creature and exalt the Creator, it will in the end only scatter and deceive. It has long appeared to me that true vital religion is a very simple thing, although from our fallen state, requiring continual warfare with evil to keep it alive. It surely consists in communion, and at times a degree of union, with our Omnipotent Creator, through the mediation of our Holy Redeemer. And seeing these feelings cannot be produced by eloquent discourses or beautiful illustrations of Scripture, but by deep humiliation and frequent baptisms of spirit, whereby the heart is purified and fitted to receive a greater degree of divine influence; seeing it is produced by daily prayer, by giving up our own will, and seeking above all things to do the will of our Heavenly Father, surely there is cause to hope that those who are convinced of this, and who have tasted of spiritual communion through this appointed means, will never be satisfied with anything however enticing which, if not under the influence of the Holy Spirit, may well be compared to "sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal." I am far from confining this influence to the ministers of our little Society, but assuredly believe that those who are brought under the immediate teachings of the Spirit, under every profession, will be more and more convinced that they cannot preach to profit the people, in their own will and at their own command; and that as true and spiritual religion prevails they must in this respect come to us, and not we go to them. Yet still it is certainly a day of much excitement, and of danger especially to the young and unawakened, and there never was a time when the members of our Society were more loudly called upon to watch unto prayer both on their own account and on account of others, humbly to implore, not only that the Holy Spirit may not be taken from us, but that a greater effusion of it may be poured upon us as a body, that so we may all be made and kept alive in Him in whom is life, and the life is the light of men. I believe this would be much more our experience, if the things of this world were kept in subjection by fervent daily prayer and the obedience of faith, which remain to be the means pointed out by our gracious Redeemer, of communion with the Father through Him. What can be more pure than the profession we make to be guided by the Holy Spirit? and if we really are so, we shall be concerned to maintain this daily exercise of heart before the Lord, and yet become what I reverently believe is his gracious will respecting us, and _all_ under every name who are thus guided and have become living members of the Church of Christ, even that we should be as lights in the world, or a city set upon a hill which cannot be hid. * * * * * The dwelling which John and Martha Yeardley occupied was on the highest ground in the village, commanding a wide and cheerful prospect, and overlooking, on the western side, the valley of the Dearn and the conspicuous town of Barnsley, which, notwithstanding the smoke that envelopes it, stands out in fine relief on the opposite hill. Their cottage adjoined the Friends' burial-ground; and just on the other side of the wall reposed the remains of Frances Yeardley, on the site formerly occupied by the meeting-house.[5] The house, says Martha Yeardley in a letter to her sister R. S., is warm and comfortable, though at best what Londoners would esteem a poor place. We feel quite satisfied with it; and when we get our garden in order, and a cow and a few chickens, it will be equal to anything that I desire in this world. To-day the snow has disappeared, and John is very busy with his garden.--(1 _mo_. I, 1827.) John and Martha Yeardley did not remain long idle in their new position. In the First Month, 1827, they received a "minute" for visiting the meetings in their Monthly Meeting; and in the Second Month they commenced a tour amongst the meetings in some other parts of Yorkshire. These duties occupied them until the 19th of the Fourth Month. We may extract from the Diary recording the former of these engagements, a brief note of their visit to Ackworth School. 1 _mo_. 20.--Lodged at J. Harrison's. On First and Second-day evenings had some time of religious service with the young people at the school, and felt much united in spirit to this interesting family. On Fourth-day, Robert Whitaker accompanied us to Pontefract, and we were comforted in his company, for we felt poor and weak--much like children needing fatherly care. Among John Yeardley's notes made during the more general visit, we meet with a memorandum which may be taken to mark a stage or era in his Christian experience. The daily record of religious exercise and feeling which is so useful to many in the hidden season of tender growth and preparation for future service, is less likely to be maintained--and, it may be, less necessary--in the meridian of life, when the time and strength are taken up with active labor. 3 _mo_.--I could write much as to the state of my mind, but have of late thought it safer not to record all the inward dispensations which I have to pass through. I feel strong desires to be wholly given up to serve my great Lord and Master, and that I may above all things become qualified for his service; but the baptisms through which I have to pass are many, and exceedingly trying to the natural part. Nothing will do but to rely wholly on the Divine Arm of Power for support in pure naked faith. CHAPTER VIII. THE SECOND CONTINENTAL JOURNEY. 1827-28. PART I.--GERMANY. After John and Martha Yeardley had visited their friends at home, their minds were directed to the work which they had left uncompleted on the continent of Europe; and, on their return from the Yearly Meeting, they opened this prospect of service before the assembled church to which they belonged. (_Diary_) 6 _mo_. 18.--Were at the Monthly Meeting at Highflatts, where we laid our concern before our friends to revisit some parts of Germany and Switzerland, and to visit some of the descendants of the Waldenses in the Protestant valleys of Piedmont; and, on our way home, our friends and some other serious persons in the Islands of Guernsey and Jersey. Our dear friends were favored to enter most fully and feelingly into our views, and under a precious solemnity, a general sentiment of unity and concurrence spread through the meeting, which constrained them, (as the certificate expresses it) to leave us at liberty, accompanied with warm desires for our preservation. Hearing the certificate read brought the concern, if possible, more weightily than ever upon me, and a secret prayer was raised in my heart that we might be enabled to go through the prospect before us to the honor of Him who has called us into his work. They attended the Quarterly Meeting in the latter part of this month, and returned by way of Ackworth, where, says John Yeardley, We had a comfortable parting with dear Robert and Hannah Whitaker, in their own room. E.W. has passed with us through the deeps, and has indeed been a true spiritual helper to us under our weighty exercises of mind. On the 8th of the Seventh Month they set out, and on the 17th attended the Meeting of Ministers and Elders in London. The Morning Meeting was a precious and refreshing time to our poor tried minds. There was a very full expression of near sympathy and entire unity with us in our intended religious service. It is a strength and encouragement not only to have the concurrence of our friends, but also to know that we have a place in their prayers for our preservation and support in every trying dispensation. On the eve of their departure from London, a circumstance occurred of a very disagreeable character. The shop of their brother, A.B. Savory, in Cornhill, was broken open; many valuable articles were taken, and their travelling trunks, which had been left there, were ransacked. Although their loss was trifling, the annoyance of such a contretemps may easily be conceived. J.Y. says:-- It is far from pleasant thus to be plundered of any part of our property; but I consider it as much the duty of a Christian to bear with becoming fortitude the cross-occurrences of common life as to be exercised in religious service. They left London on the 22nd, for Rotterdam. On their arrival, a disastrous occurrence happened which gave a shock to their feelings. The manner in which J.Y. mentions the event evinces his tenderness of mind in commencing a long journey, in which his vocation was to be to sympathise with the poor and afflicted. Since we landed safely on shore a circumstance has occurred which has brought a gloom over us. One of our shipmen being busy about the sails, part of a beam fell from the top-mast and struck him on the head. He never spoke more, but died instantly. He has left a widow and two children, not only to weep for him, but also to feel bitterly his loss in a pecuniary way. We intend to recommend their situation to some of our benevolent friends in London. My heart is much affected in having to commence my journal on a foreign shore by recording such an afflicting event. And, as it regards ourselves, how much we have which calls for thankfulness that we have so mercifully escaped. From Rotterdam they directed their course to Pyrmont, passing through Gouda, Utrecht, Arnheim, and Münster; at the last place they were laid by from the heat and weariness. They reached Friedenthal on the 4th of the Eighth Month, and John Yeardley makes the following reflections on re-entering his German home:-- As I find myself again in this country, many thoughts of former days spring up in my mind. Since I was last here I have passed through much; nevertheless the Lord has guided my steps, and I have cause to give Him thanks. They visited Minden and the little meetings around, bestowing much labor on them; but at Pyrmont, to suffer, rather than to do, was their allotted portion. It sometimes seems to me, writes J.Y., that we have in this place little to do and much to suffer. I am often cast down, and have to sit in silence and darkness. This state of mind is an exercise of faith and patience, through which much may be gained if it is turned to right account. Of the Two Months' Meeting, he says: On the whole a favorable time. But I am not without my fears that the little Society in this place will lose ground, in a religious sense, if more faithfulness is not manifested in little things. Soon after their arrival in Germany they turned their steps towards the north-west corner of that country, and the borders of Holland. The object of this journey was to visit some places on the shores of the North Sea, near Friesland, where the inundations of 1825 had caused great desolation, and where a new colony had been formed by the government from among the ruined families. This little journey was so emphatically, an act of faith, and the course of it lay so much through a part of Europe seldom visited by travellers, that we shall transcribe the diary of it without much curtailment. 9 _mo_. 4.--Having for sometime felt an impression to visit Friedrichgroden and other places on the store of the North Sea, near the confines of East Friesland, we set out from Pyrmout in company with our dear friend Louis Seebohm, travelling with extra-post in our own carriage. We found this a pretty expeditions way of travelling for this country, being able to make about fifty-five English miles a day. Between Oldendorf and Bückeburg, we experienced a remarkable preservation from danger. Our postillion being a little sleepy, had not sufficient care of the reins, and the horses suddenly turned off towards an inn, but missing the turn, instantly fell into a deep ditch, one horse quite down, and the other nearly so; the carriage wanted only a few inches further to go, and then it would have come upon the horses, so that a few plunges must have upset the whole concern. We sprang instantly out, and set the quiet animals free. The man was so frightened he could scarcely step from, the box. The whole affair did not last more than a few minutes, when we were on our way again, with great cause for thankfulness to the Preserver of our lives. The driver was so honest in acknowledging his fault, that I gave him his _trinkgeld_, and our friend L. S. gave him some advice. We got well on through Minden to Diepnau and lodged there. Next morning set out about seven o'clock, and that day travelled late to reach Oldenburg, which we accomplished at about one in the morning. Next morning we were in a dilemma which way to take to find our place of destination. The landlord was kind in sending out several times to gain information, but in vain: at length there came into the room a deaf and dumb man who frequented the house, and who, when he knew our inquiry, immediately wrote down the particulars of the place, and explained it by signs on the table. We left two books for this intelligent man for his kindness, and set forward. Dined at Varel, and had two poor tired horses and an awkward driver to Jever. We gave him several severe lectures without much effect; at length we came to a small inn on the road, where he made a stand, and said he could go no further without two more horses, which we really believed was true, for if he had not got them we must have stuck in the sand. The horses being procured we got to Jever about eleven o'clock. Here was a good inn, and we rested pretty well; but in the morning discouragement took hold of my spirits in a way that I have seldom experienced. I was ready to conclude we were altogether wrong and out of the way of our duty; but forward we must now go to see the end of this exercising journey. The country about Varel and Jever is remarkably fertile in pasture. The cows handsome, rolling in abundance of grass, and pretty much the whole country had the appearance of ease and plenty; in Varel we saw the poor-house, a building capable of containing 400 persons, and only four individuals were there. The inhabitants live in simplicity, but also in the general ignorance and indifference as to religion. I was exceedingly low in mind on the way, but felt once more that we were in our right place, and my precious M. Y. encouraged me by saying we should not go there in vain. On opening the Bible, I was comforted in turning to Psalm lxxviii. 12-14. After having thus travelled some days, as it were in the dark, we arrived at Friedrichen Siel, near Carolinen Siel, in which neighborhood, on the border of the North Sea, lie Friedrichgroden, New Augustengroden, and New Friedrichgroden. It is a tract of land gained from the sea of about ten or twelve hundred acres, banked round in three divisions, and made arable, on which are built about twenty farmhouses, which form almost a new world. This land is the property of the government; a small sum is paid on entering, and a yearly ground-rent, and then it is the property of the purchaser for ever. As soon as we stepped on the banks of one of these _grodens_, and I set my eye on one of these retired abodes, I felt no longer at a loss where we should go or what we should do. It opened suddenly on my mind as clear as the sun at noon-day, that we must remain here a day or two and visit these new settlers in their dwellings. Accordingly we drove to the inn at Carolinen Siel. On asking for a map of the surrounding country, one was put into oar hands containing a plan of the places which had suffered so severely by the floods in the spring of 1825; which rendered those people much more interesting to us. After dinner we commenced our visit, and called on a young man and his sister who live on one of the farms, and have about seventy acres of land. They received us with a hearty welcome, and entered into friendly conversation. The house was one of the first on New Augustengroden, built in 1816, [swept] down by the water in 1825, and rebuilt the same year. He was an intelligent young man, and answered many inquiries which we made. Finding the distance might be too great to walk, next morning we procured horses, and started about seven o'clock, taking from our small stock of books one for each family. We commenced intercourse with them by first interesting ourselves about their families and domestic concerns, not unmindful of every suitable opportunity to turn the conversation on the subject of religion, which is too much neglected by most of them. They are of the Lutheran profession; but the church being at some distance, they do not regularly attend. Most of them have as many as six children, and some eight, with fine countenances. We felt deeply interested, particularly for the mothers, some of whom are tender-spirited, amiable women, and wept much in the opportunities we had with them. Their late afflictions have made on some a deep impression, and it was a time when, I trust, such a visit might be of advantage. In the floods, several had their houses swept away; and one lost thirty-six head of cattle, and had to drag his children out of the water naked, and take refuge on the tops of the houses. But the most touching case was that of a man who lost his wife and five children, his father, mother, and servants. They were sent away in a waggon, as a means of escape; but the waggon was swept away by the torrent, and all perished. The husband, who was left alone in the house, got to land on some boards, part of the wreck of the house, and expected to find his family safe; what must have been his feelings when he found they had all perished in the deep! We felt truly prepared to sympathise with them, and think they were sensible of our visit being in the sincere love of the Gospel. Their kindness towards us exceeded description. In going from house to house, one of them seeing us in the field, and not knowing our errand, thought we had missed our way, and came running almost out of breath to set us in the road. When he found that our visit was intended to him, he seemed overjoyed, and conducted us to his home and his interesting wife. His name is Friedrich Fockensllammen. He soon showed us all that was in his house and barns; and I may say he was equally ready to tell us all that was in his heart. We could not get away without taking coffee with them. Having felt much towards seeing them together, the way seemed open to propose to this man to have a meeting. He readily undertook to consult with a few others; and he came to our inn next morning with another, when he said, the good work must have a small beginning, and although he himself was quite willing, the others did not see the necessity of it, or were too cautious. This person told us that, with respect to temporals, they could never have got forward again in the way they had done, had it not been for the kind and effectual assistance received from England. After an interesting conversation with these two, we parted in much affection. My M.Y. drew up a short epistle, which was signed by us all, and forwarded to them: this was an entire relief to our minds. Understanding the fair was to commence on First-day morning, we found it necessary on Seventh-day evening to seek fresh quarters. The First-day is worse kept in the territories belonging to Hanover than in any part of the Continent that I have seen, and the greatest religious ignorance prevails there. The cause may rest with the Government in giving too much power to the Church: the ecclesiastics are fond of keeping in their own hands all things relating to religion, and will not suffer the light to shine that the people may see for themselves. The Edict of Stade has lately been renewed, prohibiting religious meetings; no unauthorised persons (as they call it), are permitted to preach or hold meetings, on pain of imprisonment; all foreign missionaries to be immediately sent beyond the boundaries. The settlement we were visiting was partly in Hanover, and partly in Oldenburg. Besides these colonies on the reclaimed strand of the ocean, John Yeardley had another object in undertaking this journey, which was to inspect the Industrial Colony at Fredericks-Oort, in the province of Drenthe, in Holland. Towards this place the party now directed their way. Between Wittmund and Aurich (continues J.Y.) is a moor called Plagenburg, about six English miles square, on which are some of the poorest mud-huts I ever saw. People who intend to settle here from any part receive a grant of land for ten years free, and afterwards pay a yearly ground-rent of about five shillings an acre. The idle and burdensome poor are also sent here; and by this means the whole neighborhood is relieved from poor-rates, except for the support of a few individuals who spin, &c., in the poor-house. We were informed that near Norden there is a colony for thieves and gipsies, who are sent to this place and compelled to build themselves huts and cultivate the land. They are strictly watched by the police, and severely punished when they attempt to go away without leave. We had a long and tedious ride, through deep sand, to Leer. On our arrival we made inquiry about Fredericks-Oort, but could obtain no intelligence, nor could we find it on the maps which we borrowed for examination. This was very discouraging; for I had hoped, if it was right for us to go, we should find some one to give us certain directions to it. I slept but little, and next morning set again to work, and found there was a Jew in the town who travelled much in Holland. I desired he might be sent for; he came, and immediately gave us directions where to find the places we wanted. I ought not to omit remarking the comfortable feeling that I was favored with, riding from Wittmund to Aurich [on the way to Leer]. In reflecting in stillness where we had been and what we had done, I felt not only peace and inward satisfaction, but thankfulness filled my heart that we had been thus far enabled to do what we believed to be in the way of our duty. This Scripture language passed through my mind: "Blessed are ye that sow beside all waters, that send forth thither the feet of the ox and the ass." (Isa. xxxii. 20.) 11_th_.--Left Leer about eleven o'clock in the morning, and expected to arrive at Assen at eleven or twelve at night, but to our great disappointment we travelled the night through, and only reached Assen at seven next morning. At Wehndam on our way we rested the horses. Our friend L.S. went for an hour to bed, and my M.Y. and self sat in the carriage and would have slept, but there came so many admirers of our vehicle that we could not sleep for their almost continual remarks about its elegance, convenience, &c. This part of Holland is fruitful; the houses are clean and neat; and the dress of the women very singular. Their caps have a plate of silver or gold on each side almost like a helmet, and sometimes very costly. At the inn at Nieuweschans [on the borders of Germany and Holland], the cook had one of these golden helmets which had cost about 150 florins. In these flat countries they have no spring water; the land lies so much below the sea that all is impregnated with salt. Rain water is used for drinking, and the method of preserving it is in a deep reservoir lined with boards and puddled with clay. I was surprised to find it kept good so long: it is seldom known to go bad. One of the farmers on the Grodens drew water out of his well and handed me a glass to drink; it had a yellowish tinge, but except this I never saw clearer and have seldom tasted pleasanter spring water, and the beat tea I ever drank was made from rain water so preserved. One thing which contributes to its quality is the great surface of tile which it has to run down, and which tends to filter it. The mode of manuring the land is similar to that practised in Brabant, and the produce proves that it is excellent; for no better meadows, or corn land in a higher state of cultivation are to be seen than in some parts we have lately passed through. The cows, when fresh in milk, are milked three times a day, by which means more milk is obtained than in the common method; any one wishing to make a fair experiment of this must try it not for two or three days only, but for a week or ten days. John and Martha Yeardley found the institution at Fredericks-Oort of a deeply interesting kind. It was Established by private benevolence to improve the condition of the poor, and to relieve the country from beggars, and was commenced in 1818. The poor families which are placed there are employed, some in manufacture, some in cultivating the soil, and every means is made use of to encourage industry and provident habits. When our friends visited the colony, it comprised 2900 souls, including the staff by which the institution is worked, and which is necessarily numerous. They thought the method of instruction in use in the schools excellent, and found that religious liberty was strictly respected. From Fredericks-Oort they went on to Ommershaus, where is the poor-house and penal colony belonging to the former institution. Thirteen hundred beggary, orphans, and criminals were then in the colony. How much, remarks J.Y., such an institution is wanted in England; every inducement is held out for improvement in civil society, and a most effectual check placed against vice and idleness. The travellers fared badly in Holland, and they were rejoiced to "set foot again in honest Germany, where they know how to use strangers with an honest heart." They returned through Bentheim and Osnabrück, and arrived at Pyrmont on the 19th. Here they spent ten days in resting, and in preparing to pursue their journey through South Germany. On First-day, the 30th, they took leave of their friends. First-day, says John Yeardley, was a solemn time, both at meeting and at the reading in the afternoon; I hope both my M.Y. and I were enabled to clear our minds. In the evening we took an affectionate and affecting leave of them all; it was to me particularly trying. I could not refrain from weeping much. Not much occurs in the diary to claim attention, until they reached Friedberg, not far from Frankfort. 10 _mo_. 7.--Sat down to our little meeting, after breakfast, and reading, on First day morning. It was to us both a season of deep feeling. My dear M.Y. was so filled with a sense of our own weakness, and the Almighty's goodness towards us in a wilderness travel through a dark country, that she knelt, and was enabled to pour forth a heart-felt supplication for a precious seed of the kingdom in the hearts of the people among whom we were; and also that He would in his tender mercy remember us his poor instruments, and in the right time cause light to break forth on our path, preserve us in the way we ought to go, and make us willing to suffer for the sake of his suffering cause: to which my heart said, Amen! At Frankfort they formed acquaintance with J.H. von Meyer, ex-burgomaster of the city, a learned and pious man, who had made a new translation of the Bible into German, and had stood firm for the cause of real Christianity in the midst of much declension. In the afternoon they drove to Offenbach to see J.D. Marc, a Christian Jew, who had earned experience in the school of suffering. He said, amongst other things, that he could never preach but when he believed it to be his duty, and then he could declare only what was given him at the time; this he considered to be the only preaching that could profit the hearers. His views on the inutility of water baptism were so decided, that when converted Jews asked him to administer to them this rite, he told them he could not recommend it, for it would do them no good. He gave them many names of awakened persons in the Palatinate:-- Where, says John Yeardley, there is still a lively-spirited people who hold meetings for religious improvement; perhaps the descendants of those who were visited by W. Penn in former days. The next day they returned to Frankfort, and made the acquaintance of Pastor Appia, a Piedmontese, who, with his wife, was very friendly; and when he heard that they had left their own land to visit his native country, marked out a route for them, and gave them letters of introduction. "When I am with such good people," observes J.Y., in relating their interview with Appia, "I am always uneasy in my mind that I am not more worthy. May the Lord strengthen me!" On the 10th, they went to Darmstadt, where they met with several enlightened Christians. One of these, Leander van Ess, had been a Roman Catholic priest; and although a zealous promoter of Christianity in the face of persecution, and favored with a more than ordinary degree of spiritual light, he had thought it right not altogether to forsake that communion, but remained amongst the Romanists to do them good. He had translated the New Testament for their use. At parting with his new friends he embraced them, gave them his blessing, and wished them a prosperous journey. "I felt myself," says J.Y., "comforted and strengthened by this visit." On the way to Heppenheim, he continues, (to which place they next directed their course), I felt quiet, in mind, and was once more assured that we were in the way of our duty. As I thought of the difficulties which might await us, these words were brought to my remembrance, "Touch not mine anointed, and do my prophets no harm." Crossing the Rhine, at Mannheim, they stopped, on the 12th, at Dürkheim, where they became acquainted with Ludwig Fitz, a man of a frank and inquiring disposition. For three years, writes J.Y., he has held meetings in his house; in the commencement he had to suffer no little persecution. On his entering our room he observed that it was the Lord who had thus brought us together. I have scarcely been half an hour with you, he said, after a while, but it seems as if I had known you for seven years. He, with his wife and daughter, took us to call on a Mennonist, a pious man, who holds firmly by Baptism and the Supper. He soon began to speak on these points. I replied to what he said as well as I could, maintaining that in Scripture there are two baptisms spoken of; that, as the soul of man is spiritual, it can be reached only by that which is spiritual, and that therefore I did not see the necessity of maintaining that which, is outward. He said he desired to possess the former, and not to neglect the latter. As to the Supper they both advanced is proof of the observance being good, that often, whilst using it, they experienced inward joy and refreshment. I said we must not limit to a certain time or place this joy in the Lord, as if the use of the Supper only were the cause of it. The gracious Lord is ready at all times to sup with us, and to refresh the sincere and cleansed soul, and make it joyful in him. We took leave of each other in love; I said we did not travel for the purpose of turning people from one form to another, but with the desire only that they might all be brought nearer to the Lord. It was pleasant to me that Fitz's wife was with us; during the conversation she remained still and weighty in spirit. We inclined to attend the evening devotion at Fitz's, but prefaced our request with the hope that they would not be offended if we did not take part in their observances. This was immediately granted; and Fitz said, I feel that your spirit is true and sincere, and I have unity with it. When their service was ended, we asked them to remain a while in silence, and I trust may say we were enabled to utter what was required of us in testimony and supplication. In Dürkheim there are eleven converted Jews, who dare not meet except in secret for fear of the rabbins. One night the rabbins attempted to take away their bibles and other books, but they received a hint of their intention, and sent the books to Fitz's house. One of them, a servant girl, as soon as she heard that some Christian friends were come into the town, went to Fitz's, and took up one of the books we had given him. She read a little in it hastily, put it in her bosom, and ran home. Her curiosity and love of the truth impelled her to come to our hotel, and wait unobserved in the hall to catch a glimpse of us as we came out. We felt much for these awakened ones of Abraham's offspring; their oppressed condition rested much upon our hearts; but as we had no opportunity of conversing with them, I wrote a few lines from Friedelsheim to the young woman, and sent them with some books by Fitz, who accompanied us to that place. _Tuke's Principles_ finds much entrance among the awakened Jews. Travelling through Spires, Carlsruhe, and Pforzheim, they came on the 16th to Stuttgardt, where they found Henry Kienlin, of Pforzheim, who, as the reader will remember, had won so large a place in their love and esteem on their former journey. He not only, says John Yeardley, professes our principles, but bears a clear and fearless testimony for them. His wife is of the same mind with him, although she does not yet show it in the simplicity of her dress. On the 18th, we set out in company with our good friend to Ludwigsburg to see the prison. There are about 600 prisoners, of both sexes, for the most part employed in labor. Order and cleanliness prevail, and the food is good. The governor, Kleth, is a worthy, pious man; he himself reads the Holy Scriptures to the prisoners, and endeavors to promote their spiritual improvement. When we entered a room in which were a number of men, they rose, and stood serious and quiet as though they expected we should address them; and for a short time the love of God was felt amongst us in an impressive manner; but nothing was given us to utter. It will be recollected that when John and Martha Yeardley were at Stuttgardt in 1826, they met with the Pastor Hoffman, and that they desired to visit the institution at Kornthal, of which he was the director, but were obliged to forego this visit in order to hasten forward to Basle. They now prepared to discharge this debt of Christian love. Kornthal is situated four miles from Stuttgardt; it was founded in 1819 by dissenters from the Moravians and Lutherans, and consisted in 1825 of about seventy families. J. and M.Y. went there on the 19th. We were received, says the former, in a brotherly manner by the Director Hoffman. On entering the room we were informed that their pastor had died the night before; but instead of sorrow there seemed to be joy. This society holds it for a religious duty to rejoice when any of their members are favored to enter a state of endless bliss. This is religious fortitude which but few possess, but I believe it is with them sincere, for in going over the institution with the Director, I observed they spoke of it as a matter of holy triumph. No meeting was held with the members of the establishment during this visit; it was left for J. and M.Y. to attend the usual evening assembly on First-day, the 21st; and they were informed that it would be an occasion on which any present who were moved by divine influence might freely relieve their minds. At three o'clock, J.Y. writes, we set off to Kornthal under most trying feelings; I do not know when I have suffered so much from discouragement. On account of the death of the pastor, many were come to attend the interment which was to take place the next day. This caused the meeting to be large; not less than 700 persons were present, and among them six or seven pastors. The service commenced with a few verses; the first words were these:-- "Holy Spirit come unto us, And make our hearts thy dwelling-place." I can truly say I was awfully impressed with their meaning, and a secret prayer rose in my heart that it might be experienced amongst us. After the singing, a silence truly solemn ensued, and I intimated that I felt an impression to say a few words. When I sat down our kind friend the Director summed up the substance of what I had said, and repeated it in an impressive and becoming manner. He did this with the idea that some present who only understood Low German might not have clearly got the sense; however, we were told afterwards that they had understood every word that I had said. Hoffman generously acknowledged to the hearers that what had been delivered was strictly conformable with Scripture doctrine, and that he united most fully with it. Next morning the children being assembled for religious instruction, at the conclusion I requested they might remain awhile, and I had a few words to say to them, which was a relief to my mind. Hoffman asked if they had understood; they almost all answered, Ja, ja, ja. This visit has afforded an opportunity of our becoming acquainted with many serious characters out of the neighborhood who were come to the interment; many of them felt near to me in spirit. Hoffman's wife is a precious, still character; there is much sweetness in her countenance. All received us heartily in Christian love; it felt to me as if it were the night before one of our Monthly Meetings, and I was at a Friend's house, so much freedom was to be felt. The inn is kept by Hoffman; they would make us no charge, saying love must pay all. We were most easy to make a present to the box for the institution, but they would have refused it, saying feelingly, Travellers like you have many expenses. The cause for J.Y.'s peculiar discouragement in the prospect of this meeting was the want of an interpreter. Any one who knows the difficulty of public speaking or continuous discourse in a foreign language, will comprehend the anxiety which he felt when he saw no alternative but that of committing himself to preach in German. Though very familiar with the language, he never completely overcame the want of early and of thoroughly grammatical instruction in that difficult and intricate tongue. It was with feelings of this kind that he penned the following memorandum before going to Kornthal:-- 18_th_.--Extremely low in mind and in want of faith. No creature can conceive what I suffer in the prospect of having to speak in a foreign tongue in a religious meeting. At Stuttgardt they took leave of their endeared friend, Henry Kienlin. It is, says J.Y., hard to part; but every one must follow his calling, and mind only the direction of the Lord. On quitting Stuttgardt, John Yeardley makes a few remarks regarding the religious state of Würtemberg. 22_nd_.--Würtemberg is a favored land. In Feldbach, three hours from Stuttgardt, there are about 800 Christian people who hold meetings in each other's houses: some of them belong to the Kornthal Society. Years ago, many emigrated to America and Russia, to gain religious liberty; now it is granted them by their own Government. On the 22nd, they journeyed to Tübingen, where they visited the worthy Professor Streundel. He was surprised and shy when we entered, as if he wanted to say, The sooner you take leave the better. But as soon as he knew where we came from, his countenance changed, and he received us heartily. He had his wife called--a very polite person. He asked many questions as to our church discipline, &c.; the order of our Society pleased him much. He had undertaken the study of divinity from an apprehension of duty, and said that it was only by the assistance of the Holy Spirit we could be made instrumental in the ministry. On the 25th they came to Wilhelmsdorf, on the Lake of Constance, where is a branch of the Kornthal Association. They found the director "a man of great simplicity, but of inward worth." He was, continues John Yeardley, six years in Kornthal, and seems to be sensible of the importance of the situation he fills, and of his incapability to be useful to others unless assisted by divine grace. He read our certificate attentively, and said, in a weighty manner, Yes; one Lord over all, one faith, one baptism. We found they have no regular preacher, but meet for worship every evening and on First-day mornings. We were desirous of seeing them together, and they were pleased to find such was our intention. The bell was rung, and in a few minutes the whole colony assembled, about two hundred, with children. Much liberty was felt in speaking among them; and some of them appeared to be sensible of the value of true silence, and from whence words ought to spring; many shed tears under the melting influence of divine love which was so preciously to be felt amongst us. We took an affectionate leave, well satisfied in visiting this little company, to strengthen them to hold up the cause of their Lord and Master, in the midst of darkness. Within about thirty English miles there are none but rigid Roman Catholics, not one Evangelical congregation. At our departure my wife said: "These words arise in my mind for thy comfort: Thy faith hath saved thee; go in peace." At the inn where we stopped at Wilhelmsdorf, we were spectators of an occurrence rarely to be seen. Among the laborers who dined there, the one who had finished first read a chapter from the Bible to the rest. When all had done eating, one offered a prayer; and then all went quietly back to their work. This practice shows at least the sincerity of their hearts. CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND CONTINENTAL JOURNEY. 1827-28. PART II.--SWITZERLAND. On the 27th of the Tenth Month John and Martha Yeardley crossed the Swiss frontier to Schaffhausen, where their presence was welcomed by several pious persons. Amongst these were a young woman, Caroline Keller, who from a religions motive had altered her dress and manners to greater simplicity, and John Lang, Principal of the United Brethren's Society. In a social meeting convened on the evening of their arrival, J.L. directed the conversation to the principles of friends, and J. and M.Y. explained the views held by the Society on silent worship, the ministry, and the disuse of ceremonies. The [French] language, says J.Y., was difficult to me; but by the grace of God I was helped, and they were quite ready to seize the sense of what we endeavored to convey. The love of God was felt among us, and the Principal said, at parting, that he had not before been so impressed with our views. I sent him Tuke's "Principles," and he told me yesterday he was attentively studying it. My dear M.Y. told me it had been given her to believe we were in our right place, and that we were called by religious intercourse to bear witness for our Lord and Master and his good cause. I am afraid, he remarks in a letter in which he describes their service at Schaffhausen, I am afraid thou wilt think me too minute in my details; but really when I enter into the feeling which accompanied us in these visits, it seems as if I could scarcely quit it. They spent the 29th at Schaffhausen in close Christian communion with two pious families. To C.K. particularly, at whose house they dined, they felt so nearly united, that they scarcely knew how to part from her. We have cause to be thankful, says J.Y., for our visit to Schaffhausen; but if we were more faithful we should be more useful. Our friends were quite inclined for us to have had a meeting with them, but we were too fearful to propose it. O vile weakness! On the 31st they saw the Agricultural School for poor children at Beuggen. Amongst the boys were twelve young Greeks, who were being instructed in ancient and modern Greek, and in German. They had been sent to Switzerland by the German missionaries, and most of them had been deprived of their parents by the cruelty of the Turks. It was the intention of their benefactors that they should return to Greece to enlighten their countrymen. Their religious instruction was based simply upon the Bible, without reference to any particular creed. In the Greek school, writes John Yeardley, we observed a serious man about thirty years of age, who had the appearance of a laborer, learning Greek. This was a little surprising, and led us to inquire the cause. The inspector readily gratified us: and gratifying indeed it was to hear that this poor man had given up his work of ship-carpenter, from pure conviction that he was called to go and instruct the poor Greeks at his own expense. He is intending to spend the winter in learning the modern Greek, and to proceed in the spring to Corfu. He intends to provide for his own living by working at his trade, and he will take for instruction about four boys at a time, and as soon as he has brought them forward enough, set them as monitors over others. Some time ago two young men were sent out by the Bible Society to Corfu; but before they reached the place of their destination they were deterred by the missionaries on account of the unsettled state of the country, and dared not proceed further for fear of losing their lives. It is remarkable that, at the juncture when these two young men were turned back by discouragement, this poor man should receive the impression to go to the same place. We desired to have an interview with him, and he was instantly sent for to the Inspector's room. After a few remarks which opened for us to make to him, he confessed he had no peace but when he thought of giving up to this feeling of duty, and that when he looked towards going he felt happy in the prospect of every hardship. It was remarked that, as this call was made from above, the great Master alone could guide his steps; he appeared fully sensible from whom his help must come. He is beloved by his employers, and has an excellent certificate from the pastor, of his moral and religious character. On the 2nd of the Eleventh Month they went to Zurich, and the same day drove out over a very bad road to Pfäffikon to visit the Herr von Campagne. We had a cold wet journey, but the good old man gave us a hearty welcome to his house. He is seventy-six years of age. He asked us pleasantly how we came to think of visiting an old man who was on the brink of the grave. He had heard much of Friends, and wished, he said, to become personally acquainted with some of the Society. He is a most benevolent character, but we could not unite with all his religious views; he does not think it necessary to meet for religious worship; in short, his principles are much the same as those held by Jacob Böhmen. We slept at his house, and next morning returned to Zurich, where we called on our particular friend Professor Gessner and his family, and we rejoiced mutually to see each other again. In the afternoon they called on Pastor Koch, tutor to the young Prince of Mecklenburg, who was at that time in Switzerland, and the next morning, First-day, as they were holding their little meeting for worship, the Prince himself, with Herr Koch and the Herr von Brandenstein, gave them a visit. The Prince spoke English; and J.Y. says:-- I had a strong impression to speak to him in a serious way, which I was enabled to do at some length. On parting he held me with both his hands in mine, and said, "I thank you, sir, for your kind and instructive communication; I shall never forget it so long as I live." A little before twelve o'clock, he continues, came our kind young friend, Hannah Gessner, to accompany us to the ancient and worthy Bishop Hess. He is in his eighty-seventh year, but lively in spirit and active in mind. He is uncommonly liberal in his religious opinions, and his enlarged heart seemed to overflow with Christian love towards the followers of Christ under every name. He treated us as a father, and I felt instructed in being in his company. He gave us his portrait as a token of respect and friendship. In the evening we took tea with Professor Gessner's sister, Lavater, in company with seven of the professor's daughters and sons, who are all serious persons. After some conversation on the order and ministry of our Society, it was proposed by dear Hannah, through her aunt, whether we would like to have a Meeting or the Scriptures read. After a portion of Scripture had been read silence ensued, in which my dear M. Y. and I said what was on our minds in testimony and supplication. It is a time of precious visitation to some of them. We felt sweet unity with Pastor Gessner, and believe him to be a gospel minister. On parting he took me in both arms, and said, in such a feeling manner that the words went to my very heart, "The Lord bless thee, and put the words of his wisdom into thy mouth." On the 6th they went to Berne, and the next morning they inspected Fellenberg's institution at Hofwyl. It is, says John Yeardley, what it professes to be, for education in the fullest extent of the word, to give to those committed to their care an education suited to their circumstances and their future prospects in life. There is a first-rate boarding school, for young gentlemen; a middle school, for tradesmen, &c.; a [boys' and] girls' poor school of industry, for those who can pay nothing.--(_Letter to Josiah Forster_.) To J.Y. the most interesting department of this institution was the school of industry for poor children, in which at that time a hundred boys were clothed and educated. He describes at some length, and with evident approbation, the system on which the school was conducted; but adds, "I cannot say much as to religious instruction." From Hofwyl they proceeded through Lausanne to Geneva, where, being desirous of improving themselves in French, and the season not permitting them to travel, they hired a lodging, intending to remain two or three months. As on their former visit, they held frequent intercourse with pious persons, several of them well known in the Christian world; such as Gaussen, Bost, and L'Huillier. Of Theodore L'Huillier. minister of the New Church, John Yeardley says:-- Though a moderate Calvinist, he embraced us at once on the broad principle of Christianity. We became acquainted with him two years ago, but think him now much deeper in the root of real religion. 11 _mo_. 19.--We called yesterday evening on our dear friend Owen, and met there a pious lady, Fanny Passavant. We had much serious conversation, I hope to profit, at least to our own minds; for we were given to see a little the importance of the situation in which we stand, and the necessity of being, in our intercourse with these religious persons, wise as serpents, and harmless as doves. 1828. 1 mo. 13.--We have had much satisfaction in becoming acquainted with Ami Bost. He was one of the first who bore testimony to the light which broke forth in the corrupt church of Geneva, and he suffered much in defending the doctrines of the New Church. In Germany he was, with his wife and six or seven children, driven from town to town by the police, for holding religious meetings in his house, and for refusing to have his children baptised. His sentiments in the office of the ministry and the appointment of preachers, are in perfect unison with those of Friends; also on the ordinances of the Supper, &c. 1 _mo_. 20.--During the greater part of our stay at this place I have felt my mind extremely poor, but a secret desire and prayer has been maintained to be preserved in patience, believing it to be as necessary to learn to suffer as to do. And although it is apparently little we can do here, we have felt repeatedly the assurance that it is the ordering of Best Wisdom, and as such we are well satisfied. After our little morning meeting we went to dine with dear Captain Owen, and spent the remainder of the day with a few religious friends there. When the evening reading was finished, we had a solemn time under the seasoning influence of divine love. Our hearts were too full for any religious communication, except supplication, which was offered both by my dear M.Y. and myself. Martha Yeardley also gives an account of this meeting, and of a visit they paid to the Female Prison. Before our departure for Lausanne and Neufchâtel, a relation of Mary Ann Vernet's kindly attended us to the female prison, and introduced us to others of the committee; and in the evening we had a religious opportunity with the few confined there, during which they evinced much feeling. Our interesting companion told us the next morning that she trusted the circumstance would be blessed to them. We had also a very interesting opportunity at Charles Owen's the evening before we left, at which was present, as often before, a very precious friend of ours, of the name of Fanny Passavant, a single woman, very rich, yet who lives in great self-denial, and gives almost all she has to feed the poor. She is what they call in this country a very _interior_ character; which means one that cherishes the inward life. In her company we often felt baptized together, and she gave us strong recommendations to some of the same class at Neufchâtel, who are desiring to learn in the school of Christ.--(_Letter to Elizabeth Dudley_.) At the expiration of their sojourn in Geneva, they did not, as they had expected to do, proceed to the valleys of Piedmont, but, as the last extract intimates, turned their steps towards Neufchâtel. The motives which influenced them in this change of purpose are described by John Yeardley, in a letter to his brother, of the 11th of the Second Month, 1828. In my last to thee I signified our intention of departing for the valleys of Piedmont, which did not take place. After due consideration of the subject for more than two months, in a state of humble resignation to be directed aright in this important matter, we did not feel it press with sufficient weight on our minds to warrant our moving in the face of so much difficulty as is at present in the way. We have always considered our safety in such engagements to depend on taking step by step in the fresh light afforded; and it is a favor to know when and where to stand, as well as when to go forward. While the way to Piedmont was thus for a time obstructed, a door was set open for them in a part of Switzerland which they had not yet visited. From John Yeardley's reflections before they left Geneva, it would appear that in the discouragement they felt in the prospect of a long journey through France, they were little aware of that plentiful repast of spiritual food which was to be served to them before they would have to cross the Jura. In looking towards the long journey before us, writes J.Y., I have been much discouraged, almost fearing to depart from this place without first being favored with more quietude of mind, which I was this morning favored to feel in a greater degree than has been the case for a long time. In my last solitary walk to La Traille, I was led to pray in secret for preservation on our journey, and almost to ask an assurance of protection, but received for answer, "Go, in faith." On the 21st of the First Month, they left Geneva and went forward to Lausanne, where they were again refreshed with the society of some spiritually-minded persons. 23_rd_--We visited several of the pastors. We found M. Févaz, minister of the Seceders in this place, very interesting, humble, and spiritual. He related to us, in much simplicity and candor, that in the commencement of their separation they were strenuous to preach doctrinal sermons, but now they had been favored to see the necessity of preaching purification of heart through the operation of the Spirit. Called on ---- Gaudin, who keeps a boarding-school in a beautiful situation near the town. We had not been long in the company of him and his dear wife, before we felt much contrited together, and had a precious religious opportunity. At parting, the dear man, with myself, was quite broken into tears. We left with him, as well as with the others, Judge Hale's "Testimony to the Secret Support of Divine Providence," which we had translated, and had got printed at Geneva. On the 24th they proceeded to Neufchâtel. This was a memorable visit. We soon found cause, writes John Yeardley, to believe the Great Master had been before us, to prepare the way in the hearts of many to receive the doctrine he has mercifully enabled us to preach. Our dear F. Passavant had given us a letter of introduction to Auguste Borel, a man of few words, but of a remarkably weighty and sweet spirit, who received us with the greatest affection. He has lately separated from the national worship, and retires in silence in his own chamber. He soon made us acquainted with a few others of a similar turn of mind. Martha Yeardley, describing the commencement of their religious service in this place, says:-- We were invited to a meeting which we felt most easy to attend, and my husband was given full liberty to speak if he felt inclined; but for a while the usual activity of their meetings--such as singing, commenting on texts with Calvinistic explanations, &c.--entirely closed our way. But before they separated I ventured to request, in the name of my husband, that such as inclined would favor us with their company a while longer, and rest a little in silence. Nearly all remained, and under a solemn covering he addressed the company, while I translated in much fear, yet ventured at the end to say a few words for myself. Several of the company attended us home, and expressed much satisfaction: and from this time a door was opened to us at Neufchâtel in a very remarkable manner. They flocked to our inn at all times in the day and in considerable numbers, many acknowledging, in the course of very interesting conversation, that they thirsted for something more satisfying than mere doctrines continually repeated--something that would preserve from evil, that would cleanse the heart, that would bring into nearer communion with the Saviour.--(_Letter to Elizabeth Dudley_.) On the 27th, continues the Diary, A. Borel conducted us to a meeting with some _interior_ persons, about three miles from town. It was a time of close exercise of mind, but ended to satisfaction, and, I hope, to the edification and strength of some present. The master of the house, Professor Pétavel, said that never until that evening had he been able to see clearly the beauty and advantage of pure spiritual worship, contrasted with outward forms. After, having taken tea with a large company, our kind guide conducted us through woods and over mountainous and bad roads to a village, where a large concourse of people were assembled for worship. A schoolmaster was speaking on a chapter which had been read: we had full unity with what he delivered, which was accompanied with a power which convinced us that he really preached the gospel. After he had done, we were introduced as religious strangers from England; and silence ensuing, opportunity was given for us to express what came before us. 28th.--Some of the most _interior_ told us they had long been exercised about spiritual worship, and had often wished to see some of the Society of Friends. On hearing of our intended visit two years ago, they said if we had come then [we should have found them] wrapped up in doctrines, but now they were given to see they could not live on the letter alone, they must be born again, and partake of that bread which cometh down from heaven. Many of these awakened persons came to our inn at all hours, and our hearts were filled with love towards them as a cup overflowing; so that it was given to us to minister to them almost individually as they came to us. On the 29th they went to Berne, and the following morning walked over to Wabern, where some of A. Borel's friends resided, who received them with open arms. After dinner M. Combe drove us in his car to Scherli. We alighted at the house of one of the peasant-farmers, situated quite among the mountains, with the Alps fair in view. They received us in the name of disciples with every mark of love and respect. They were more disposed to sit in silence than to ask questions. On my asking if they had seen or heard of any of our Friends, in these parts, one of them, innocently replied, No; we do not know anything of your religious principles. I then began to explain them; and when I spoke of our manner of worship, belief, &c., and of some of our peculiar tenets respecting Baptism, the Supper, &c., it is not possible to express their emotion; their eyes turned first towards one and then towards another, and seemed to sparkle with joy, without their uttering a word till I had done. These were entirely the principles they held, and about a year ago they separated from the church, about twenty in number, and attempted to meet for religious worship. This was prevented by the police; for although, they live in a very remote situation, they are strictly watched by the pastor, who wishes to compel them to come to his worship. We were there only an hour or two, but a number of these innocent-hearted people came flocking to the house, and immediately settled into a silence truly solemn. We could indeed say our hearts burned with love towards them. Two of these young men came to us the nest day, and spent most of the day with us. One of them, Christian Speicher, told me he did not know how to express the satisfaction he felt to hear of a body of professing Christians in a distant land, who held the same religious principles as they in their isolated situation had been long seeking after and had been made willing to suffer for. During our stay under this hospitable roof [M. Combe's at Wabern] it was an open house for all comers, and they were not few. Our spirits were so united with many of them we did not know how to leave them; but our great concern was to recommend them to remain with Him who had so mercifully and powerfully visited them. On the 31st they returned to Berne, and the next day called upon a pious chimney-sweeper, waiting whilst he changed his sooty clothes. We were not a little surprised to hear him of his own accord, without knowing who we were, declare the same doctrine as we are concerned to preach. There are a few _inward_ persons who assemble at his house, and hold the same sentiments. About a year and a half or two years ago, there was a remarkable awakening in the canton of Berne, and a few here and there of a more spiritually-minded sort seceded. There is a ferment to prevent their meeting together, and to compel them to go to the usual place of worship; but in vain, for nothing but spiritual food can satisfy their hungry souls. On their return to Neufchâtel they visited the celebrated school of the Moravians at Montmirail, where, says Martha Yeardley-- We soon felt quite at home with a precious, spiritually-minded man, the master, and his agreeable English wife. This is an excellent institution, for females only, and several English are there. We were about seventy in company at dinner, and much sweet feeling prevailed. The master of this interesting family was delighted to hear something of Friends to whom he had never before been introduced. At Neufchâtel, on First-day (2 mo. 3,) they met large companies in the morning and evening, and the next morning took leave of their friends in that city, "deeply humbled under a sense of the great Master's work among them." They went to Locle under the conduct of A. Borel, whose "kindness exceeded all description." On the way, writes John Yeardley, we took refreshment at a pious man's house in the morning, and dined at another friend's, with whom, we had a precious religious opportunity. It reminded me of the mode of visiting our own dear Friends in England; we find in the hearts of these visited children of the Universal Parent genuine hospitality; they hand us of all they have in their houses in the name of disciples. At Locle they were met by Mary Anne Calame, with whom their hearts became instantly knit in the strongest Christian friendship. She came before we were well alighted. We had heard much of the character and benevolent exertions of this dear woman but could say in truth the half had not been told us. Her countenance is strong and impressive, her hair jet black, cut short, and worn without cap; her dress of the most simple and least costly kind. Her sole desire seems to be to do the will of her Lord and Master in caring for 170 poor children, who are in the institution at bed, board, and instruction. The forenoon was spent in looking over the schools and hearing the children examined. The house is a refuge for the lame, blind, deaf, dumb, and sick. Peace and contentment prevail through the whole. This establishment was commenced about twelve years ago with five children, and has prospered in a remarkable manner. M.A.C. is one with Friends in principle, and, as well as some others of the family, entirely separated from the usual forms of worship. Martha Yeardley, in a letter from which we have already quoted, describes the origin of the asylum. About twelve years since M.A. Calame believed herself called to form an institution for orphans and unfortunate children. She associated some others with her for this object, but having peculiar views on religious subjects, and more perseverance than her colleagues, she was soon left nearly alone, with means entirely inadequate to the increasing demands, viz., about three francs yearly from a very limited number of persons. The children daily augmented, and she dared not refuse admission: when in necessity she was encouraged to trust from unexpected donations. This increased her faith; and after some years, a boys' school was added. In this way the institution has been supported without any regular funds. Her faith is still often very severely tried, but they have never yet been suffered to want. Her refuge in times of extremity is prayer, and it has been in some instances very evidently answered, so that she has severely reproached herself for daring to doubt. In speaking on this subject she said to me: "I am at times much beset with temptations when I consider the number I have thus collected without any visible or certain means of support; but how can I dare to doubt after so many proofs of the care of the great Master? He knows our wants; he knows these dear children have need of food and clothing, and he provides it for them; and he knows that all I desire is to do his will." On remarking to her the sweet tranquillity and order which reign in these schools, she said, "It is the Master's work; they are taught to love him above all, and to do all for his sake." We felt very nearly united to her and to an intimate friend who resides with her: they are both what are called deeply interior characters, and have long withdrawn from the places of public worship, but fully unite with our views. She is really a very extraordinary character, extremely simple and cheerful in her manners, possessing great natural talents, and evincing in her conducting of the institution, not only the Spirit, but the understanding also.--(_To Elizabeth Dudley, 2 mo. 7, 1828._) With Locle, John and Martha Yeardley's mission to Switzerland for this time terminated. They crossed the frontier into France, and made the best of their way through that country, in order to proceed to the Channel Islands. This morning (2 mo. 5,) writes J.Y., Mary Anne Calame and her friend Zimmerling, with A. Borel, accompanied us two leagues to the ferry, and saw us safe over into France. This last parting with friends so dear to us in a foreign land, was very touching; our hearts were humbled under a sense of the Heavenly Father's love. 6th.--Passing the custom-house made us late at our quarters, where they are not accustomed to receive such guests. Their curiosity to see and know who we are is very great. To prevent French imposition, my M.Y. was to bargain beforehand for what we had. On asking what the meal would cost, we were answered they could not tell, for they did not know how much coffee we should drink. This simple but appropriate reply so amused us that it put an end to our bargaining. I shall not soon forget the sensation I felt on passing the river into France. I could not forbear drawing the discouraging contrast of quitting those to whom we had become united in the gospel of peace, in a country the most beautiful that Nature can present, with a long journey in prospect through a dreary country whose inhabitants wish only to get what they can from us. These discouraging fears could only be silenced by reflecting that the same protecting Providence presides over all and everywhere. Travelling with their own single horse, their favorite _Poppet_, the progress they made was necessarily slow, and they did not reach Paris till the 19th. After spending a few days in that city, they proceeded to Cherbourg, and arrived there after six days of hard travelling. At this place John Yeardley writes:-- 3 _mo_. 2.--In looking back on our late travels, a degree of sweet peace and thankfulness covered my mind in the humble belief that our weak but sincere desires to do the great Master's will was a sacrifice well-pleasing in his holy sight. In looking forward to the dangers we had still to encounter, I was led closely to examine on what our hope of preservation was fixed. Should it please Him who had hitherto blessed us with his presence and protecting care, to put our faith again to the test, how we could bear it, how we should feel at the prospect of going down to the bottom of the great deep. I felt a particular satisfaction that our great journey had first been accomplished; if this had not been the case it would have been a sting in my conscience. But now an awful resignation was experienced, and it came before me as an imperious duty to be resigned to life or death; and the joyful hope resounded in my heart, All will be well to those who love not their lives unto death. The presentiment of danger which this passage describes was speedily fulfilled, as was also the hopeful promise by which it was accompanied. They were detained at Cherbourg until the 13th, waiting for a vessel. Leaving port early that morning, they landed in Guernsey the next day; and it was in going ashore that they were exposed to some danger of their lives. John Yeardley thus relates the occurrence:-- I descended first into a little boat, and standing on the side to take my M.Y. down, the man not holding the boat secure to the ship, our weight pushed it from us, and we plunged headlong into the sea. My dear M.Y.'s clothes prevented her from sinking, and she was first assisted again into the boat. I went overhead, and had to swim several turns before I could reach the boat. The salt water being warm, and the time not long, we received no further injury. What shall we render unto the Lord for all his mercies to us, his poor unworthy servants! how often has he made bare his mighty arm for our deliverance. In the midst of danger fear was removed from us, and we were blessed with the unspeakable advantage of presence of mind, and enabled to use the best means under Divine Providence to save our lives. They visited the Friends and a few other persons in Guernsey and Jersey, and then proceeded to Weymouth, and on the 25th to Bristol. At Bristol and Tewkesbury they were deeply interested in the state of the meetings, and had some remarkable service in both places. Taking also Nottingham and Chesterfield in their way, and being "well satisfied in not having overrun them," they arrived at the cottage at Burton on the 8th of the Fourth Month, having been absent about nine months. In the retrospect, say they, of this long and arduous journey, we have this testimony unitedly to bear,--that the Arm of divine love has been underneath to support and help us; and although we have had many deep baptisms to pass through, especially when we beheld how in many places the fields are white unto harvest, and were fully sensible of our own inability to labor therein, yet He who, we trust, sent us forth was often pleased to raise us from the depth of discouragement, to rejoice in him our Saviour. If any fruits arise from our feeble efforts to promote his cause, it will be from his blessing resting upon them, for nothing can possibly be attached to us but weakness and want of faith. But, blessed be his holy name, he knew the sincerity of our endeavors to do his will, and has been pleased in his condescending mercy to fill our hearts with his enriching peace. Amen. CHAPTER X. HOME OCCUPATIONS AND TRAVELS IN ENGLAND AND WALES. 1828--1833. On their return home Martha Yeardley was attacked with a severe illness, consequent probably on hard travelling and bad accommodation during the journey. Under date of the 18th of the Fifth Month, J.Y. writes:-- How circumstances change! Last Yearly Meeting we were in London with the prospect of a long journey before us, and now my dear Martha is on a bed of sickness, and I have myself suffered; but through all there is a degree of peaceful resignation in the belief that all is done well that the Great Master does, and that what He keeps is well kept. Later in the day he thus continues his Diary:-- This has been a day of great trial on account of my dear Martha being much worse. My poor mind has been distressed at her weak state: I should sink under discouragement, did I not consider that He who sends affliction can support in it, and he who brings low can raise up in his own time, if it be his blessed will, to which all must be submitted. In the Seventh Month he took her to Harrowgate, where her health became very much restored, and soon after their return they paid a religious visit to Ackworth School and to the families of Friends in Barnsley. Some of the opportunities at Ackworth, writes John Yeardley, were seasons of much contrition of spirit; feeling deeply humbled under a sense of Divine goodness and mercy in restoring this large family to usual health after a time of deep affliction. In the latter part of this year they were much occupied in establishing an Infant School at Barnsley; and also in collecting and remitting subscriptions to Mary Anne Calame for her Orphan Institution. In acknowledging to Martha Yeardley one of these remittances, M.A.C. writes thus: May our Heavenly Father render thee a hundredfold what thy charity has prompted thee to do for my numerous family of children; and may his blessing rest on all those who have contributed to it. We think of you every day, and we desire to live only to do the holy will of our God. Your visit has been a testimony of his love towards us; he has permitted that it should be blessed to us; for the remembrance of you carries as towards Him who is the finisher of our faith, where we mingle with you in the unfathomable sea of the divine mercy. My large family is much blessed; good and happy tendencies manifest themselves in many, and in general peace reigns through the house. The assistant masters and mistresses walk more or less in the presence of the Lord; the governess [M. Zimmerling] especially grows deeper in the divine life: she is often ill, but she bears this cross, by the help that is given her from above, with much submission and faith. Last month we had the pleasure of making a little journey to Berne and the neighborhood, to visit our friends there who love you so much. We heard that you had both fallen into the sea, and that thou wast ill in consequence. Thou mayst understand how the wishes of our hearts encompassed thee; I have felt my soul for ever united to thine in the Lord; and it seems to me that if my eyes should never again meet thine in this land of exile, I should speedily recognize thee in the happy mansions where the goodness of the Redeemer has prepared us a place. O, my sister, may he bless thee, may he bless John whom he has given thee to accomplish his work; may he open thy mouth and direct all thy steps, and give seals to thine and thy husband's ministry, and make you increase together unto the stature of Christ.--(12 _mo_. 14, 1828.) The entries in the Diary at this period are not numerous: we select from them the following short memorandum:-- 1829. 4 _mo_. 9.--In our usual reading this morning, I was struck with these words: "If two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven." (Matt, xviii. 19.) A fervent desire was raised in my heart that we might unitedly ask for faith and strength to do the will of our Heavenly Father, and that his blessing and preservation might attend all that concerns us. In the Fifth Month they attended the Yearly Meeting; and John Yeardley was present at the anniversary of the Peace Society. 5 _mo_. 19.--Attended a meeting of the Peace Society, much to my own satisfaction. It was truly gratifying to hear from those not in profession with us, such strong and decided sentiments against all war, as being not only inconsistent with the spirit of Christianity, but also contrary to sound policy. I am convinced _public_ meetings are necessary to keep alive _public_ feeling, as well as to excite individual interest. As it regards myself, I can say, before attending the meeting I felt but little concern with respect to this great question. Soon after their return home, they were comforted by the intelligence that a few of those persons at Neufchatel who had so joyfully received their gospel message, had found strength to establish a meeting for worship. This information was contained in a letter from Auguste Borel, from which the following is an extract:-- He who tries the heart, and who knew the sincerity of my desires, deigned to hear my prayer on the 24th of February, when, without any previous understanding, we met four in number at my house at ten o'clock in the morning. This day is called with us _Torch Sunday_, and is a day of rejoicing in the world; and, if I ought to say so, during my carnal life it was to me a day of true pleasure, which I always looked for with impatience, because of the great bonfires which are then lighted, and which are seen from our city, illuminating every point of the wide horizon. It is my hope that the God of love, in the analogy of the spiritual order of things, may have kindled in our hearts his sacred fire, and will condescend to maintain and increase it in time and in eternity. Since that time we have continued our meetings without interruption: our number has not yet exceeded six or seven. We do not force the work, but, recognising that it is the Lord alone who has begun it, I feel daily more and more that He alone ought to direct it. A portion of this summer and autumn was occupied by John and Martha Yeardley with holding public meetings for worship within the compass of Pontefract and Knaresborough Monthly Meetings. Amongst the notices in the Diary of these meetings, are the following:-- 8 _mo_. 16.--A public meeting at Wooldale, to which name many more people than could get into the house. The Friends said they never saw so large a meeting in that place. Many of those present expressed their satisfaction by saying they could have sat till morning to hear what was delivered. It is an easy matter to become hearers of the word; but it was the doers of the word that were pronounced happy. 23_rd_.--Meeting at Otley, in the Methodist chapel. It was not very full, but very solid and satisfactory. The last public meeting in this place was held in silence, which might probably be the cause of a small attendance on this occasion. It is bard work to bring the people to see and feel the advantage of silent worship: the time is not yet come, and perhaps never may. We must be willing to help them in the way pointed out, and try to strengthen the good in all; for if they are only brought to the Father's house, it matters not in what way or through what medium. In the Eleventh Month they returned to the Monthly Meeting the minute which had been granted them, and received at the same time a certificate to visit some meetings of Friends in the midland and south-western counties. Before they left home for this journey, they received intelligence that John Yeardley's early and intimate friend James A. Wilson was no more. 11 _mo_. 24.--My heart, says J.Y., is pained within me, while I record the loss of one with whom I have been for many years on the most intimate terms. He has long had an afflicted tabernacle and a suffering mind, which, I believe, contributed to his refinement, and prepared him for the awful change. He had been recommended to go to a warmer climate, and had taken up his residence at Glouchester, where he died, which prevented us from attending him in his last moments. He possessed much originality of character, joined to sincerity and genuine piety; and I doubt not he experienced the fulfilment of this promise: "Behold, I have caused thy iniquity to pass from thee, and I will clothe thee with change of raiment." (Zech. iii. 4.) On the 11th of the Twelfth Month they left home, and during the next two months were closely occupied in visiting various meetings from Yorkshire to Devonshire. Their service commenced with an encouraging meeting at Monyash, in Derbyshire. 13_th_.--The first meeting we attended was at Monyash. It was larger than we had expected, in consequence of strangers coming in, and proved rather a lively commencement to our spiritual course of labor. On the 14th they held a meeting in the Potteries, in a cottage belonging to one of the few Friends in the place. Word having got abroad that strangers were expected, many of the neighbors came in, so that the rooms below-stairs were filled: it was a refreshing time. They found in the woman to whom the cottage belonged a bright example of piety and charity. She has been, says J.Y., a cripple from her childhood; but is able to maintain herself by keeping a school for little children; she is not unmindful, also, to help her poorer neighbors out of her small earnings. At Bristol, where they arrived on the 1st of the First Month, 1830, they rested a few days at H. and M. Hunt's. We had, says J.Y. much pleasure in being in this family. Bristol is the largest meeting we have in our Society in England, and to me it was a very trying one on the First-day morning. I was much cast down after meeting; but we staid over the Monthly Meeting on Third-day, which afforded me relief of mind, and I left with as much comfort as I could well desire. At Plymouth John Yeardley found an object of lively interest in Lady Rogers' Charity School, established to fit girls for becoming household servants. He was gratified with the good order, simplicity, and economy, which pervaded the institution. Martha Yeardley suffered much during their journey in Devonshire, from the inclemency of the weather; and a heavy fall of snow on the night of the 17th prevented their leaving Plymouth at the time intended. In consequence of this, they hired a lodging, and employed themselves in visiting the Friends from house to house, and in organising an infant school, which the Friends had long desired to see established. On their return from Plymouth they stopped at Sidcot, where they spent some time at the Friends' school. Here the subject of offering prizes to children came under the notice of J.Y., and like all other subjects connected with education, engaged his serious reflection. It would certainly be better, he says, if the basis of good actions could be laid in the children's minds on a principle of rectitude and justice, so that they might be taught to do well from a love of truth, and not from a fear of punishment or a hope of reward; but so long as human nature remains unchanged, a check against the one and an incitement to the other seem to be necessary, as a help to overcome the evil in the mind, until that which is good shall become predominant. They returned to Yorkshire through Warwick and Leicester, and on reviewing the journey John Yeardley has the following reflections:-- 2 _mo_. 22.--Almost all the meetings we attended on this journey of 800 miles are very small, except Birmingham and Bristol, and the life of religion is low among the members in general; which is not much to be wondered at, when we consider that many of those meetings are constituted [chiefly] of a few individuals who have had a birthright in the Society--born members but not new-born Christians, without the power or form of religion, no outward means to excite them to faith and good works. If they neglect the spirit of prayer in themselves, it is not surprising they should grow cold in love and zeal for the noble cause of truth on the earth. But in the lowest of these [meetings] there is something alive to visit, and in going along we felt the renewed evidence that we were in our right allotment in thus going about, endeavoring to strengthen the things that remain; and though we have had to pass through much suffering, both outward and inward, yet we have also experienced times of rejoicing in doing the will of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. After the Quarterly Meeting in the Third Month they visited each of the meetings within their own Monthly Meeting, "thinking," says J.Y., "a little pastoral care was due to our Friends at home, seeing we are often concerned to go abroad." In the Fifth Month they went up to the Yearly Meeting, via Lincolnshire, taking several meetings in the way. Among the subjects which occupied Friends in their annual conference this year was that of missions to the heathen, which, it was proposed by some, should he taken up by the Society. The subject, writes John Yeardley, was fully entered into, and the interest was very great. Many Friends spoke their sentiments freely and feelingly, and the subject was taken on minute to be revived nest year. If this important matter were brought home to each individual of us, there would be more missionaries prepared and sent forth to labor; but we love ease and our homes, contenting ourselves with reading and talking about what is going forward in the great cause of religion and righteousness in the earth. They returned home through the midland counties, visiting most of the meetings in Oxfordshire, and in the parts adjacent; which they had been unable to do the previous year in returning from the West. It was comforting to us, John Yeardley says, to be with Friends in Oxfordshire, whom we had so long thought of. Many of their meetings are small; but there are a few individuals among them precious and improving characters, who, I believe, are under the preparing hand for greater usefulness in the Lord's church. With these we were often dipped into near union of spirit, which sometimes caused the divine life to rise among us to the refreshing of our spirits. In the Sixth Month they again left home, being minded to see how the churches fared in the eastern part of Yorkshire. The point which most interested them in this tour was Scarborough, where they were attracted both by the town itself and by the little society of Friends. "It felt to us," says J.Y., "very much like a home. We lodged at Elizabeth Rowntree's, a sweet resting-place." (7 _mo_. 4.) At the same time that they reported to their Monthly Meeting the attention they had paid to this service, they received its sanction to undertake a journey in Wales. It is truly humbling to us, writes John Yeardley, in describing this occasion, thus to have to expose ourselves, poor and weak as we are; but the cause is not our own, but is in the hands of our great Lord and Master. May he help us! (7 _mo_. 19.) They left home on the 7th of the Eighth Month, and spent the 11th at Coalbrookdale, in the company of Barnard Dickinson and his wife. From thence Samuel Hughes accompanied them as guide into Wales, and continued with them a week. He proved, says J.Y., a most efficient helper in this wild country, knowing the roads well, and he was kind and attentive to us and our horse. The stages are long and hilly, and we are often obliged to go many miles round the mountains to make our way from one place to another. The road to Pales is over the moors; we scarcely saw a house for miles, except here and there a little cot, on a plot of ground obtained as a grant to encourage industry. These little dwellings were generally surrounded by a few acres of well-cultivated land enclosed from the moor. It is much to be regretted that the plan of cottage culture is not more generally promoted; wherever I see it practised I view it with pleasure, as tending to increase the comforts of the poor. On the 19th they attended the Half-year's Meeting at Swansea. A Committee of the Yearly Meeting was present. Elizabeth Dudley was also there, with a certificate for religious service; and she and John and Martha Yeardley, finding that the errand on which they were come was the same, resolved to join company and travel together through South and North Wales. They were accompanied throughout the journey by Robert and Jane Eaton of Bryn-y-Mor. As there are very few meetings of Friends in Wales, the chief part of their service was beyond the limits of the Society. They met with great openness in many places from the Methodists and other preachers and their congregations. From the notes which John Yeardley made of their religious labors in this journey, we select several passages. 9 _mo_. 13. Aberystwith.--Our first object was to inquire for a place of meeting. We found they were all engaged for that evening, which detained us here a day longer than we had expected; but this little detention enabled us to make acquaintance with two of the Independent preachers, to whom we became much attached in gospel fellowship, A. Shadrach and his son. The father preaches in Welsh, and the son in English. It was comforting to us to meet with two such pious, humble-minded Christians, laboring diligently to forward the cause of religion. They kindly offered us their chapel for the evening, and after the meeting they both expressed much satisfaction in having been favored with such an opportunity. 9 _mo_. 15.--We arrived pretty early at Machynlleth, which is a clean little town. We did not know but that we might have proceeded on our journey after having refreshed ourselves and our horses; but, E.D. feeling much interested for the people of the town, it seemed best to have a meeting with them. I walked out, and seeing a good meeting-house, inquired to what persuasion of people it belonged, and found it was an Independent chapel, and that the minister lived about a mile and a half in the country. The prospect of being unable to make the people understand us was discouraging; for in the streets there was nothing to be heard but Welsh. However there was no time for reasoning, it being near twelve o'clock, and all must be arranged by seven in the evening. After some difficulty we found the preacher, a kind-hearted pious man, who readily granted his chapel, and undertook to act as interpreter should occasion require. This was the only place where we adopted the vulgar mode of giving notice by the town-crier, so common on all occasions in this country; but the time was short, and many of the people were not able to read our English notices, which we generally filled up for the purpose. The meeting was pretty fully attended, and the people were mostly quiet, considering there were many who could not understand. When E.D. sat down the minister repeated in substance what she had said; for, not being used to speak through an interpreter, she declined his giving sentence by sentence. When he had done, I felt something press on my mind towards the poorer classes present, who I was sure could not understand English: so I stepped down from the pulpit, and placing myself by the minister, requested he would render for me a few sentences as literally as he could. This he did kindly, and, I believe, faithfully, to the relief of my mind. He then addressed a few words on his own account to the assembly and dismissed them. We regretted the want of the native language, as we could not have the same command over the meeting as would otherwise have been the case. At Barmouth, instead of convening the people to hear the word, they had to exercise a Christian gift of a different kind--the gift of spiritual judgment. 9 _mo_. 19.--On entering Barmouth we thought of a meeting with the inhabitants; but on feeling more closely at the subject the way did not appear clear; there was something which we could neither see nor feel through. This power of spiritual discrimination is very precious. How instructive it is to mark our impressions under various circumstances and at different times! 9 _mo_. 25.--At Ruthin we obtained information respecting the few individuals at Llangollen who profess with Friends, and set off to pay them a visit. We arrived at the beautiful vale of Llangollen to dinner, and alighted at the King's Head Inn, at the foot of the bridge, which afforded us a fine view of the Dee. There are at present only four or five persons who meet regularly as Friends. They live scattered in the country, and are in the humbler walks of life; but we thought them upright-hearted Christians who had received their religious principles from conviction. We saw them on First-day morning in the room where they usually meet, and again in the evening at our inn, and were much comforted in being with them. The room where they meet is in such [an obscure situation] that we should never have found it without a guide. We thought it right to procure them a more convenient room, which we did. 27_th_.--In the evening we had a public meeting in the Independent Chapel, which was crowded; there is much openness in the minds of the people to receive the truths of the gospel. Before the assembly separated, we proposed to them to establish a school for poor children; several present their conviction of the want of such an institution, and the minister was so warm, in the cause that he proposed their commencing without delay. 28_th_.--We went to Wrexham, and had a meeting in the evening. The notice was short, but the people came punctually, and a precious time it was. After it was over several bore testimony to the good which had been extended to them that evening, and were ready to cling to the instruments, inviting us to have a meeting with them when we came again that way. This favored time, at the close of our labors among a people whom I much love, seemed like a crown on our exit from long-to-be-remembered Wales. My heart was humbled in reverent thankfulness to the Father of all our mercies, who had graciously preserved us in outward danger, and sustained us in many an inward conflict. At Coalbrookdale they bade an affectionate and gospel farewell to the Friends with whom they had been so closely united in this long journey, and returned to Burton on the 20th of the Tenth Month. In the Eleventh Month they made a circuit through Lancashire, taking all the meetings of Friends in course. They found "several meetings chiefly composed of such as had joined the Society on the ground of convincement, mostly in places where no ministering Friend resided." In visiting one of these small meetings, John Yeardley relates a circumstance in the gospel labors of his friend Joseph Wood:-- We visited a little newly-settled meeting at Thornton Marsh, near Poulton in the Fylde. Our worthy friend Joseph Wood had the first meeting of our Society that was ever held in this part. It is so thinly inhabited that the Friends wondered at his concern to request a meeting; but one was appointed for him at an inn, I think a solitary house; a good many poor people came, and it was a most remarkable time. J.W. said afterwards he believed there would be a meeting of Friends in that neighborhood, but perhaps not in his time. It has now been settled about eighteen months. This journey occupied them about two weeks, and on returning home John Yeardley makes the following animating remark:-- The retrospect of this journey in connexion with that of Wales afforded a sweet feeling of peace. We were often low and discouraged, but help was mercifully extended in the time of need. I often wish I had more faith to go forth in entire reliance on the Divine Arm of power, for truly in the Lord Jehovah is everlasting strength. On the conclusion of this engagement followed a month of quiet but industrious occupation at home. 12 _mo_. 25.--A month has been spent in the quiet, in reading, writing, and many other things in course. Leisure being afforded, I have spent a good deal of time in reading diligently and attentively the Holy Scriptures, I trust to some profit. After this seasonable pause, John and Martha Yeardley were much occupied with a projected change in their place of residence, which issued in their removal, in the spring of 1831, to Scarborough. The motive which induced them to make choice of this place, and the feelings under which the change was accomplished, are fully unfolded in the Diary. We have for some time been on the look-out for a change in our residence. Inclination would have led us to remain in our own Monthly Meeting, but a strong impression that it might be right for us to remove for some time to Scarborough, has remained with us ever since we visited that place in the Seventh Month, and has always stood in the way of our fixing elsewhere, although very often have we tried to put it from us. We were so desirous to settle at C. [near Pontefract], that only five pounds a year in the rent saved us from taking the step. It was my prayer at the time, and always has been, that we might be rightly directed, and I had a hope that if it was not right for us to go to C. something might turn up to prevent it. And since we could not agree for the house which was offered us in that place, we concluded to go for a short time to Scarborough, and try the fleece there, under the belief that we should then be enabled rightly to determine. This I hope has been the case, for we had not been many days, I may say hours, in the town, before we were fully convinced it was the place for us to settle in. Having made trial of Scarborough, they returned to Burton to arrange for their removal, which took place on the 7th of the Fifth Month. We have now seen John Yeardley for many years in the devoted exercise of his calling of a gospel minister. It is instructive to follow him, as we are able to do soon after his removal to Scarborough, into his chamber, and see how, when alone with the gracious Giver, he was wont to regard the precious gift; how he lamented that he had not used the talent more diligently; and how his mind was enlarged to see the grace and power which the Lord is ready to bestow on those who seek and trust him with their whole heart. 6 _mo_. 8.--The important duty of a gospel minister has this day been brought closely under my consideration. It is most assuredly the imperious duty of those who are called to feed the flock, to labor diligently for the good of others. With respect to myself, I feel greatly ashamed; and it has occurred to me that should I he cast on a bed of sickness, or otherwise be deprived of an opportunity of exercising this gift, it would be an awful consideration, and cause of deep regret, that I had not better improved the time. The hardness of heart in others, as well as in one's self, is difficult to penetrate; nothing but the power of divine grace can reach it, and this requires not only waiting for, but also laboring to overcome the wandering and unsettled thoughts to which the poor mind is subject. Merciful Father, give me more confidence in the gift which, thou hast bestowed on me, and favor me with a greater portion of strength to minister thy word faithfully. "Who then is that faithful and wise steward whom his Lord shall make ruler over his household, to give them their portion of meat in due season? Blessed is that servant whom his Lord when he cometh shall find so doing."--(Luke xii. 42, 43.) Tenderly mindful of the religious wants of those whom they had lately left, so early as the Seventh Month John and Martha Yeardley revisited the several congregations in Pontefract Monthly Meeting. They were both humbled and comforted in the course of this visit. We were, says J.Y., united in sympathy to many dear friends within the circle from whence we have removed, and I was strengthened to labor according to the ability received from day to day. Since this little journey, he continues, we have been pretty much at home attending the meetings in course in the neighborhood. We are comfortably settled in our new abode, which feels to us really a home as to the outward in every respect; and in a religious sense we entirely believe it is our right allotment for the present. In this new halting-place of his earthly pilgrimage, John Yeardley experienced an increase of freedom, of spirit, and of faith and joy in his Saviour. 10 _mo_. 7.--For a few days past I have felt my mind raised above the earth and fixed on heavenly things. I desire that the blessed Saviour may more and more be the medium through which I may view every object as worthy [or unworthy] the pursuit of a devoted Christian. I humbly trust this quietude of mind is in answer to prayer; for I have long supplicated for a renewal of faith, and that a little spiritual strength might he given me to rise above the slavish fear of man. My heart was almost sick with doubting; but on Fourth-day last a bright hope livingly sprang in my soul that I should yet be favored to attain to greater liberty in the exercise of my gift in the ministry, if I were faithful in accepting the portion of strength which is offered. Grant that this may be the case, dearest Saviour! 10 _mo_. 23.--My heart is filled with wonder, love and praise, in contemplating the goodness of Almighty God to his poor, unworthy creatures. When we have done all that is required of us, we are unprofitable servants; but how often we come short of doing this. And yet so gracious, so good, and so just is our Divine Master, that he suffers not the least act of obedience to lose its reward, but is continually encouraging and stimulating us to greater devotedness of heart. The persuasion which he and Martha Yeardley entertained of the need there was in the Society for increased means of scriptural instruction, led them, soon after they removed to Scarborough, to propose the establishment of a Bible class. The plan was for questions on the Scriptures, to be given in anonymously in writing by the members, and answers to be returned in the same way at the next meeting. The scheme was at that time almost, if not quite, a novelty in the Society, but it was accepted with pleasure and confidence by the Friends of Scarborough, and the meetings were maintained for many years. There is an intermission in J.Y.'s diary at this period, but he makes allusion to the class soon after its establishment in a letter to his sisters S. and R.S. Chapel House, 6 mo. 30, 1832. By way of a relaxation from haymaking this charming morning, I have been again perusing your affectionate notes, which you were so kind and thoughtful as to forward us by our dear brother and family. I felt the deprivation exceedingly of not attending the last Yearly Meeting, but quite think it may have been all for the best. But I will proceed at once to the real object of my now addressing you, which is to say we cannot be satisfied without your paying us a visit this summer. We think we have much to invite you to. I think you would feel some interest in our Bible class: it becomes increasingly instructive and agreeable to all engaged in it. I so highly approve of this mode of Scripture instruction, that I think the time is not far distant when they will become more general. We meet once every two weeks when nothing intervenes to prevent. The autumn of this year was taken up with a series of public meetings, mostly in the East Riding, in the greater part of which J. and M.Y. had the company of Isabel Casson of Hull. In the Eleventh. Month, at the same time that they returned the minute which had been granted them, for this service, they laid before their friends the prospect of more extensive travel in the work of the Gospel than any they had undertaken before. The time was come for John Yeardley to pay that debt of Christian love to the benighted inhabitants of Greece which he had felt to press for years upon his mind; and at the same time he and Martha Yeardley believed it to be required of them to revisit some of the places of their former service, and to take up their abode for a while with companies of persons whom they should find like-minded with themselves; and also to perform the unaccomplished duty of visiting the Piedmontese valleys. Considering the extent of country over which they travelled, the varied nature of their labors, and the large number of serious-minded and sympathizing persons with whom they were brought into relation, this journey may perhaps be regarded as the most active and fruitful period of their lives. We are able, as we have so often been before, to read their impressions of duty, and their feelings, their hopes, doubts, and aspirations, in J.Y.'s simple and faithful Diary. 11 _mo_. 7.--Yesterday was our Monthly Meeting at Pickering, and to me a very memorable one. We stated to our friends the prospect of a visit to some of the Grecian Islands and the Morea, the Protestant valleys of Piedmont, and some parts of Germany, Switzerland, and France. It is about five years since I first received the impression that it would be my religious duty to stand resigned to a service of the above kind. For the last nine months it has not been absent from my thoughts for many hours together. It has cost me not a little to come at resignation; but my Heavenly Father has been very gracious, and has brought me into a willingness to do his will. If I know my own heart I have one prevailing desire, and that is to devote the remainder of my days to his service; and my prayers are very fervent that he may be pleased to give me faith, patience, and perseverance to do and to suffer all that his wisdom may permit to befal me. I am often ready to covenant with him to go where he may be pleased to send, even to the ends of the world, if he will strengthen me with his strength, enlighten me with his light, guide me by his counsel, and prepare me for glory. "If thy presence go not with me, carry us not up hence." They left Scarborough in the Second Month, and spent the time which intervened before the Yearly Meeting in social visits in London and the neighborhood, in preparing for the journey and studying the modern Greek language. Nothing, says J.Y., could exceed the interest which our friends take in doing all in their power to forward our views with respect to the important mission before us.--(3 mo. 4.) A chief desideratum had been to find a Greek who should accompany them as guide into his native country. "Ever since," says M.Y., in a letter of the Twelfth Month, 1832, "we have resigned ourselves to this arduous mission, my dear husband has frequently said, 'If we are to go into Greece, how I wish we might find some companion for the journey, some _Greek_ to conduct us into his country, to us altogether strange and unknown!'" A letter from Stephen Grellet to William Allen, which was sent down to J. and M. Yeardley, was the opportune means of supplying this want. It spoke of a Greek girl then at the school at Locle, named Argyri Climi, who was exceedingly desirous of returning to Greece, and whose simple and teachable character recommended her at once to their attention. "When," continues M.Y., "we came to this part of Stephen Grellet's letter, we were both deeply moved, believing that thus the way might be prepared before us." They communicated their thoughts on this interesting subject to M.A. Calame, proposing when they visited Locle to take A. Climi as their companion into Greece. During their sojourn in London they received a letter from A. Climi, written in French, in which that amiable young person signified the pleasure and gratitude with which she accepted their proposal. Locle. 29th of April, 1833. Excuse the liberty which I take of writing to testify my great gratitude for your kind intention to take me with you and bring me back to my country. How could I have ventured to hope that I should have the happiness of being with such kind and beloved friends. I cannot express the joy I felt when Mademoiselle Calame made your proposal known to me. How great is the mercy of God! How often might he have turned away his face from me and cast me off; but instead of forsaking me he has looked upon me in mercy, and shown me that he wills not that sinners should perish, but that they should have eternal life. Was it not he who saved me from the hands of the Turks, and brought me to Switzerland, and placed me with charitable protectors, who are never weary of doing me good? And now he has crowned it all, by giving you to me as guides and protectors in my long journey, and that I may settle again in my own country. Your grateful ARGYRI CLIMI.[6] The meeting in London at which their prospect of foreign travel was ratified, was a time of spiritual favor. With such credentials, and with a sense of the divine commission and guidance, clear and unmistakable, like that which John Yeardley enjoyed, many may be ready to exclaim, Who would not go forth on an errand like this to the ends of the earth! Such may be reminded, for their consolation, that if the will is laid as an unbroken offering at the foot of the cross; if all their powers are consecrated to the Lord, and his Spirit is suffered to penetrate and transform every part of their being; though a field of labor such as that which was appointed to John and Martha Yeardley may not be appointed to them, they will, in an equal degree, inherit the blessing of doing their Lord's will, and may rest in the promise, "They that wait upon Him shall not want any good thing." 5 _mo_. 21.--Yearly Meeting of Ministers and Elders. Third-day morning. Our visit to the Grecian Islands, &c. claimed the attention of the meeting. It was a very precious time; a sweet solemnity prevailed; several Friends said afterwards, they thought they had never known quite so full an expression of unity and encouragement on any former occasion. What a favor it is to have the sympathy and concurrence of the church in such important concerns! My heart's desire and prayers are that we may be preserved humble and watchful, relying for help and strength on nothing short of our Divine Master, the holy Head of his own church. Whatever may befal us on our intended journey, I wish once more to record my firm conviction that it is the Lord's requiring, and come life, come death, I desire that my heart and soul may be given up fully to follow Him who laid down his own precious life for my sake,--a poor unworthy sinner. CHAPTER XI. THE THIRD CONTINENTAL JOURNEY, OR THE JOURNEY TO GREECE. 1833-4. PART I.--THE JOURNEY TO ANCONA. John and Martha Yeardley left London on the 21st of the Sixth Month, 1833. Travelling through France they found in the places where they halted more of simplicity and Christian life than they had expected. In Paris, especially, they were quickly brought into contact with a number of pious persons to whom their society and their doctrine were welcome, and they visited many benevolent institutions conducted on broad Christian principles. This was in the early part of Louis Philippe's reign, and under the administration of Guizot. In reading their account of these institutions, we are painfully reminded how much the rising tide of religious liberty has been checked and driven back by the bands of priestcraft and arbitrary power. Here, and elsewhere during their journey, they wrote letters to members of the Foreign Committee of the Meeting for Sufferings, descriptive of their religions labors, from which, after their return, a selection was printed for the use of Friends. Besides these letters, John Yeardley kept his usual Diary, which often enables us to add to the narrative, traits of character and reflections not to be found in their joint epistles. Amongst the first persons upon whom they called in Paris, were the Protestant bookseller Risler, and Pastor Grandpierre: the former they found to be devoted heart and soul to the diffusion of evangelical religion; the latter they had known on their former journey, and he received them as his Christian friends. He introduced them to Mademoiselle Chabot, a lady who spent her time in translating religious and useful books into French, and had a class of children in the First-day school. Respecting this lady, they say:-- Our introduction to this precious character was much to our comfort. We rejoiced together in contemplating the wonderful work which the Lord has in mercy begun, and is carrying on in this great city. On First-day afternoons she attends a school, to which the children of the rich go, as well as the poor, to be instructed in the Scriptures. The young persons in her class learn texts, and are questioned to see if they thoroughly understand the subject. On our asking whether the children answered the questions from what they had learnt by heart, she replied, "No; it would be of no use, you know, for the dear children to repeat merely by rote; we want the great truths of the gospel to sink into their hearts." After this visit, which refreshed our spirits a little, we called on Madame D'Aublay, sister-in-law to Brissot, who was executed in the time of Robespierre. She is a Roman Catholic, and thinks the groundwork of true religion to be in their church, but that their customs and the mass are nothing worth. We left her some tracts, and amongst them one of Judge Hale's, which struck her so forcibly on reading it, that she followed us to our hotel, to say how much it was suited to her state of mind. 6 _mo_. 30.--After our little meeting this morning with the few friends resident here, and some others, we went to the Protestant Chapel, in the Rue Taitbout, to hear the children examined in the Scriptures. Many of the parents were present. The class which we attended was conducted by Mademoiselle Chabot. The subject was the crucifixion of our Saviour, the 27th chapter of Matthew. The children repeated the portion they had learnt, and then Mademoiselle C. questioned them in a simple, sweet, and instructive manner, calculated to impress the great truths of Christianity on their minds. A gentleman examined a class of boys; and after this course of exercise was finished, De Pressensé gave them a lecture from the Old Testament. The subject was the healing of Naaman, and the manner of proceeding was simple; the child called upon stood up and answered pretty much as they do at Ackworth; he repeated a few verses directly bearing on the subject, and the application which was made was admirable. We were really edified in being present. How much this kind of instruction is wanted for many of our poor children in England! How delightful it is to see a large room filled with Roman Catholic children and parents, all receiving Christian instruction together! The Roman Catholics no longer object to send their children to Protestants, because they know they will be well instructed. The chapel is a beautiful room, with a circular gallery supported on pillars, and a dome top; and it is the identical place where, only two years ago, the Saint Simonians held forth their doctrines:-- ...... Oh reformation rare, The den of modern infidels is become a house of prayer! 7 _mo_. 2.--We had a long walk to the Rue St. Maur, to meet by appointment our kind friend De Pressensé to visit the schools for mutual instruction. At this season of the year the children are more busy with their parents than usual; but in winter there are 200 boys, 200 girls, and 200 children in the infant school, with an evening school for adults. Scripture extracts are made use of, and also the Scriptures themselves. We were struck with the quiet and good order of all these schools. I have seen very few in England where the same stillness is observable. With the exception of some three or four, all the children are Roman Catholics; and on First-days, particularly in winter, the room is filled with Roman Catholic men and women, mostly parents of the children, who come to hear them examined in the Scriptures and to receive instruction themselves. Our conductor showed us the boys' gardens. On the walls were grapes hanging in large bunches, belonging to the master. The boys are so far from stealing them, that if they find any on the ground, they take them to him. Of the children who attend at the school, forty-six are provided with bed, board, and clothing, at a neighboring establishment. One of the most interesting men with whom J. and M.Y. became acquainted was Pastor Audebez. He was, say they, formerly minister at Bordeaux, but received a strong impression that it was his religious duty to come to Paris. Soon after he left Bordeaux, a great awakening took place in that neighborhood under the ministry of his successor, while with himself at Paris all seemed darkness and discouragement. This induced him to think he had done wrong in removing, and he was much distressed; but as he persevered in doing what presented as his duty, his way for usefulness in this great city opened in a remarkable manner. He first opened the chapel in the Taitbout, and then one in the Faubourg du Temple, where his labors have been crowned with success. He told us with great simplicity that he never premeditated or wrote his sermons, but after reading a portion of Scripture proceeded to speak from what he felt to impress his mind at the time. He said some of the ministers considered their discourse before delivering it, and he believed their mode of preaching was also blessed. Being accustomed to arrange their thoughts in methodical order, perhaps such might not perform so well in any other way, and the people were used to it; but he preferred speaking from a more spontaneous spring of thought, though not so well arranged as to theological order. We felt much inclined to hear him for ourselves, and attended in the Rue St. Maur on First-day evening; and we have this testimony to bear,--that we heard the _gospel_ preached to the _poor_. He first read the 25th Psalm, and then part of the Epistle to the Romans, which formed the basis of his exhortation. It reminded me of [what I have read of] the preaching of the early Christians. My very heart went with his impressive exhortation to believe in the Lord Jesus as the only means of salvation, and of the necessity of bringing forth fruits unto holiness. 7 _mo_. 5.--Pastor Grandpierre came to pay us a visit with four of his missionary students. We had a precious religious opportunity with them. The Pastor expressed his belief that the power and presence of the Saviour had been evidently felt among us. The young men were much tendered; one of them was a grandson of the late Pastor Oberlin, and had been sensibly affected by what Stephen Grellet had said in a meeting at his father's place of worship in the Ban de la Roche. Three of the young men who were in the institution at our last visit to Paris are now in Africa. We admire the principle on which this establishment is conducted; the inmates are not sent out unless they believe it to be their duty to go; if this be not the case at the expiration of their term, they return home. On the 7th John Yeardley, accompanied by Joseph Grellet, brother of Stephen Grellet, visited the Sabbath-school in the Rue St. Maur. Martha Yeardley was indisposed and unable to leave the house. When the classes had finished, says J.Y., De Pressensé proposed to give a lecture on a subject from the Old Testament, and bestowed great pains to make it clear to the infant capacities of the children. I had intimated to my worthy friend a desire for liberty to express what might arise in my mind when he had done, which was most readily granted, and after I had spoken to the children, there seemed great liberty in addressing the teachers, parents and young persons present. There was much seriousness the whole time and a precious sense of divine love was over us. Our kind friend, J. Grellet, interpreted for me in an impressive and clear manner. The name of Mark Wilks has been for many years identified with the cause of evangelical religion in Paris. John Yeardley had an interview with him, and makes an interesting note in his Diary regarding his opinions on the state of religious parties at this period. 7 _mo_. 9.--This morning I had an interview with Mark Wilks. He received me very cordially, and, as I expected, I found him full of religious intelligence; he is just returned from a tour in Switzerland, and speaks encouragingly of the state of the Christian church in general. He has resided in Paris fifteen years, and of course seen many changes. He assured me that the arm of infidelity is weakening; nothing like the same exertion is made to spread the vile doctrine. The fact is, in some degree, the people are too indifferent to trouble themselves about it, and would not spend a son for its promotion; on the other hand, zealous Christians are doing all in their power to promote the spread of gospel truth. On the 15th John S. Mollet, who had arrived in Paris after them, accompanied J. and M.Y. to Madame d'Aublay's. We met, they say, several of her relations who professed to be Catholics, but were rather of the philosophical school. They were interested in the conversation, though nothing of a religious nature occurred. Madame d'Aublay has distributed many of our books and tracts. The next day she took us to see more of her friends, much of the same character. We have a hope that our drawing some of these to the really Christian characters may do good, since each class expressed surprise to hear us speak to them of the other. It will be no small satisfaction if any of our Society here should be like the mortar to bind parties together, and weaken prejudice, that the one true knowledge may increase. 21_st_--Attended the chapel at the Taitbout this morning. Heard a discourse by Pastor Grandpierre; he preaches the gospel in its purity, with much of the right unction. We did not feel out of our place in being present, and I trust it may have its use both on ourselves and others. This kind of Christian liberty seems to open our way among the people. In the evening we had quite a large meeting in our room; several of the attenders at the Taitbout coming in, together with the Friends in Paris. It was, adds John Yeardley, a precious tendering time, and I trust strength was given to preach the gospel; the sick and afflicted were not forgotten by my M. Y. In supplication. By "the sick" in the foregoing passage was probably intended Rachel, wife of Dr. Waterhouse of Liverpool, and daughter of David and Abigail Dockray. This young Friend, who was ill in the neighborhood of Paris, was about to be removed to England, but at the very time when the carriage was at the door she was struck with paralysis. This happened two days before the meeting just described, and J. and M.Y. had hastened to offer their sympathy and aid to her afflicted husband and mother. They deferred their departure from Paris in order to remain with the family, and they both took turns in assisting to watch, by the bed-side of the sufferer. She survived only a few days, and expired, in the hope and peace of the gospel, the day after they quitted the city. We may conclude the narrative of this interesting visit to Paris with a short reflection by Martha Yeardley. I have been renewedly confirmed since being in Paris that our first religious awakening proceeds from the immediate influence of the Spirit on the heart of man, and this is the doctrine preached and maintained by the writings of the truly devoted Christians in this place, who are brought to profess living faith in our Lord Jesus Christ as the Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End. They found the country on the road to Nancy very agreeable. 29_th, evening_.--The white houses among the trees, and the vines on the hill-sides, form a picturesque landscape. The reapers were busy in the harvest fields; and the ground that is cleared of its burdens gives proof of the diligence of the French farmer; the plougher, if not the sower, literally overtakes the reaper. In the forepart of the route we saw much wood and water, hill and dale, with cattle feeding in the peaceful pastures, which is a lovely sight. As we advanced towards Chalons, it became less interesting, more flat, with fewer trees and meadows. Everywhere the harvest more forward than in England, but the crops much more light and thin. They entered Nancy under a feeling of gloom, and it was some time before they could find relief to their minds; but by patiently pursuing the paths of intercourse which opened before them, they were enabled to deposit with some serious individuals their accustomed testimony to the simple spiritual nature of the gospel. In allusion to this trial of their patience John Yeardley remarks:-- I cannot, I dare not, complain, when I think of the difficulties some of our Friends had to encounter who travelled on the Continent years ago, when darkness prevailed to a much greater extent. The want of the language, &c., which some of them experienced, must have been very trying. It is to me an unspeakable comfort to be able to understand the language of the country where we travel. Travelling by the Diligence being too rapid for Martha Yeardley's state of health, they hired a carriage and horses to take them to Strasburg, and found this mode of travelling less expensive, as well as much less fatiguing, than the public conveyance. 8 _mo_. 5.--Left Nancy at 6 o'clock in the morning, and had a delightful journey. I feel particularly peaceful in spirit, and a degree of resignation pervades my heart to be given fully up to do the will of my Heavenly Father. Our mode of travelling afforded us an opportunity of calling at Phalsbourg, where we found a handful of Protestants, about twenty-six families, mostly German settlers. On inquiring for the minister, we found he was engaged with his class at the college. His wife appeared surprised at seeing such strangers, thinking from our dress and our speaking French, we were no doubt Roman Catholics. We soon perceived the family were Germans, and I then addressed them in their native tongue, which immediately, opened the way to their hearts. Nothing would satisfy the good woman but that we must call at the college to see her husband. He was embarrassed on being so suddenly called out of the class, and appeared a little fearful; but when he understood who we were, and our mission, he became almost overjoyed to see us. There has been a little awakening in this place, and a desire to obtain the Scriptures. One of them said, "I have been accustomed to smoke tobacco, but have now left it off, and I will put the money into the box to save for a Bible." Another said, "I have been accustomed to take snuff, but I will now save the money for a Bible." And another said, "I have drunk more wine than I need; I will take less, and subscribe for a Bible." This little account in such a dark place was quite cheering; for they are surrounded and oppressed by the Roman Catholics, in whose presence they are afraid to speak. On entering Alsace, the view of the country was enchanting. We dined at Sarrebourg, which appeared at a distance like a town in the midst of a wood. At Strasburg they were received in an ingenuous manner by some enlightened Roman Catholics, who did all in their power to forward their object; but it was not until they fell in with the Protestant Professor Cuvier, that they found the proper channel for the work of the gospel. In few places did they find brighter tokens of inward spiritual religion. 8 _mo_. 6.--Called on Professor Cuvier and delivered the letter which Mark Wilks had kindly given us. We found the professor an humble-minded Christian, kind and affectionate. He conducted us to Pastor Majors, who was born in Prussia, and speaks German and French well. We soon became united to him in spirit. He is one of the _inward_ school, and a diligent laborer in the Lord's vineyard. He has been here about three months as pastor of a little handful of Christians. He is fully sensible of the necessity of a right preparation of heart before acceptable worship can be performed. He said when the people came to their place of worship they were full of the world, and the word preached did not profit, because it did not sink into their hearts. I believe he fully comprehends the nature of true silence; and he is acquainted with many _interior_ persons whom we wish to see in Switzerland, &c. This dear man was nine months in Corfu, preparing to be a missionary there; but he was taken ill, and suffered much in body and mind. The way in which he mentioned the wonderful dealings of the Lord with him was to me very instructive. He told me he had not been sufficiently careful to seek divine counsel before he undertook the mission; and it had pleased the Almighty to bring him into the deeps, and instruct him in the school of affliction; and he can now most fully acknowledge there is no safety but under the guidance of the Holy Spirit. He and a few others have united for the purpose of printing and circulating small tracts, purely Scripture extracts. They are now engaged in forming a selection for every day in the year, from the Old and New Testament. I accord much with their work; it is just what I have thought of for a long time. Pastor Majors conducted us to Professor Ehrmann, a worthy Christian, simple-hearted and spiritually-minded. His two daughters are precious young women; the older of them recollected to have seen us at Kornthal, in 1827. She knew us instantly, and appeared overcome with joy and surprise, though we could not recollect her. It is no wonder we should have felt so much attraction to this place, though on entering the town I was, as usual, extremely discouraged, and I feel unworthy to be employed in the least service of my holy Redeemer. On the 7th they dined at the La Combes, a Catholic family, who took them to see the House of Correction, where John Yeardley interrogated the boys in the prison school, and afterwards addressed them. In the evening they were present at Pastor Majors' Bible-class. It is composed, says J.Y., of ten young men, who meet once a week at his lodging, and he instructs them in the Scriptures. I rejoiced to meet with them. Before the conclusion we had a religious opportunity, in which I was strengthened to express what was on my mind. The pastor offered a prayer in which our hearts truly united. The Saviour's love was very precious to our souls, and I trust we were edified together in the Lord. 8_th_.--The Pastor Majors called for us to pay a few visits. He is so spiritual and _interior_ in his walk with God that it does me good to be in his company. Passing along the street, he said, We will just speak to a man who has been in England; he will be pleased to see you. He was alone in his meal and flour shop, which is apart from the house. He received us heartily; and on our coming away he pressed us to go up and speak to his daughters. After hesitating a few moments we went to the room and to our surprise found a little company of young females met to work for the missionaries, and to read. After sitting a while with them, one of the girls in much simplicity handed the Bible to our friend, and he read a chapter in the First Epistle of Peter, which was followed by a Friends' meeting with these dear young persons. I felt great openness in addressing them, and thankfulness filled my heart to the Father of mercies for having given us this casual opportunity of preaching the gospel. In the evening we went to meeting with Pastor M.'s flock. He has taken the first floor of a good house, and appropriates three rooms opening one into another for a meeting-house, placing his pulpit, which is on wheels, in the doorway, so that when the meeting hour is over he can put the pulpit aside and make the rooms his dwelling. The rooms are fitted with long benches; the men and women sit separate and enter by different doors. The worship is conducted with much solemnity; they have for the present discontinued singing. They sat in silence some time at the commencement, when Majors offered a short prayer, and then read and expounded a small portion of Scripture. When he had finished he introduced us as English friends. He had told me previously that if I felt anything to say, I had only to intimate it to him. This liberty was acceptable to me, for I had felt much exercise of mind for the people; and after we had rested some time in silence, I was strengthened to speak with great freedom, and the power of the Most High was over us. Many thirsty souls were present, who, I believe, know the value of true silence. The two rooms for the women were crowded, and the stillness which pervaded was remarkable. A military man addressed me after the meeting, in English, expressing his great satisfaction and joy in being present; he is a regular attendant at this place of worship. The pastor said he was comforted and thankful that the Spirit of the Lord had been with us, and divided his word to the state of the people. On the 9th, Professor Krafft and Pastor Majors conducted them to the Agricultural School for destitute children at Neuhoff, four miles from the city. This well-known institution was founded by a man who had been taken as a child out of the streets, and whose wife had been brought up in an orphan-house. John Yeardley says:-- The arrangement of the farm-yard, &c., and the cropping of the land are pretty much the same as at Beuggen, near Basle, and what is now practised at Lindfield; and it is just what we want Rawden to be--at least what I should like to see it. Before leaving the premises, we had the children assembled in the schoolroom, and held a meeting with them, with which we were well satisfied. There is a sweet spirit of inward piety in the master and mistress. On First-day, the 11th, they attended Pastor Majors' meeting in the morning, and in the afternoon appointed a meeting of their own in the same place, at which some hundreds were present. It was a precious tendering season; much openness was felt in preaching the word, and I trust many hearts were reached by the power of the Holy Spirit. At 7 o'clock we held our usual meeting in the room at the inn, to which came many of our friends; and I trust we were again favored with the presence of the Divine Master. To conclude the evening, we went to Professor Ehrmann's, where we partook of tea, fruit, wine, &c. It felt to us a true feast of love. This has been a day of much exercise; but best help has been near in the time of need, and I feel sweet peace. There is a great awakening in this place; thirty of the young women are preciously visited. In accompanying them home, some of them expressed to me that it had been a blessed and happy day, they hoped never to be forgotten. These dear lambs are near to us in gospel love, and I am glad they have such a minister in Pastor M.: he stands quite alone, not being connected with any other Society. In reading of days spent like that which has just been described, we see in a striking manner what was the nature of that work of the ministry for which John Yeardley was prepared at Barnsley and Bentham by so many deep baptisms and sharp trials of his faith and obedience. The stage on which he was called to act was not the most public; the part which he had to perform was unobtrusive; but when the value of strengthening the weak, comforting the afflicted, and, above all, skilfully dividing the word of truth in the anointed ministry of the gospel, comes rightly to be estimated, it cannot be said but that the fruit was in some sort commensurate with the power of the call and the extent of the preparation. The next day and the succeeding were occupied by John and Martha Yeardley in an excursion to the Ban de la Roche, of which the former gives the following account in his Diary. 12_th_.--In company with Majors, we set off at 6 o'clock to the Ban de la Roche. We had a most delightful drive by the side of the river, flowing along the fertile meadows: the hills on each side variegated with trees of almost every color, and occasional vineyards added to the richness of the scene. After travelling twelve leagues, we arrived at Foudai, where we met with an affectionate and hearty welcome from the whole family of the Legrands. The two families live together in one house, with their lovely children. We took tea with them, and then proceeded up Steinthal to Waldbach, to the house of the late pious Oberlin. Pastor Raucher's wife and daughter were out when we arrived; but we spent a little time with the dear old Louise, who is lively in spirit, us to be near her. The pastor's wife and daughter came home in the evening, and received us with open arms. We spent the night there, and they accompanied us the next morning to the Legrands' to breakfast, about a league in distance. After we had breakfasted, we requested a chapter might be read, and then had a precious meeting with them. We were so knit together in spirit, that we could hardly separate from one another. They accompanied us, on leaving, all the way up the hill, when we again took an affectionate farewell. The conversation of our dear friend Majors has been to me truly instructive, and I trust our being thus thrown together is in divine wisdom. We have gone very fully into the nature, of our church discipline, and have had much spiritual conversation to the refreshment of our souls. We arrived at Strasburg about 7 o'clock, and I attended the class of his young men, which afforded me once more an opportunity to speak to them of the things that belong to their eternal peace. Their religious service in Strasburg finished with a visit to the family of Professor Ehrmann, in which Martha Yeardley ministered to the company, and they commended one another in solemn supplication to the safe keeping of Israel's Shepherd. Both the German and French languages are spoken in Strasburg. In their religious communications to those who spoke German, J. and M.Y. sometimes availed themselves of the interpretation of Pastor Majors, who they found was never at a loss, and who said, "It is no difficulty for me to interpret for you, because you say the very things that are in my heart." From Strasburg they went on to Colmar and Mülhausen. The latter place, particularly interested them, from the number of persons recently awakened there, and they held several meetings in the town. John Yeardley says:-- In the whole district of Alsace there is a great deal of spiritual religion among the different professors; but in some of the ministers there is great deadness, or else infidelity. The next halting-place on their route was Basle. This city, and the little canton of which it is the capital, were then in a state of civil war. The great political eruption of 1830, by which half Europe had been convulsed, continued to agitate Switzerland long after it had spent its force elsewhere. On the 3rd of the month, a little more than two weeks before the date at which we are arrived, a large body of the citizens, under arms, went out to reduce the peasants to subjection: the latter gave them battle amongst the hills and entirely defeated them, killing 200 of their number. The ferment was gradually subsiding when J. and M.Y. were in the city. They found the town pretty quiet, though full of soldiers. A general sentiment seemed to prevail amongst serious persons, that the judgments of the Lord were upon the country. Poor Switzerland, exclaims J.Y., what an awful judgment is come upon thee! Is it to be wondered at? within the last six months they have persecuted and banished twenty ministers from the Canton of Basle, simply because they preached the gospel, and the unbelieving inhabitants could not bear it. They visited the Mission-House, and held a large meeting there with the students and others; Pastor Majors, who was present, from Strasburg, interpreting for them. "It was," says J.Y., "a season long to be remembered." From Basle, they took the Diligence direct to Locle, where they spent two days with M.A. Calame's large and interesting family. They were introduced to Argyri Climi, whom they describe as a girl of "pensive character and genteel manners." On the 26th they descended the slope of the Jura to Neufchâtel. About 5 o'clock, says John Yeardley, we came in sight of the snow-capped Alps. I saw them for some time through the trees, but the sun shone so bright that I did not for a moment imagine they were any other than clouds; but coming out from the wood I soon discovered my mistake; and a most majestic, sublime sight, indeed it is. At Neufchâtel they took a lodging a little way out of the town, by the lake, and remained there a month, receiving and making calls and holding meetings for worship at the houses of their friends, as Professor Pétavel's, ---- Châtelain's, and in their own rooms. At the close of a day spent in this manner J.Y. says:-- I feel this evening a degree of sweet peace, and a strong desire to become more united to my Saviour, who died that we might live. When the mind is fixed on eternity, how little do all other things appear! Lord, redeem me from the world, and grant me power to live for thee alone!--(9 _mo_. 1.) His observations on another similar occasion mark the religious state of the deeply interesting company in this place, amongst whom they went about in the liberty of the gospel. 9 _mo_. 24.--In the afternoon had a long walk with our dear friend Pétavel's family, quite to the top of the mountains, from which we had the most delightful view possible. In the evening we took tea with them; and, a few others coming in, we had a religious opportunity before parting. It is extraordinary how great is the desire to hear the word in its simplicity; they love the simplicity of the gospel, but probably are not prepared, as yet, to hold silent meetings alone. They all say it is remarkable we should be sent among them in this time of war in the land with the message of peace. The little meeting which had been begun by Auguste Borel had been discontinued in consequence of his removal into the country. He visited them, and they found him alive in the truth and full of affection as before. Amongst a number of new acquaintances, one of the most interesting was a Polish Countess. She lodged near them, with her husband and child, and sent to desire the liberty of calling on them. Martha Yeardley had often longed to become acquainted with her; and she, as she told them afterwards, had felt so strongly inclined towards them when she met them on the promenade that she could not rest without seeking their acquaintance. At the time fixed, say J. and M.Y., the Countess came alone, her husband being unwell, and asked a few questions respecting our views in travelling. She is a Roman Catholic by profession, but has been brought up in great ignorance of her religion, and quite in the gaiety of the world. She deeply lamented the state of her unhappy country, to which a fatality seemed to attach, and spoke of her own particular trials, having lost four of her children. Whilst we were endeavoring to make her sensible of the mercies which are often hid under the most painful dispensations, an English missionary, who had been engaged in preaching to many of the Polish refugees in the country, came in with Professor Pétavel. They became much interested for the Countess, and in reply to some of her questions, the missionary explained the truths of the gospel in a clear and satisfactory way. We rejoiced in the unexpected meeting; several others came in, and it proved a memorable visit. When again alone with the Countess she continued her history, opening her heart to M.Y. with the greatest confidence. In former years, she said, she had been drawn to seek the Lord, but for awhile affliction seemed to harden her heart, and she lost the religious impressions she had received; but now she felt again a desire to become acquainted with her Saviour, for she was miserable and felt the need of such a refuge. 22_nd_.--In the afternoon the Count and Countess paid us a visit. He is a man of strong mind, weary of the disappointing pleasures of the world, and happily turned to seek comfort in the substantial truths of religion. The Countess was delighted to find that we were of the same Society as William Penn, whose name her father much revered. They desired permission to attend our meeting; and a little before the hour we called on them, and they accompanied us to Professor Pétavel's, where we had a room quite filled and a good meeting. At the conclusion M.Y. made some apology to the Countess for the imperfect manner in which the communication was made; but she replied, "It comes from the heart, and it goes to the heart." After the meeting none seemed disposed to move, and the Countess commenced asking questions directing to passages of the Scriptures, apparently desirous to confirm the practices of the Romish Church, but sincerely seeking to have the conviction of her own heart confirmed that they were errors. It is not easy to describe the interest which this scene presented. An accomplished Roman Catholic lady proposing questions of the deepest moment, and the learned but pious and humble Professor Pétavel answering them with the Bible in his hand, while a roomful of attentive hearers were, we trust, reaping deep instruction. Argyri joined them on the 27th at Neufchatel,[7] and they left that city the same day for Geneva. Here they tarried nearly a fortnight, were received with much affection by their old friends, and had a few religious meetings. Martha Yeardley says:-- We met with several very interesting persons at Geneva, and had three religious opportunities with them; at the last meeting the number was much increased, but the place is not like Neufchâtel. The different societies make bonds for themselves and for one another, so that love and harmony do not sufficiently prevail amongst them. Our stay in this place, writes John Yeardley, has been a time of distress of mind and perplexity of thought, arising probably from the great weight and importance of the journey before us, and the anxiety of providing a conveyance through a strange and dark country. After much difficulty, we have concluded a written contract with an Italian _voiturier_ to take us to Ancona. May our Divine Keeper, in his infinite mercy, grant us protection and safety, even in the hands of ungodly men! The journey to Ancona took them seventeen days; they crossed the Alps by the Simplon, and traversed Italy through Milan and Bologna. Martha Yeardley touches upon a few points of the journey in a letter to Elizabeth Dudley. Ancona, 11 mo. 4. We had much to do before we could meet with a suitable conveyance, and at length trusted ourselves with our Italian coachman, who could not speak French. For a certain sum he was to give us three places in his coach, and provide us with food and lodging by the way. The other passenger inside was an Englishman, who spoke very little French and no Italian, and another Englishman outside was in the same situation. We could not but feel ourselves a very helpless company when arriving at the inns, which were quite of an inferior class, and little or no French spoken. We did pretty well, however, till we got to Milan, where we rested some days; and our Englishmen were exchanged for an Italian priest who spoke no French, and a Swiss who was a little useful to us as far as Bologna; after this place we travelled five days alone. The inns on this side of Milan are much worse, and from the detention of our passports in the towns we passed through, we were often prevented from reaching the place of destination, and obliged to lodge at villages, where we suffered much in the way of food and lodging; yet through all we were favored to bear the journey much better than I expected. My J.Y. was rather poorly for two days, and I was extremely anxious about him; but the sight of the Gulf of Venice seemed to help to restore him. At Sinigaglia, a town eighteen miles from this, they told us that we should just meet the vessel which was to sail on the 30th. Judge then what was our disappointment when, on arriving at the inn here, we found that it was gone. This disappointment was a severe trial of their patience; but they consoled themselves with reflecting that "good in some shape might arise out of the seeming evil." Ancona, says John Yeardley, is beautifully situated on the side of a high hill, in appearance at a distance a perfect model of Scarborough. There are in the place a good many Greeks, one of whom Argyri recognised as we inquired at his shop the way to the Post-office. On returning she made herself known to him, and he shows us every attention; he is a fine looking man, with a countenance as strong as brass. We are comfortably lodged, with a delightful view of the harbor, but our hearts are in Corfu. Our young companion, adds M.Y., is amiable and very quick, but not of much use to us respecting her native tongue, which she retains but very imperfectly, and is not at all fond of speaking it. The houses are high, and many of the streets narrow and offensive, for want of cleanliness and from an immense population; such numbers are continually in the streets, that there is no quiet or good air in the town. The darkness is extreme, and the dissipation apparently very great; the oppression of our spirits at some periods is almost insupportable; and yet I am at times very sensible of the calming influence of divine love, with a sense that, having acted to the best of our judgment, we must resign ourselves to wait for the return of the steam-packet from England. When on arriving here we found there were no letters, and that probably they were sent to Corfu, my heart sank within me. We have, however, been since cheered by receiving a very kind letter from dear Robert Forster; nothing could have been more in season than this token of remembrance. Finding no suitable vessel for Corfu, with the assistance of their Greek friend they hired a lodging, and gave their time to the study of Italian and the Modern Greek. Religions labor was hardly to be thought of; the government of the town and every public office was under the direction of the Roman Catholic priests, of whom there were more than 400. However, they were enabled to hold improving intercourse with some individuals, mostly Greeks; "for whom," says Martha Yeardley, "we felt much interest, and some, I believe, became attached to us; we gave them a few books." Before commencing with their visit to the Ionian Islands, it will be interesting to glance at the circle of Friends whom they had left in England. From the letters which have been preserved, we select the following extract: the first is from the pen of one who may be described as sound in heart and understanding, of extensive knowledge and large Christian charity. Scarborough, 10 mo. 16, 1833. MY DEAR FRIENDS. Accept my grateful acknowledgments, and through me those of all your friends in this neighborhood, for the copies which I have received of your interesting journals. It is indeed a cause of rejoicing to us that you have been so favored in meeting with so many pious persons with, whom you could hold Christian fellowship, and among whom there is strong reason for believing your labors have not been in vain. It is to me very gratifying that you feel and exercise so much Christian freedom in mingling among persons of various denominations, whom, though owing to education and to various circumstances, they may differ considerably in opinion on subjects of minor importance, yet conscious of one common disease--that of sin, and looking for or experiencing the only remedy--reconciliation with God through one Saviour,--you can salute as brethren and sisters in the truth, and feel your spirits refreshed whilst you enjoy the privilege of refreshing theirs; and like Aquila and Priscilla, with Apollos, are made the instruments, I trust, of "expounding unto them the way of God more perfectly." My dear mother thinks that the persons you meet with must be more spiritually-minded than Christians in this country. They have, perhaps, from external circumstances, experienced deeper baptisms, and have made greater sacrifices, than many amongst us have been called upon to make; and we know that ease and outward prosperity have not been favorable to the interests of the true Church: but, without doubt, they are exposed to similar dangers to those in this land whose minds have been awakened to the importance of religious truth. After speaking of a journey which he had made with Samuel Tuke and Joseph Priestman for re-arranging some of the Monthly Meetings in the West Riding, the writer continues:-- On the journey I received intelligence of the decease of Hannah Whitaker; the account produced a strong sensation in the minds of Friends generally, who felt much for our dear afflicted friend Robert Whitaker, and for the loss which the institution at Ackworth has sustained. I have had a note from R.W., written evidently under very desponding feelings; yet he knows where alone consolation is to be sought, and I still cherish the hope that his valuable services will not be lost to the establishment in which they have been so long blessed. We intend to meet as a Bible class on Second-day evening: our number will be small, but I hope we shall persevere. Your house and garden look much as usual; but I scarcely like to look at them, since I cannot go to spend such pleasant evenings as I used to do there. However, I believe you are in the way of your duty, and I know it would he wrong in me to repine at the loss of your company. I trust you do not forget our poor little company in your approaches to the throne of grace. You are, I believe, the subjects of many prayers: O that the parties who offer them were more worthy! Your affectionate friend, JOHN ROWNTREE. This letter was endorsed by one from J.R.'s mother (the Elizabeth Rowntree whom the reader may remember as the hostess of J. and M. Yeardley on their first visit to Scarborough,) from which we extract a few lines. The accounts I have received have often helped to cheer my drooping mind, to hear how many you have met with in various places, who could sit down with you in worshipping the Father in spirit and in truth. I have thought of the privileges many of us have had, yet I think many you have met with may make us ashamed of ourselves; and the desire of my heart has often been that we may be more deepened. John Rowntree's letter contained the information that Richard Cockin, of Doncaster, a Friend universally known and respected in the Society, had been physically disabled by a stroke of paralysis. R. C. himself wrote at the same time to John and Martha Yeardley, describing his affliction, which he received with childlike resignation as a message of love from a Father's hand. I have, he says, no expectation of getting again to meeting, and it does not appear probable I shall be able again to get down stairs. With respect to the state of my mind, it was an occasion of grateful admiration to me that such & poor unworthy creature as I felt myself to be, should be so favored as to have my will entirely subjected, as to become resignedly willing either to live or die; and, for a time, the prospect of not continuing long appeared to be most probable. I, however, felt no reliance upon anything that I had done or could do; my dependence was entirely upon the unmerited mercy of God through Jesus Christ. CHAPTER XII. THE THIRD CONTINENTAL JOURNEY. 1833-4. PART II.--GREECE On the 21st of the Eleventh Month John and Martha Yeardley left Ancona, and had a safe but suffering voyage of two days to Corfu, the capital of the island of that name. The atmosphere in this place, writes J.Y., soon after they landed, is different from Ancona in every respect. It has to us a feeling of home, and our minds are clothed with peace and, I trust, gratitude to the Father of mercies. What we may find to do is yet a secret to us, but He who has brought us here will in his own time open the way before us. Isaac Lowndes of the London Missionary Society received us with much affection and kindness, and his wife and daughter are very desirous to promote our comfort. They took us to see a furnished house in the town, a part of which will suit us remarkably well. We think it a providential thing to have such comfortable quarters to come to. Some extracts from the Diary and the Journal letters will show in what kind of service they were engaged during their three months' residence in this island. 11 _mo_. 24.--I went with J. L. to the First-day school in the village about a mile from the town. A delightful morning, and a delightful sight to see about sixty fine Greek children reading the New Testament in the modern language. Their countenances are lovely and interesting, and their anxiety to hear and answer questions is great; their aptitude in comprehending the subjects offered to them exceeds all I have hitherto seen in any class of children of similar standing. The little group was composed of nearly all girls, clean and neatly dressed in the costume of the country. 27_th_.--To-day we received a long visit from Lord Nugent, President of the Ionian Government, who had heard of our arrival on the island, and was anxious to see us. He is very kind and extremely open with respect to his plans for the improvement of the jail, and for cottage cultivation. He desired me to go and see some unoccupied land without the gate. 28_th_.--According to appointment we went to the palace, and were received by Lady Nugent with marked simplicity and kindness. We were introduced to Lord L. and other persons of influence, took tea, and spent a most agreeable evening, and I hope a profitable; for all our conversation was on the subject of bettering the condition of the poor and destitute children. 12 _mo_. 3.--This morning we received a visit from a roomful of Greeks. We are desirous to cultivate the acquaintance of the Greeks as the object of our visit of gospel love. Yesterday we were visited by several of the military officers and their wives, who will I hope co-operate with our plans of benevolence. Lord Nugent's taking us by the hand opens the way to all others of rank and standing. 11_th_,--This morning we had a visit from Dapaldas, Greek professor of theology in the university. He is a pleasing and enlightened man, and speaks French well, which gave us the opportunity of conversing with him pretty freely. I feel to love him much. He is one of the laborers in translating the Old Testament. 13_th_.--To-day we have received letters from England. Many of our beloved friends have been called from this state of being to another world. How much my heart feels humbled; how unworthy I am of the least of the mercies daily received at the hand of a bountiful Creator. Since we have been here I have been favored with a strong conviction that we are here in the ordering of Divine Providence. What may in time open before us in the way of gospel labor I know not. It requires time, caution, and much perseverance, to find a way to the hearts and best feelings of the Greeks. I greatly desire that we may be found in humble watchfulness and prayer; and that, if found worthy to be the feeble instruments of declaring the way of salvation to the natives of these islands, we may embrace every opportunity to preach repentance towards God and faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, for this is the great object for which we have left our native land and all that is dear to us in this world. 26_th_.--Argyri left us and is gone to Syra. She was very sorrowful, and the parting to us all was painful. Although reserved and timid, she has become extremely attached to us, and we trust the three months we have passed together will not soon be forgotten. Her company has often been sweet and cheering, and in our little meetings for worship her heart has not unfrequently been tendered with religious feeling. She is desirous of being useful in schools, and of making a stand against the many superstitions which prevail, influencing others by her example, and through the aid of divine grace leading them to that vital religion in which she was instructed at Locle, and which is now a strength and comfort to her own mind. 1834. 1 _mo_. 6.--To-day we received a visit from the young Count Francois Sardina. We had much conversation with him on the subject of the intercession of saints. He could not admit that they practiced the adoration of saints, they only meant to hold them up as examples of piety and virtue, and to induce others to follow them. We pointed out to him the importance of taking Him for our example who spake as never man spake, and has left us an example that we should follow his steps. This young man is very inquisitive and inclined to be sceptical, but under all has serious impressions. Many of the Greeks who are not entirely built up in their superstitions are inclined to doubt respecting the truths of Christianity. We were glad to put into his hand J. J. Gurney's _Evidences_. 23_rd_.--This evening we had another long visit from the Count. We entered very fully into Church discipline, and left few points of faith and doctrine untouched, either in his Church or ours. I do not remember ever to have been more closely questioned; but I think this young person sincere in his inquiries. I believe it is a precious time of visitation to his soul; he is very amiable and affectionate, and acknowledges the evils and vanity of the world. 27_th_.--This evening we have had a long conversation with Pathanes, our teacher in the language, and a deacon in the Greek Church. He is much attached to the rites of his own Church, but acknowledges the necessity of regeneration. They have a fatal error in the ceremony of baptism, positively asserting that when the child (or individual) has received this, he is really born again, and a fit heir of salvation. Such is the efficacy which they attach to this ceremony, that their creed sets forth, in the most unqualified manner, that whoever receives not the form cannot enter the kingdom. We could not forbear lifting up our testimony against the injurious effects of such a creed. 28_th_.--We have had a ride to-day with I. Lowndes and family across the island, sixteen miles, to the sea on the other side. Our road led us through a perfect wood of olive-trees, thickly planted and loaded with fruit. The hills are often variegated with the cypress, &c., and near to the sea are beautifully romantic. We dined at the fortress of Paleocastazza, on the top of a high hill, on provisions we took with us,--the air good, and the prospect delightful. This place was formerly a convent; the church still remains in use, and we visited two of the old Greek priests. One of them is ninety-five years old; he was lying on a dirty hard couch in a miserable apartment; the other performs the liturgy. I. L. gave him the book of Genesis, which he could read but very indifferently. He was besides extremely cross, full of complaints of the soldiers who were stationed there. What a proof that to those who are in the gall of bitterness there is no peace, even in such a remote place. 2 _mo_. 1.--Another long and pleasant visit from Count Sardina. He is mild and condescending, but close in argument His mind appears gradually to become impressed with the truths of the gospel; and I trust the notions he has received from sceptical writers are giving way to a hope of salvation through Christ Jesus our Lord. Fearful of doing anything to make the members of his own Church his enemies, he comes to us by night,--not for fear of the Jews, but for fear of the Greeks. 9_th_.--How often our hearts are ready to sink within us in the midst of this dark and superstitious people. We have now been here nearly three months, and have not had one opportunity of publicly preaching the gospel. The power of prejudice in favor of their own superstitious rites, and the overwhelming influence of moral evil, seem entirely to close our way in this line. We have had much conversation with our friend, Isaac Lowndes, who has resided on this island thirteen years, on the subject of publicly preaching the gospel to the people; and he says that such is their attachment to the ceremonies of their own church that they cannot be prevailed upon to attend the ministry of any other denomination. I. Lowndes is a character with whom we feel much Christian unity, and his family is like a little lamp shining in the midst of gross darkness. This darkness, adds Martha Yeardley, is increased by the dissipation of the greater part of the English. The military have great influence here, and their practices tend greatly to demoralize the unhappy people. We have just heard that they have obtained leave of the Senate to hold a ball in the new school-rooms, and to break down the partition-wall between them for this purpose, which will prevent the school from being opened for another month. On the 23rd John Yeardley continues:-- To-day my drooping spirit has been refreshed by six precious letters from England, expressing the interest of our dear friends in our mission; but oh, how my heart is humbled in the sense of how little we do. During our stay here I have been closely engaged in translating Judson's Questions on Scripture. The correction is nearly finished, and we propose having a number printed for the school. Ignorance of the language was a perpetual hindrance in their way. Although they devoted a very large portion of time to acquiring it, the difficulty was almost insurmountable. They learned to read and translate; but to converse in Greek was for a long time almost entirely beyond their power. Although to preach and teach the gospel was the primary object of John and Martha Yeardley's errand, the temporal improvement of their fellow-men was by no means foreign to their mission; and we have often seen that plans for the promotion of industry and self-support were to the former objects of peculiar interest. During their residence at Corfu no small portion of his time was occupied with the establishment of a model farm, which seems to have been a joint scheme on his part and that of the administration. A grant of land was obtained from the Senate, and the prisoners, with some of the poor, were set to work to cultivate it. Some of the landowners watched the progress of the experiment, with the intention, if it should be successful, of introducing the plan upon their estates. We may conclude this account of their residence in Corfu with some general remarks on the religious character and condition of the inhabitants. We trust, say they, our sojourn in Corfu may not have been in vain: if we may only be permitted to prepare the way for the further enlargement of the Saviour's kingdom on the earth, we may well be content. Preparing the way it may truly be called, for there is a great deal to be done among a people just emerging from barbarism, and bringing with them all the fixed habits of ignorance and superstition, before a door can be opened for the direct preaching of the gospel. Their mode of reasoning is strong and wily, and they ask questions which can only be answered in private conversation and by Scripture proof. A great means of affording help must be by educating the rising generation and by the diffusion of Scriptural knowledge. Many of the priest are extremely ignorant, and some of them have only learned by _rote_ the service of their own church in the ancient Greek; their knowledge, therefore, cannot be founded on their own search for Scriptural truth, seeing they have not had the opportunity of examining for themselves. In some instances when we have presented to them the New Testament in the modern language, they have said, with a look of anxious gratitude, This is what we want; we priests teach in the churches what we do not ourselves understand. On the 26th of the Second Month they crossed the sea to Santa Maura, having a delightful passage of eight hours. Captain McPhail, the governor, a friend of William Allen's, met them himself with a boat, and conducted them to his house. He showed them every attention during their short sojourn, and introduced them to those persons whom they desired to see. They made an interesting call on the bishop;-- A nice old man, who was many years priest in a village in the mountains, and, what is a wonder, he has been promoted on account of his virtuous life. He was a good example in his own village, and a great promoter of schools. The old man is candid enough to confess that he was happier among his rustic peasants than he is now in more refined society. We gave him the book of Genesis in Modern Greek; and it was highly gratifying to us to see the surprise and pleasure of his countenance on being presented with an account of the Creation and works of the Almighty in his native tongue. We thought the opportunity favorable for proposing the Scriptures to be read by the clergy in the modern instead of the ancient language. He made no objection, and appeared to see the great utility which might arise from it. Something has been said about the semi-barbarism of the Greeks. What our friends learned respecting crime and violence, whilst in this island, places the manners of the people in a very strong light. Nothing can show more strongly the demoralized state of these islands than the frightful acts of cruelty done to the cattle out of pure revenge. One shudders to think of the skinning of beasts alive, cutting off the ears of asses, breaking the legs of horses; yet of these sorts of cruelty not less than 500 acts have been committed in the last four years, and the offenders have escaped being brought to conviction! This dark picture is happily relieved by some traits of moral beauty. The narrative of a ride into the mountains of Santa Maura, which J.Y. made under the escort of the governor, proves to how great a degree virtuous and gentle manners grew and flourished in the remoter parts of this island. 3 _mo_. 1.--This morning we set out for a ride about nine miles up the mountains to a village called Carià, which contains about 1200 inhabitants, and in the surrounding hamlets there are about the same number. About half-past 9 o'clock we started; Captain McPhail and myself on his two sure-footed horses, and another English gentleman on a fine mule. After we had left the newly-made road, we pursued a track perfectly unequalled in any part where I have travelled; rugged precipices, shelving rocks, and large loose stones, which assailed the feet of the poor beasts every step they took. However, for my part, I was well rewarded; it gave me an opportunity not only of seeing the interior of the island, but also a specimen of the disposition of the natives. Before we reached the village, I observed, with some surprise, a tribe of people assembled on the top of the cliffs to see us come in, and on ascending a few more paces of rock, we found the children of the boys' school arranged like a little army, with myrtle branches in their hands to welcome us to their sequestered hamlet. After greeting us with great respect, they followed us to the country-house of our English friend. The mountain multitude waited with patience until we had made our repast, when a few of the leading villagers were introduced to our room. And what was their request? A school for their daughters. They were asked what they would give towards its support. They answered, Whatever we can afford; we that are able will pay for the poor, and they shall go free. It was then intimated to them, that their friends would assist them in establishing a school; but that they themselves must join in the effort, and that it would be well to consult together, and put down their names and the number of children they would send. Here the town-crier came forward, and said he had for the last twenty years cried everything the government wished to be made known in the town, free of cost, and he would now go round and cry for the benefit of the school. Next came forward the father of the young woman proposed for the mistress, who it was proposed should be further instructed in the village, and then sent to the town to learn the system. We asked them if they were sensible of the advantages of a school for girls, of having them brought up to be good wives, capable of managing their households, and able to read the precious things in the New Testament. One of them replied, Without instruction what are we?--we are like the beasts. One peasant had been so anxious for his daughter to learn to read, that he had made interest to send her to the boys' school. When we asked why he did so, he said, Because I had no other means, and I wished to have her read the New Testament to us; now I have the advantage of hearing that precious book read to me by my own daughter. It was delightful to witness a feeling like this in a people so uncultivated; surely the friends of education in Greece have encouragement to go on and prosper. After this pleasing interview we proceeded to the boys' school, followed by as many as could get into the room. When the boys had read, I desired that questions might be put to them on what they had been reading, but soon found that this important mode of instruction was neglected; the master promised to introduce the questions which we are having printed, if we would send him the books. On returning to our quarters, we found among the crowd who were still present, the three priests, come, I suppose, to pay their respects to the governor. We were glad of an opportunity of conversing with them. On asking their opinion as to a school, one of them said, in Greek, It is good, blessed and honorable. I could not let this favorable opportunity pass without impressing on them, through McPhail, the advantage of reading the Scriptures to the people in the modern tongue which they could understand, telling them that the book of Genesis was already printed in Modern Greek. They could hardly believe me, and on my showing them a new copy of this and of the Psalms, their eyes sparkled with pleasure. Our friend the governor read aloud a portion of Genesis, and one of the priests a little out of the Psalms. The long-robed, patriarchal looking man said, Ah, this is what we want! We priests read in the churches what we don't understand ourselves, and how can we explain it to others. They modestly asked if they might have the books for a while; and when we said they were given to them, there was a little jealousy who should have them; this we removed by saying that more should be sent. Many of the kind-hearted people accompanied us to the precipice, and ran before to clear the way; and, through divine mercy, we reached the dwelling of our kind host in safety; not without a steeping of mountain rain. When the good Bishop of Santa Maura heard the result of our interview with the peasants, he sent one of his most influential priests with a subscription book for his people to put down their names towards a fund for the schools, thus promptly giving his sanction to general education. 3 _mo_. 2.--First-day. After breakfast we read a chapter and held our meeting with Captain McPhail and his wife, and felt a little comfort in holding up the standard of religious worship. Something was given us to utter, both in testimony and supplication. The next evening we dined with the governor. It was a state dinner, given to the judges and persons of rank in the town; about twenty of us sat down; the repast was splendid and the dishes innumerable. At the head of the table was Captain McPhail in full uniform; on his right our hostess in a rich Greek dress; on his left a young lady in the full Italian style; my M.Y. and myself were not the least singular in appearance. All was done in good order, and a sweet feeling prevailed. 4_th_.--We are like prisoners at large, not being able to leave the island till the steamer returns. Captain McPhail has kindly proposed our paying a visit to the continent to see a little colony of the natives who live in wigwams. These people like many others suffered greatly from the Turks, and took refuge in Santa Maura, which has excited in them a feeling of gratitude for the protection of their English neighbors. About 9 o'clock we started in the Captain's boat, a family party, not leaving even the baby at home. We had a pleasant sail of less than an hour, and found seven ponies waiting for us at the landing-place. The ponies were brought into the sea, and we mounted the pack-saddles; some of our company being carried from the boat on men's backs. Thus arranged we set out, one by one, along the narrow goat-paths, accompanied by our retinue, some going before, and some following with the baggage. We winded our way among bushes of myrtle and mastic till we reached the willow-city. It consists of about sixty perfect wigwams of one room each, with no other light but what is admitted by the doorway, four feet high, with here and there a glimpse that makes its way through the wattles. The people having received notice of our visit had made a general-holiday, and were all assembled, with lively good-humor in their countenances, to greet our arrival. This in the first year that they have been left to enjoy their lands in peace since the destruction by the Turks of their little town, which stood at about half an hour's distance. Some of them possess property in land and cattle, and all live on the produce of their own farms, and produce their own clothing. These simple-hearted people show their good sense by avoiding all lawsuits, so common among the Greeks. They choose one upright old man, with two assistants, to govern them, to whose judgment they submit, and the greatest punishment is to be shut up for two or three days in a solitary room in the convent. The wigwam where we alighted was soon filled with visitors. We were served with coffee by our hostess,--an interesting woman, with much expression of mildness in her countenance. After conversing awhile with the villagers, and satisfying their curiosity as well as we could, I thought it a suitable time to bring about the primary object of our visit, and inquired who among them could read. A young man came forward who had been educated in the school at Santa Maura; we gave him a New Testament, and he read the greater part of a chapter in the Gospels. Those who were in the room listened with surprise and attention, and many without looked eagerly in at the doorway to hear what was going on. This was probably the first time they had heard the gospel in their own language. We gave them a few copies of the New Testament and some tracts, for which they hardly knew how to express their gratitude; and we requested the reader to continue the practice he had commenced. When this scene of interest was over we took a turn round the other huts. They are situated on the side of the hill, among myrtles, and command a delightful view of the valley. We passed by the common oven, and on looking in saw our dinner preparing. The table was spread in the hospitable wigwam which we first entered, a clean white tablecloth and napkins on a large board, with cushions around on boxes for chairs. The repast consisted of a whole lamb, well roasted, and two sorts of Yorkshire-pudding, one of which was particularly good. This patriarchal repast being finished, we again went forth, and visited the convent of Plijâ, distant from the wigwams about ten minutes' walk. Many of our new friends accompanied us, the judge with great solidity of manner leading the way. We passed a beautiful fountain at the head of the glen, and entered the monastic edifice, which is built of stone. The abbot, a fine old man, met us at the door with a pleasant countenance. He invited us into his cell; we had to stoop very low to save our heads, and the door-case was rubbed bright on all sides by the friction of this solitary inmate passing in and out. The hermitage consists of one room with a bed in the corner, screened by a slight partition; a lattice-window admitted a peep into the rich and lovely vale below, and the pure air of the mountain was not obstructed by glass. I had often heard of the Eastern custom of sitting cross-legged, but never till now experienced it in reality. We were desired to sit on cushions spread on the floor for our reception, and were served with the finest walnuts and honey I ever tasted; and while we partook of this hermit-like repast, there was a precious feeling of good, and I believe we had the secret prayers of the good abbot, as he had ours. When we presented him with the New Testament, Genesis, and the Psalms, he kissed the books and pressed them to his bosom, expressing his gratitude for the treasure. Our next visit was to the habitation of the judge, which is of the same description as the rest, where we were served again with coffee. What pleased us was the sweet feeling of quiet which prevailed, of which I think some of them were sensible; one woman, our first hostess, put her hand to her heart and said very sweetly, "I love you." They would not let us depart without showing us their ancient custom of taking hold of hands and dancing round, singing meanwhile a sort of chant. Many of them came with us to the water's edge, and prayers were raised in our hearts for their good, and thanksgiving to our Divine Master for the comfort and satisfaction of the day. 3 _mo_ 8.--Under the hospitable roof of Captain McPhail we have felt much at home. His wife said our coming had been a blessing to her; she is near to us in gospel love. The captain accompanied us in his boat to the steamer. From Santa Maura they proceeded to Argostoli, the chief town of Cephalonia. We arrived about five o'clock in the morning. The entrance to the town for a considerable distance is like a perfect lake: the white houses along the side of the harbor, and the craggy hill with the olives growing out of the rocks, had a pretty appearance at the break of day. Our young Greek interpreter, Giovanni Basilik, was with us. We had to call up the inhabitants of the only inn in the place before we could get shelter. At first the host refused to receive our little company, but after some explanation he consented to arrange the desolate-looking rooms into habitable order. They visited the schools and the prison, and they received from the Resident, H.G. Tennyson, and the schoolmaster and mistress, a friendly reception; but the islanders are generally careless of instruction, and progress of all kinds is slow. From Cephalonia they traversed the sea to the beautiful island of Zante. Though they had ten men to row, the passage occupied thirteen hours. Contrary wind, writes John Yeardley, compelled us to approach the island slowly, which gave us an opportunity of viewing the villages and scattered houses at the foot of the mountain. The town of Zante is very long; the main street has piazzas on each side for a considerable distance. In many of the windows (I suppose a Turkish custom) there are something like cages, through which the women peep without being seen, under the pretence of modesty; but it is horrid to hear of the wickedness committed in-doors. However, I am glad to find the custom is dying away, and that the young women are now permitted to walk in public more than they were a few years ago. This island is by far the finest we have visited; it is very fertile and well cultivated, and supplies England with currants; but, like their neighbors, the people have the character of being immoral, treacherous, and revengeful. It is sorrowful to think that, under the system of picture-worship, there is scarcely a sin of which the poor Greek is not guilty to an enormous extent. With God all things are possible--he can change the hard heart of man by the power of his Divine Spirit; but, morally speaking, it must be some great convulsion that can work a real change in the nation. W.O. Croggon has labored here more than seven years, and knows not of one conversion among the rich Greeks--not one attends the service for worship. He is the Methodist missionary here, and is called the friend of every man: he has been a real friend to us. The Governor and his wife have paid us marked attention. The former took us to see the prison, which is well conducted, and the prisoners are classed. We suggested the benefit likely to result from the prisoners being employed, and Major Longley [the Governor] intends to introduce basket-making. We have, in addition to the public schools, visited several private ones, and are pleased to find so many children receiving education: this is really the chief source of hope for improving the morals of the Greeks, and dispersing the gross darkness which surrounds this people, whose long servitude and sufferings under very hard masters have almost driven them back to barbarism. 17_th_.--There was a shock of earthquake, more violent than has been felt for some years in this place. Our room shook almost like a ship at sea; the walls, beds, tables, and glasses were all in motion, and the sensation, while it lasted, was that of sea-sickness. The noise may be compared to the rolling of a carriage with many horses coming at full speed, and suddenly stopping at the dwelling. (See _Eastern Customs_, p. 78.) Having thus explored the four principal islands of the Ionian Archipeligo. John and Martha Yeardley turned their course towards the Morea. 30_th_.--At 6 o'clock in the morning we put ourselves once more at the mercy of the waves of the Mediterranean, and had a quick passage of fourteen hours. The landing at Patras was frightful; a sudden squall threw us off the shore, and caused us to lose part of the rudder, so that we were obliged to get into a very small boat, which threatened to upset every moment. We were, however, favored to land in safety on a projecting rock: it was nearly dark, and the whole had a terrific appearance. The plains near Patras, once beautifully planted with currants, olives and vines, are now perfectly desolate. The castle was in possession, of the Turks eight years, who made continual sallies from it for provision and firewood; while, in order to disappoint them, the Greeks themselves assisted in the destruction of all vegetation; so that there is scarcely any green thing to be seen. The old town is a scene of ruins; the site of the new town is near the sea, where temporary shops and houses have been erected. It was difficult to find a shelter for the night; but a kind fellow-traveller assisted us, and at length we were pressed into a miserable dirty room, with only a board for a bedstead. At Patras we had abundance of consultation, whether to undertake the journey to Corinth and Athens by land, or to encounter the gulf. We concluded to venture on the latter, and contracted with the captain of a little boat to depart at five the next morning. He deceived us by not sailing at the time proposed; but we made an agreement with other sailors to go off in the evening, hoping to get to Corinth the next morning: but, after tossing all night, we found in the morning the ship had only made twenty miles; and about mid-day the captain declared he could not get to Corinth, and must put into a small port on the opposite side of the gulf, called Galaxidi, and wait for better weather. We were so exhausted as to feel thankful in the prospect of being once more on land. Nothing can be more comfortless than these small Greek vessels; in the cabin you can neither stand nor lie at full length. After some difficulty in getting on shore, we were led to the khan, a very large room with a fire in one corner for boiling water, and a wine store; and round the side were benches which served for sitting by day, and on which the traveller spreads his mattress for the night, if he has one; if not, he must go without. We were desired to mount a ladder to a loft like a corn-floor, badly tiled in, and divided into four parts by boards about five feet high. The one division of this place assigned to us had no door, and when the windows were shut, which were of wood, there was no light what shone through the tiling or was admitted between the boards. The place was soon furnished, for the boy brought us a mat and spread it on the floor, which was all we had a right to expect; but as we seemed to be visitors who could pay pretty well, they brought also a rough wooden table and three wooden stools. 2_nd_.--Galaxidi is in ruins, presenting only mud cottages and temporary wooden houses; ships also are in building. 4_th_.--This morning we walked among the huts of the town, and found an old man keeping school near the ruins of his own school-room, which had been destroyed by the Turks. It happened to be his dinner-time, and he was seated cross-legged on a stone, with a footstool before him, enjoying a few olives and a morsel of bread. Around him stood his ragged pupils, reading from leaves torn out of old books, some of which were so worn and dirty that the poor boys could scarcely discover what they had once contained. The weather was by no means warm, yet we could not wonder at his choosing the open air for the place of instruction, when we saw his dwelling, which was a mud hut not quite nine feet square, with no opening for light but through the doorway. In this hovel he taught his forty scholars when the inclemency of the weather did not permit their being out of doors. The grey-headed father was surprised that his humble company had attracted the notice of strangers; but, seeing the interest we manifested in his calling, he inquired for a New Testament, which we gladly furnished, with the addition of some tracts to such of the children as could read them. This sight was gratifying to us as showing a disposition to teach and to learn, even under the most disadvantageous circumstances. Our quarters at the khan became more uncomfortable; the people were so uncivil they would hardly give us cold water without grumbling. The second night we witnessed one of the most dreadful storms we ever remember to have seen. Violent gusts of wind shook our desolate abode, while the rain poured down in torrents and found entrance in various parts of our apartment. They intended, as we have seen, to go to Athens by way of Corinth, and when they were disappointed of sailing to that city, and thrown upon the opposite shore of the gulf, they still seem to have supposed it impossible to reach the capital by any other route. 5_th_.--Being, says John Yeardley, on the contrary side of the gulf, and thus deprived of helping ourselves by means of horses, we gave up all hope of reaching Athens, and thought we must of necessity return to Patras. We therefore inquired for a vessel to take us thither; but never shall I forget my feelings of horror while trying to contract with a man for a boat. I said in my heart, O that I might be permitted to try the fleece once more in turning our faces towards Athens. The man was exorbitant in his demands, and it was too late to reach Patras without risking the night on the sea. To stay where we were was next to impossible without serious injury, especially to my dear Martha. Strong indeed was our united prayer for direction and help in this time of distress, and ever-blessed be the name of our adorable Lord who heard and answered our prayer. Out of the depths of distress a little light sprung up, and we thought if we could take a boat and cross over to Scala, a little port on the opposite side of the creek, we might then take mules to [Castri the ancient] Delphi, and if not able to proceed further on our way, the change we hoped would be use to M.Y. We did make the effort, and were favored to get to Scala, where we found only a few scattered mud houses; but on landing, there was a change of feeling immediately experienced. We were rescued from ship-builders and sailors, the vilest of the vile, and placed among a simple country people. The master of the custom-house, to whom we had a few lines of recommendation, invited us to his house and gave us coffee. He provided us with four mules; three for the interpreter and ourselves, and the fourth for the baggage. It was about eight miles, or two and a half hours' ride, to Delphi; and no sooner had we begun to feel the mountain air than my dear M. began to revive. We had to climb precipices where nothing but mules could have carried us. At the foot of the mountain we came in company with two camels, which was a new sight to us. The situation of Delphi is the most beautiful that eyes can behold: mountains of rock, such as we never before saw, and in the back ground the far-famed Parnassus, covered with snow. The village consists of about one hundred cottages, some of them built in the rock. We were conducted to one of the best of these rustic dwellings, and met with a very friendly reception from the inmates. The house consisted of two rooms, and we were offered the use of one of them; they furnished us with mattresses laid upon a sort of dresser, where we slept much better than for many previous nights; even the hen and her thirteen chickens under our bed did not disturb us. The novelty of the visiters soon brought in several of the neighbors, who did not leave us, even while we took our tea. As there was a good feeling, we thought it well to improve the opportunity, and inquired who could read. The master of the house, a sensible man, said there were only about twenty in the village who know anything of letters, but that he could both read and write, for his father was a priest. After tea we produced a New Testament and the book of Genesis, and our interpreter read aloud the first two chapters of Genesis. Our host had never seen the Scriptures in his own language, and we think we never beheld a countenance more full of delight and intelligence than his was during the reading. After a short explanation of what had been read, and a word of exhortation, we thought to close; but the company were so pleased with hearing the account of the creation and fall of man [from the sacred record itself], that they requested us to read more. I desired them to ask any questions on the subject they might wish; and the first which our host put was, What kind of tree it was, the fruit of which Adam was forbidden to eat? We answered that it was translated in our language _apple_. He said they thought it was a _fig_. We told them it might be a fig, or it might be an apple; but that the object of the Almighty was to try Adam's obedience. They at once agreed to this; and the master of the house wisely observed, Jesus Christ came to restore to us what was lost by Adam's transgression. He then said, It would have been better if Adam, after his transgression, instead of hiding himself, had confessed his sin to God, and begged his forgiveness. We all agreed that it was a natural act for man, in his fallen state, to wish to seek excuse, rather than to confess his sin and repent. We then made some remarks on the prophecy of the Saviour in the third chapter of Genesis, and ability was given us to preach the Gospel of life and salvation. All hearts seemed touched, and our own overflowed with gratitude. We may in truth say, Our Heavenly Father has plucked our feet out of a horrible pit and out of the miry clay, and set them upon a rock, and put a new song into our mouth, even praise to his glorious name. On considering afterwards our situation, we could not but behold the hand of a gracious Providence which had led us to this spot; had we attempted to go by Corinth to Athens, we should [as they afterwards learned] have been stopped by the waters, and have missed seeing this interesting people; but from hence the way was passable, and only four days' journey by land. After dinner we walked through the village up to the rock. We came to a fountain where several women were washing; one of them, a young-looking person, suddenly left her companions, and with hasty step and entreating air advanced towards us, as we supposed to ask something; but she bowed her head almost to the ground, and then kissed our hands; after which she withdrew in a cheerful and diffident manner. The reason of this salutation was, that the young woman had lately been married, and it was customary for the last bride of the village to kiss the hands of strangers. The temple of Apollo once occupied nearly half an acre of ground: a great many of its marble pillars are still to be seen, half buried by the plough, and corn growing over them. About a hundred yards from this temple is the cave in the rock from whence the priestess pronounced the oracle. Among the curiosities of this wonderful place, the tombs in the rocks are not the least remarkable. They are built of the most beautiful white marble; the entrance is by a large archway, and round the circle are several recesses in the stone, one above another, where the dead had evidently been deposited. They illustrate the history of the maniac dwelling among the tombs (Mark v. 3.), for these caves formed a perfect sort of house in which persons might dwell. 8_th_.--We were not able to leave Delphi on account of the high wind with some rain. In the evening we again enjoyed our Scripture reading on the hearth. We continued the book of Genesis, and our host inquired whether those who died before the birth of the Saviour were lost. He was informed they were saved through faith in the promise. He had supposed they went into hell, and that when Christ came he released them. We asked him if Enoch, who walked with God and was translated, could have been sent to hell. Of this he knew nothing, never having read the Scriptures. 9_th_.--This morning we procured four mules and four men, and proceeded on our pilgrimage towards Livadia, thirty-three miles from Delphi. Our kind host recommended us to the special care of one of the muleteers, who put his hand to his heart, and feelingly accepted the trust. We were most of the day winding round Parnassus, whose height above us was tremendous. The road was frightful; over rocks, waters, and swampy ground; we could hardly have believed it possible to pass through the places where our mules penetrated. The muleteer performed his trust faithfully, rendering us all the assistance in his power. On parting we presented him with some tracts; he could read, and was much gratified with the gift. At Livadia we were badly lodged, in a smoky room, and suffered much from extreme fatigue; but we found ourselves with an interesting family, to whom we read the Scriptures, seated with them on the floor; and we could not but feel grateful to our Divine Master, for leading us among those who were thirsting to receive the Holy Scriptures in a language they could understand. 10_th_.--We travelled on horses through a comparatively flat country, despoiled of all its verdure by the ruthless hand of war. The evening was wet; we reached the once celebrated Thebes in the dark, and were glad to take shelter in a smoky room, in the first house that could receive us. The situation is fine, but the present town occupies only the part which was the fortress of ancient Thebes. 11_th_.--This day we had much mountain country to pass through. Every tree we could see was either partly burnt or partly cut away. Towards the end of our day's travel we went through an immense wood, difficult of passage, on leaving which the Gulf of Aegina appeared in view. We rested for the night at a little settlement of Albanians near the coast. We obtained shelter in the cottage of an old woman, who seemed a little startled at the appearance of strangers, whose language she could not understand. Concluding, however, that we had the common wants of nature, and having no bread to offer us, she quickly prepared a little meal, made a cake, and baked it on the hearth under the ashes. We made signs to be furnished with a vessel in which we might prepare a little chocolate, our frequent repast under such circumstances; and, at length, a very rough homely-looking pitcher was produced; but the greater difficulty was to find something in which to boil the milk and water. After waiting till their own soup had been prepared, we obtained the use of the saucepan. These difficulties overcome, we enjoyed our meal; and offered some to a Greek woman who had walked beside our mules for the sake of company, on her dreary journey to Athens; but she refused, with thanks, saying, I am not sick; for the Greeks seldom take beverage of this sort, except when they are indisposed. As the inmates of this homely cottage, as well as the neighbors, who usually come in to see travellers of our uncommon appearance, did not understand Greek, we were deprived of the opportunity of reading the Holy Scriptures to them, or of conversing with them on the subject of religion. All that we could do was to prepare for rest, of which we stood in great need, having had a very fatiguing ride through the woods to this place. The room in which we had taken shelter was also to be our sleeping-place, in common with the old woman and her family and the Greek traveller; in another part of the room were also a sheep and several other animals. We swept as clean as we could a space in the neighborhood of the quiet sheep, and spread what bedding we had upon the mud floor, surrounding it with our baggage, except our carpet-bags, which served us for pillows; and after commending ourselves and the household to the protecting care of the great Shepherd of Israel, we obtained some refreshing repose. (See _Eastern Customs_, pp. 17-19.) 12_th_.--We started with tired bones. After a pleasant ride of four hours the Acropolis of Athens burst upon our view. The city is beautifully situated in a plain bounded by mountains, and near to a rich grove of olive-trees, which has been spared amid the ravages of war. I felt, says John Yeardley, low and contemplative; many and various thoughts crowded into my heart. Every foot we set in Greece, we Bee desolation. I can scarcely believe that I am in the place where the great Apostle of the Gentiles desired to know nothing but Christ crucified; and in sight of Mars Hill, from which the same apostle preached to the Athenians the true God. We reached the only inn in the town, much worn by fatigue and bad accommodation, yet very grateful for having been preserved from any serious accident during our perilous journey, and under a precious sense that it was in right ordering we persevered in coming to this place. We introduced ourselves to the American missionaries, Hill and King, and met with a hearty reception. The schools under their care are the most gratifying sight we have seen. J. Hill and his wife have nearly 500 children on their list. We were much pleased with the arrangements of the schools: the classification is the best I have ever seen, and the children exhibit intelligence and thirst for instruction. The effect of Scriptural instruction on the minds of the Greek children is very gratifying. A young girl whom the directors had taken into the school as an assistant teacher, entered the family with a mind fortified in the superstitions taught in her own church, observing scrupulously the feast and fast-days, the making the sign of the cross before eating, and the kissing of pictures. The mistress wisely avoided interfering with what the girl considered to be her religious duties; but after she had attended the Scriptural reading and the family worship for a short time, the light of divine truth broke in upon her heart; and as she embraced the substance of the religion of Jesus Christ, her attachment to the superstitious forms became gradually weakened, until at length she left them altogether. The mistress one day said to her, I observe you do not keep the fast-days, nor cross yourself before eating, nor kiss the pictures. No, replied the child, I am convinced that making the outward sign of the cross cannot purify the heart from sin; and as to meat and drink, I read in the Scriptures, that it is not that which goeth into the mouth that defiles the man. 15_th_.--Visited the schools under the direction of Jonas King, of the Boston mission. He has an academy for young men, and a school for mutual instruction, containing together 150. I think the mode of Scripture lessons particularly efficient. The instruction given in the schools at Athens seems more complete than in any we have visited during the journey. J.K. has service in modern Greek three times on First-days, at which some of the young men attend, along with other Greeks, but not many. During our stay in this city we visited many Greek families, and distributed among them religious tracts and portions of the Holy Scriptures, and exhorted them to the observance of their religious duties, often calling their attention to those points in which their own practices are at variance with the doctrine of Holy Scripture. The ancient ruins are exceedingly grand, and raise mingled feelings in the heart not easily described, but tending to humble the pride of human greatness. We saw the Temple of Theseus, the prison of Socrates, the famous Temple of Minerva; but the spot that most nearly interested us was Mars Hill, whose rocky mount was in view from lodgings, where we sat and conversed together of the Apostle Paul preaching the true God; and in the sweet stillness which covered our spirits, earnestly desired that the pure Gospel might again be freely preached and received throughout this interesting but desolated country. There are not more than sixty really good houses built in the town; but, including great and small, there may be 1500 dwellings. It is settled that Athens shall be the seat of the Greek government; and the young king, Otho, laid the foundation-stone of the new palace in his last visit to this place. 18_th_.--Being anxious to get to Patras in time to sail by an English packet to Corfu, we set off for the port. J. Hill met us, to see us embark in a boat for Kalimichi. The Greek sailors have a superstition against sailing at any time but in the night; but after being deceived by one captain, we prevailed, on another to set sail [in the daytime], in the full hope of reaching Kalimichi the same evening. A favorable gale wafted us on for some time, but a slight storm coming on, the cowardly captain ran us into a creek, and kept us tossing all the night in his open boat. About eight o'clock the next morning we were favored to reach Kalimichi in safety, where we procured mules and reached Corinth to dinner. Here there are only a few houses standing in the midst of ruins. We took up our abode at the only inn, from the windows of which we looked upon the busy scene of a fair. Our hearts were not enlarged, as the great Apostle's was; for our spirits were clothed with mourning in contemplating the darkness of the place. Many persons to whom we spoke could not read; and on offering a Testament to the man of the inn he refused to receive it. We pursued our travels, and at mid-day met with a trying detention from the muleteer having neglected to obtain a permission. We were at length suffered to proceed, but arrived late at a miserable khan, where we passed the night in a loft. This poor place could only furnish two mules and a donkey, with a man to attend them; but we were encouraged to hope we should find four horses about two hours further on; but here we were disappointed, and could get no horses to proceed. We felt truly destitute, and took refuge in a loft from the scorching rays of the sun. We had very little food with us, and saw no probability of quitting our desolate abode till the next day at any rate. Thus situated we were endeavoring to be reconciled to our allotment, when most unexpectedly, about two o'clock, we espied a small fishing-boat sailing towards Patras, and immediately ran down to the shore, a considerable distance, to make signals to the boat-man, and inquire whether he would convey us to Vostizza, a place within a day's journey of Patras. We directly procured a mule to convey our baggage to the shore, and descended by a very rough path to a creek where the boat lay to. Here we were again detained by the guard making great difficulty in allowing the boatman to take passengers without a permit, which could only be obtained in the town, so strict and perplexing are the regulations for travellers under the new government. However, after detaining us an hour and causing us to lose most of the fair wind, he suffered the man to take us. We sailed along pretty well for a time, when the wind suddenly changed, and the boatman told us we could not get to Vostizza that night, but added they would put us on shore where we should be within an hour's walk of it, and that we could readily find a mule to carry our baggage. This we gladly accepted, and were soon landed and on our way. Although sick and weary on board, we seemed to receive new strength for our walk, and arrived at Vostizza at about eight o'clock. Here our accommodation for the night was much like our former lodging; for this large town has also been, burned by the enemy, and presents a scene of ruins. We engaged horses for the next day to convey us to Patras, and were a little cheered with the prospect of being near that place of attraction. The man of the house where we lodged could not read, but informed us there was a school in the town of fifty boys. We saw a person in the next shop writing, and offered him a Testament, which he very gratefully received, and sent for the schoolmaster, who seemed much pleased with our offer to send him books and lessons. We also gave books to several we met with, who began eagerly to read them aloud, and soon obtained hearers, so that it became a highly interesting scene: boys who received tracts from us showed them to others, and numbers crowded about us, even to the lust moment of our stay. If we had had a thousand books we could have disposed of them. What a difference between this place and poor Corinth! Our trying journey through Greece has given us an opportunity of judging of the state of things, and I hope will enable us to relieve some of their wants. It is cause of humble thankfulness to the Father of mercies that he has preserved us in the midst of many dangers, and brought us in safety so far back on our way with hearts filled with love and praise. They arrived at Patras on the 22nd, but found that the English steamer had sailed two days before. They employed the interval before the sailing of another packet in establishing a girls' school, which was commenced soon after their departure. At Corfu they received information of the opening of the school, conveyed in a letter from the sister of the English consul in the following encouraging terms:-- I am sure you will be gratified to hear that the school which was established by your benevolent exertions has been opened under the most favorable auspices. The first day we had twenty-two girls; we have now forty-eight. Nothing can exceed the eagerness shown by the children to be admitted, and their parents seem equally anxious to send them; with very few exceptions they come clean, and on the whole are attentive and well behaved. Of the forty-eight there are only nine who can read. The little Corfuot you recommended is first monitor, and of great use. They reached Corfu on the 12th of the Fifth Month, and were kindly accommodated at the office of the Commissary Ramsay. Immediately on our arrival at Corfu, our young friend the Count Sardina renewed his visits. We saw him almost daily; our conversations were often truly spiritual; he opened his heart to us, and we rejoiced to believe that he had attained to a degree of living faith in his Redeemer. It will be recollected that their inability to collect the inhabitants in a meeting for worship was a source of discouragement to John and Martha Yeardley in their former visit to Corfu. Now, on revisiting this island, they had the satisfaction of holding two meetings for worship with Isaac Lowndes' congregation. 6 _mo._ 1.--Isaac Lowndes had now obtained leave to hold his meeting for worship in the large school-room, and I felt at liberty to propose having an opportunity to address the congregation. This he gladly accepted, and gave notice of our intention. It was pretty well attended, but not full; a good feeling prevailed. 15_th_.--We had another meeting with the little company who meet in the school-room. The room was better filled than on the former occasion: it was a precious season of divine favor; utterance was given to preach the word, and I trust there were some into whose hearts it found entrance. A few days before we left the island, I.L. took us to visit the Jewish Rabbi, who, though full of argument, appears extremely dark and bewildered, dwelling on mysterious words whose interpretation is confined to the rabbinical office. He said they looked for a temporal king, who should give a temporal kingdom to Israel. It was a truly painful visit, and we left him with the desire that he might be instructed even out of his own law, which, if properly understood, would prove as a schoolmaster to bring him to Christ. After spending about five weeks at Corfu on this second visit, they again crossed the Adriatic to Ancona. CHAPTER XIII. THE THIRD CONTINENTAL JOURNEY. 1833-4. PART III.--THE RETURN FROM GREECE. Of the numerous letters which John and Martha Yeardley received from England during this long journey, very few have been preserved. We shall extract short passages from two which came to their hands not long before they left the Islands. The first is from John Rowntree, and is dated the 13th of the First Month, 1834. On my own account, and on behalf of the Friends of our Monthly Meeting, I feel grateful for the information respecting your proceedings. There is some difficulty in satisfying the eager anxiety of my friends to know all that is to be known about your engagements, and I may truly say that the kind interest which you feel about us is reciprocal. Often do I picture you to myself, laboring in your Master's cause, receiving as fellow-partakers of the same grace all whose hearts have been touched with a sense of his love, who are hoping to experience salvation through Him alone. Our reading meetings are pretty well attended this winter. We have been reading James Backhouse's journal: he was still engaged, when he sent the last account of his proceedings, in Van Diemen's Land. Like you, he and his companion rejoice at meeting with those to whom, although not exactly agreeing with us in some respects, they can give the right hand of fellowship as laborers under the same Master. Like you, too, they devote considerable attention to the improvement of schools, and the improvement of the temporal condition of the poorer classes among whom they labor. In a letter from William Allen, written the 31st of the Third Month, occur the following words of encouragement:-- I have heard, through letters to your relations and others, that you have been much discouraged at not finding a more ready entrance for your gospel message; but really, considering the darkness; the sensuality, and the superstition of the people in those parts, we must not calculate upon much in the beginning. If here and there one or two are awakened and enlightened, they may be like seed sown, and in the Divine Hand become instruments for the gathering of others. Should you be made the means of accomplishing this, in only a very few instances, it will be worth all your trials and sufferings. And again, you must consider that, in the performance of your duty, seed may be sown even _unknown by you_, which may take root, and grow, and bring forth fruit to the praise of the Great Husbandman, though you may never hear of it. Be encouraged therefore, dear friends, to go on from day to day in simple reliance on your Divine Master, without undue anxiety for consequences; for depend upon it, when he has no more work for you to do, he will make you sensible of a release. The passage to Ancona was tedious. We embarked at noon, and had a long passage to Ancona of twelve days. We landed on the 29th, and soon found ourselves occupying an empty room in the Lazaretto, without even the accommodation of a shelf or closet. The term of quarantine is fourteen days, but four days are remitted by the Pope. The heat is oppressive, and the mosquitoes annoy us much, but we are preserved in a tolerable degree of health; and in taking a review of our visit to Greece and the Ionian Islands, we are still sensible of a very peaceful feeling, under a belief that we have followed the pointings of the Great Master, and a hope that the day is not far distant when the way will be more fully opened in those countries to receive the gospel. The preaching of John in the wilderness has often appeared to us to be applicable to this people,--Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand. 7 _mo._ 6.--We left Ancona, and took the route through Foligno and Arezzo to Florence. That part of the Pope's dominions through which we have passed is highly picturesque; hill and dale continually, and the whole country cultivated absolutely like a garden. Most of the towns are on the hills, and nothing can exceed the beauty of their situation. But as to vital religion, the spirit of those who desire the promotion of the Redeemer's kingdom, on the broad and sound basis of common Christianity, must be clothed with mourning in passing through this superstitious and illiberal country. What we have seen of Tuscany is not so fine, but the appearance of the peasants is much superior. The inns are much more agreeable than we found them on the road from Geneva to Ancona. We arrived at Florence on the 10th. The persons to whom we had recommendations were absent, on account of the heat of the season, except the Abbot Valiani, a spiritually-minded man, who showed us great kindness. He has refused many advantageous offers of promotion, choosing to be content with a little, rather than to be hampered with fetters which I believe he thinks unscriptural, and not for the good of the Church; he is of the opinion that it would be better for the common people to have the Bible, and to be more acquainted with its contents. He conducted us to see the School for Mutual Instruction, founded under the patronage of the Grand Duke, about twelve years ago. The school-room is very large, airy, and well lighted; it was formerly a convent. The system of education differs a little from that practiced in England; but the children, about 240 in number, are apparently under an efficient course of instruction and discipline. The younger boys have a string put round the neck, which confines them to the place during the lesson, but I observed it did not confine their attention. We were much pleased with the countenance and manners of the director, the Abbot Luigi Brocciolini; his heart appears to be in his work, which is by no means easy. We left Florence early on the 13th, and had four days' hard travelling to Genoa. From Sestri to Genoa, a day's journey, is by the sea, and under the mountains, some of them of a tremendous height, and beautifully covered with olives, vines, and figs: the houses hang quite on the sides of the mountains amidst the olives; I do not remember to have passed through any country equally picturesque. We had packed as many books and tracts as we well could in our wardrobe trunks, which were not once opened at the different custom-houses, but the surplus tracts, &c., we were obliged to put into a spare box by themselves, and this box was not suffered to pass the frontier of Sardinia. The first officer was embarrassed, not knowing how to act, and sent a gendarme with us to the bureau of Sarzana, the next town. The officer there was remarkably civil, but told us the law is such that books cannot enter except on conditions to which we could not in our conscience submit. We therefore left them in the bureau, desiring that they might be made useful: a person in the office said, in a half-whisper, These are the books to turn the people's heads. We were glad this loss did not prevent us from distributing others out of our remaining store, at the inns, and pretty freely on the road. Their object in returning by Genoa was to visit the valleys of Piedmont. They reached Turin on the 19th, and proceeded on the 22nd to Pignerol. From this place they visited most of the valleys, went into all the families where Stephen Grellet had been, and had frequent religious conversation with the pastors and some of the people. We spent, says J.Y., five days amongst them. The old pastor Best died soon after the time that Stephen Grellet was there. We met his son, lately appointed chaplain to the Protestant congregation at Turin. He is a young man of talent, lively and intelligent, and desirous of being useful in his new sphere of action. He came to us often at our little inn, and made many inquiries as to the nature of our religious principles; our conversation mostly turned on the necessity of the assistance of the Holy Spirit in the exercise of Christian ministry. This he fully admitted, but was not prepared to dispense with the necessity of an academical preparation. I fear that sending the young men to Geneva for this purpose has not always had a salutary effect. We thought it right to attend their worship on First-day morning at La Tour. The congregation consisted of about 900 clean and well-dressed peasants, many of whose countenances looked serious. The short discourse of Pastor Peyron was orthodox, and the application impressive and edifying. He afterwards dined and spent the afternoon with us at the widow Best's, with several branches of her interesting and pious family. I humbly trust this day was spent to mutual comfort. They were disappointed to find that strangers were forbidden by law to hold public meetings, or preach in the assemblies of the Protestants; and although they met with many pious individuals, they thought the life of religion on the whole at a low ebb, and deplored the prevalence of the forms and ceremonies used by the Church, of England. The schools, too, they found to be in a very poor state; the masters deficient in education and badly paid, and the schools conducted without system. The ministers showed them great kindness, and on their quitting La Tour, Pastor Best encouraged them by the expression of satisfaction with their visit. They returned to Turin on the 28th. Passing over Mont Cenis, they directed their course to Geneva, where they arrived on the 3rd of the Eighth Month, rejoiced to be once more on the English side of the Alps. On their outward journey their sojourn in this city had been short, but now they found it needful to make a longer visit, and were thankful in being permitted to mingle again in intimate communion with those who understood the language of the Spirit. They paid and received many visits, and held two religious meetings at their hotel, at the latter of which about fifty persons were present. One of the most interesting occasions of which they speak was a Missionary Meeting, in which the minister Olivier unfolded his experience of a divine call to leave his country, and go abroad on the service of the gospel. The voice which he described as having been sounded in his spiritual ear, and the manner in which he received it, must have struck John Yeardley as singularly in accordance with the call to a similar service which he himself had heard so distinctly in his younger days, and which, like Olivier, he had for a long time hidden in his heart. 8 _mo_. 4.--In the evening I attended the Missionary Meeting in the Chapel de l'Oratoire. Pastor Merle [d'Aubigné] opened the meeting by a short prayer, and singing, and then gave a narrative of the liberation of the slaves in the English colonies, according to the account received from England. Pastor Olivier, from Lausanne, was present. He is about to depart for Lower Canada, and he spoke in a very touching manner of the way in which the mission had first opened on his own mind. When the concern was made known in his heart, he kept it there in secret prayer to the Lord for direction, and whenever he heard what he believed to be the same voice, it was always--Go, and the Lord will go with thee. A real unction attended while he gave us this account; the way in which he spoke of it resembled the manner of one of our Friends laying a concern before a meeting: many hearts present felt the force of his words. His exhortation to the young persons was excellent. Pastor Gaussen concluded the meeting with an address and lively prayer. Among the friends with whom they had religious intercourse were Pastors L'Huillier, Gallon, and Molinier. The last was a "father in the church" to them. After some conversation on the state of religion in Geneva, he proposed their sitting awhile in silence, well knowing the practice of the Society of Friends in this respect. John and Martha Yeardley had each a gospel message to deliver to him, after which he took them both by the hand, and offered up prayer for their preservation and the prosperity of the Society to which they belonged. "It was," says J.Y., "the effusion of the Holy Spirit, accompanied with power, and refreshed our spirits." With Pastor Gallon John Yeardley had a long conversation on the principles and operations of the Société Evangelique. I find them, he says, more liberal in their views than had been represented, and their extent of usefulness is already considerable. In their Academy they instruct young men with a view to their becoming ministers, missionaries, school-masters, &c., as the prospect for their future usefulness may open under the direction of Divine Providence. In a place like Geneva, such an institution may be well: while we regard it with some caution lest it should run too high on points of doctrine, we cannot but hail with peculiar satisfaction such a favorable opportunity of educating young men in the sound principles of Christianity, that they may happily prove instruments in the Divine Hand to check the spread of infidelity. From Geneva they went to Lausanne. Their old friend, Professor Gaudin, took them to see several pastors, and other pious persons, and on First-day, the 17th, he and his family, with some other serious-minded individuals, joined them in their hour of worship at the inn. It was, says J.Y., a time of a little encouragement to our tried minds, for we had been brought into doubt as to the utility of resting here, although we had seen, as we believed, in the true light, that we ought to seek out a few who could unite with us in our simple way. On the 18th they went on to Neufchâtel, where they were received as before with much affection, and where they proposed to settle down for the winter, after making a tour in some neighboring parts of Switzerland. On the 20th they went to Berne, and hired a lodging, for the purpose of devoting themselves to religious intercourse with persons of the _interior_ class. As soon as it was known they had arrived, their acquaintance rapidly increased, and they found it difficult to receive all who came. One of their first acts was to renew their intercourse with the Combe family at Wabern, where their visit in 1828 had left a sweet remembrance. They spent a fortnight in Berne and the neighborhood, and some passages from John Yeardley's account of this interesting visit may properly find a place here. The continual flow of Christian sympathy which it was now their happiness to experience, formed a strong contrast to the dreary spiritual wastes they had traversed in Italy and Greece. It was at this time that they contracted or renewed a friendship with Sophie Würstemberger, since well known to many other English Friends. 8 _mo_. 24.--How greatly I feel humbled under the prospect before us in this place; many thirsting souls are looking to us for help, and we feel poor and weak; we can only direct them to Him from whom all strength comes. O my Saviour, forsake us not in this trying hour; give us the consolation of thy Holy Spirit, and a portion of strength to do thy will! Our meeting is appointed for this evening; enlighten our understanding, O Lord, that we may be enabled to instruct the people in the right way. 25_th_.--More came to the meeting last evening than we expected. They were still, and a good feeling prevailed; there were those present who knew something of inward retirement with their Saviour. Madame Combe called yesterday to ask some questions on the Supper and Baptism. I believe it would be an advantage to these pious people, if they were to read and compare one part of the Scripture with another more diligently. She left us well satisfied with the explanation given to her questions. We never touch on these points, unless we are asked questions upon them. The various visits received this day have closed with one of no common interest from Dr. Karl Bouterwek, a young man from Prussia. He told as he had received much benefit in the church of the Dissidents, but was on the point of separating from them, because he could not agree in acknowledging they were the _only true_ visible church. After some observations on the Supper, &c., we observed that there were individuals in this place whom the Most High was calling into more spirituality and purity of worship. He asked why we thought so. Our reasons were given, and he made no reply; but a most solemn and precious silence came over us, which it was beyond our power to break by uttering words. Our hearts were filled with love, and the dear young man went away to avoid showing the feelings of his heart by the shedding of tears. 28_th_.--Took tea at the Pavilion, a pleasant country walk of twenty minutes from town, with Mad'e de Watteville and her daughter. She had invited a number of friends to meet us. We passed a couple of hours, pleasantly conversing, mostly on religious subjects. It is a little extraordinary, with what openness some of these dear people speak to us of the state of their minds. When the circle was seated, we formed a pretty large company. The daughter of Mad'e de W. whispered to my M.Y., Are we too dissipated to have something good? We told her it was always good to endeavor to retire before the Lord in humility of soul. I trust a parting blessing was felt amongst us. 30_th_.--From 9 o'clock till half-past 12, we received visits in succession, I think not fewer than fifteen. At half-past 2, Mad'e de Tavel accompanied us to the Penitentiary prison. For cleanliness and order, I think, it exceeds all I ever saw of the kind. I fear the religious instruction is very superficial; none but formal prayers and written sermons are used. 31_st_.--Attended Mad'lle Berthom's Scripture class, at the Institution for the Destitute. There are eighteen girls in the house to bed and hoard; it has been established about six years. M.B.'s method of examining the children is the most simple and spiritual of any that I have seen; she has an extraordinary gift for the purpose. 9 _mo_. 2.--Attended the Monthly Meeting in the missionary room. Many of the company were peasants from some distance. The singing excepted, it resembled a Monthly Meeting for worship in our Society; for all had liberty to speak one after the other, five or six speaking by way of testimony: the doctrine was sound, and the way in which they coupled this with their Christian experience was really excellent. I had much unity with the concluding prayer by Pastor Merley. 2_nd_.--The evening was spent at Mad'e W.'s, with a pretty large company. ---- proposed for a few verses to be sung; afterwards he read a chapter, and gave a long exposition, somewhat dry. When this and a prayer were gone through, it was late; neither my M.Y., nor myself, were able to express what was on our minds. Some uneasiness and disappointment were expressed by several; and two of these dear friends came to our lodgings the next day, with whom we had a precious time. My M.Y. had to speak a few words to the particular state of M.B., and at the close she acknowledged, in brokenness of spirit, that it was the truth. There is a remarkable awakening in the town and canton of Berne, both among those of the higher walks of life and the peasants; but there is not strength enough to come out of the forms. There are thirty females to one man among those who are lately become serious. From Berne, J. and M.Y. proceeded to Zurich, arriving there on the 5th of the Ninth Month. They spent three days in the city, chiefly in the company of the Gessner-Lavater family, and renewed with the various members of it the intimate friendship of former years. A short passage descriptive of this sojourn is hero appended. 9 _mo_. 7.--We attended the worship of the National Church, and heard the pious Gessner. What he said was excellent, but I never enter these places without feeling regret that good Christians can be so bound by book-worship; it certainly damps the life of religion in the assemblies. How much we ought to rejoice in being delivered from the forms. I was instructed yesterday evening by hearing a reply of one of the first missionaries of the Moravians [?]. He had labored diligently for twenty-five years, and when asked how many souls had been turned to the Lord by his means, he modestly answered, Seven. The person expressing surprise at the smallness of the number in so many years, he replied, How happy shall I be to stand in the Lord's presence at the last day, and to say, Lord, here am I and the seven children whom thou hast given me. We ought to labor in faith, and not expect to see fruit. The next town where they halted was Schaffhausen, like Zurich, dear to them in the recollections of past visits. Here they examined the school for poor children in the town, and that of Buch in the neighborhood. They were delighted with both these institutions. The mistress of the former possessed an extraordinary natural talent for her office; she was originally a servant, when, instead of seeking her own pleasure on the First-days of the week, as other servants did, she would take a few children to teach them to read and instruct them in the Bible. Their visit to the school at Buch is described by John Yeardley in No. 10 of his Series of Tracts, _The Six Secrets_. On the 13th they went to Basle, where they conversed with most of the pastors, and several other individuals of religious character. Serious, retired persons, says John Yeardley (9 mo. 21), frequently come to us and open the state of their minds with great freedom and confidence. If we are of any use to their thirsty souls, it is the Saviour's love that draws us into sympathy with them, and his good Spirit that enables us to speak a word in season to their condition. As usual, they visited the Mission House. Inspector Blumhardt informed them that the translation which had been made of J.J. Gurney's "Essays on Christianity," and of which 2000 copies were printed, had been productive of great good; they had been distributed chiefly among those who were connected with the German universities. They remained at Basle until the 1st of the Tenth Month, and then returned by way of Berne to Neufchâtel. At Berne a sudden diversion was given to the current of their thoughts by the intelligence of the death of Thomas Yeardley. J.Y. has left a memorandum of the occurrence, and of the singular foreshadowing of it upon his own mind which took place at Zurich. 10 _mo_. 2. _Berne_.--We found many letters from England waiting for us here, one of which, from my nephew John Yeardley, brought the sorrowful intelligence of the sudden and unexpected removal of my dearly-beloved brother Thomas, of Ecclesfield Mill. This took place on the 6th of the Ninth Month, about 20 minutes past 2, without sigh or groan, even as a lamb. These are the expressions of J.Y.; he adds several sweet expressions of my precious brother's, which show that the solemn change to him was a joyful one: and I do believe his tribulated spirit is now at rest. On recurring to the 6th ultimo to see where we were, and what were the contemplations of my mind, I find we were at Zurich. That morning the following lines which I heard when a child, and had not repeated for the last twenty years, came forcibly into my mind:-- It's almost done, it's almost o'er, We're joining them that are gone before; We soon shall meet upon that shore Where we shall meet to part no more. I not only repeated them to myself the whole of the day, but even sung them aloud so often that my dear M.Y. said to me, "Whatever can be the meaning that thou so often repeats these lines?" I replied, "I do not know that I have repeated them for the last twenty years, but to-day they are continually with me." This can have been nothing but the spirit of sympathy with the soul of my dear departing brother, for the awful impression of sorrow and solemnity in my mind on that day will never be forgotten; I mourned with the bereaved family without knowing it. My M.Y. had opened her portfolio to begin a letter to our sister Rachel, and I wrote the verse on a piece of loose paper, and she slipped it into her papers, and said to herself, Surely these lines are not prophetic of something that is going to happen? Last evening she banded me out of her portfolio the piece of paper containing the lines. At Berne they received also the tidings that "the excellent" M.A. Calame was no more; the Christian mother of 250 orphan children was taken from the scene of her labors and the conflicts of time to the heavenly rest in her Saviour. The following appear to be among the last words which she wrote; they were no doubt addressed to her faithful companion Zimmerlin:-- In my numerous shortcomings I have enough constantly to humble me, and without being surprised at it, since evil is my heritage; but my help is in the Lord, who delights in mercy. I have hope also for all my brethren whom I love, whatever name they hear. There are twelve gates by which to enter into the Holy City, and if they have passed through the great gate, which is Christ, I am sure that those who enter from the east, as well as those who have been brought in by the west, will be there; but those who enter with me are better known to me than the rest whom I shall meet in that celestial Jerusalem, whither my sighs daily carry me, yet in submission to the heavenly decrees, desiring only that the will of God our Saviour be done. You think my task is light? Ah, no! the love which the Lord has given me spends itself on so many hearts closed to their true interests; I see the hand of the enemy in their souls; I am so often deceived in my hopes, that my work is watered by my tears. From time to time, however, the Lord gives me hope; a soul awakes from sleep, and is kindled into light by the torch of the gospel. And now, dear sister, have no longer any esteem or consideration for me; only let the love of Christ live in thy heart for me: the desires of my heart carry you with it to the feet of Him who is Love. When they returned home, John and Martha Yeardley printed a short memoir of this extraordinary woman, whose name, though comparatively little known upon earth, is doubtless enshrined in the hearts of many who still survive, and shall one day shine with a lustre which the most brilliant of her sex, whose ambition it is to adorn the court, the concert or the drawing-room, will desire in vain to wear. At Berne J. and M.Y. commenced a Bible class, similar in kind to the Scarborough reunion, which was continued until their departure, and was the source of much pleasure and profit to those who attended. Before quitting Berne, thinking it might perhaps be the last opportunity they should have of meeting with their numerous and beloved friends in that city, they invited them to join them in worship in their apartment. Many, says John Yeardley, gave us their company; much tenderness of spirit was felt, and through the mercy of Divine Love many present were, I trust, comforted and refreshed. We quitted Berne on the 30th. We had become so affectionately attached to many Christian friends, that parting from them was severely felt. But what happiness Christians enjoy even in this world I those who love the Saviour remain united in Him when outwardly separated. Neufchâtel, for the sake of those who resided there, was equally attractive to them as Berne. We arrived at Neufchfâtel, writes John Yeardley, on Fifth-day, and on Seventh-day (11 mo. 1) settled into a comfortable lodging on the border of the lake. It feels to us the most like home of any residence we have had during our pilgrimage in foreign lands. Our suite of cottage-rooms runs alongside the water, with a gallery in front, and the little boats on the lake, and the mountains in the distance, covered with snow, are objects pleasing to the eye. What gives us the most satisfaction is the feeling of being in our right place, and to meet with such a warm reception from our dear friends. This feeling was succeeded by some religious service of an interesting character, in reviewing which John Yeardley says:-- 23_rd_.--Among those who meet with us, a little few know how to appreciate true silence, others are not come to this. But for what purpose are we here? If it may please our Heavenly Father to make use of us as feeble instruments of drawing a single individual into nearer communion with the Beloved of souls, we ought to be content; and, blessed be his Holy Name, his presence is often felt in our hearts. As has been already said, they looked forward to spending the winter at Neufchâtel. This intention, and their ulterior project of visiting Germany in the spring, were frustrated by the alarming illness of Adey Bellamy Savory, Martha Yeardley's only brother, the news of which reached them on the 29th of the Eleventh Month. This day's post, writes John Yeardley, brought us the sorrowful news of the severe illness of our dear brother A.B. Savory. The family at Stamford-hill have expressed a strong desire for us to return, if we could feel easy so to do, and seeing that we have pretty much got through what we had in prospect in Switzerland, we are, on the whole, most comfortable to go direct for London, and leave Germany for the present. Our great Master is very gracious to us, giving us to feel sweet peace in the termination of our labors, and to look forward with hope to seeing our native land once more. The next day was First-day; the parting with their Neufchâtel friends was very affecting. 11 _mo_. 30.--A precious meeting this morning. The presence of Him who died for us was near, to help and comfort us; our hearts were much tendered by his divine love. The taking leave of our dear friends here was almost heartrending. There is a precious seed in this place, which I trust, is a little deeper rooted since our last visit, and it is the prayer of my heart, that the Saviour may water and watch over it, and that it may produce abundance of fruit to his praise. They took their departure on the 2nd of the Twelfth Month, and arrived in London on the 13th, travelling through the north of France twelve days and six nights. Through divine mercy we arrived safe in London, on Seventh-day evening, and lodged with our beloved relations at Highbury, who received us with all possible affection. Our spirits on meeting, mingled in silent sorrow, while we were enabled to rejoice in God our Saviour. On First-day morning we went over to Stamford-hill, and soon were introduced to our beloved brother, who was perfectly sensible, but extremely weak. The peace and serenity which we were favored to feel by him was an inexpressible comfort to our sorrowful hearts. A.B. Savory died the next Third-day evening, and his remains were interred on the First-day following. 21_st_.--This was the day fixed for the solemn occasion of accompanying the remains to the tomb. The body was taken into the meeting-house at Newington, and the company of mourners and all present were, I believe, comforted and edified through the tender mercies of our Heavenly Father. J.J. Gurney's communication was particularly precious; he also paid a consoling visit to the family after dinner. We shall conclude this chapter with some reflections made by John Yeardley, on reviewing the changes which death had produced in the circle of his relations:-- 1835. 1 _mo_. 31.--Waking this morning, I took a view of the great ravages death had made in our families; when this exhortation pressed suddenly and with peculiar force on my heart,--Be thou also ready. My soul responded, Thou Lord, alone, canst make me ready. O gracious Saviour, who died for me, be pleased to redeem me from the bond of corruption, and purify my heart from earthly things. CHAPTER XIV. FROM THE END OF THE THIRD CONTINENTAL JOURNEY, IN 1834, TO THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE FOURTH, IN 1842. During the seven years comprised in this chapter, the materials which exist for delineating John and Martha Yeardley's history are meagre. Of the numerous journeys which they made in the course of this period, the record kept by the former frequently consists of a mere itinerary. After attending the Leeds Quarterly Meeting in the Third Month, they returned to their home at Scarborough, but soon left it again to be present at the Yearly Meeting in London. The Society of Friends began about this time to be agitated by differences of opinion, chiefly on points of doctrine. John Yeardley not only kept himself sedulously free from the spirit of party, but, whether from a natural aversion to public life, or from the fear of exceeding the limit of his own calling and abilities, he abstained from taking a prominent position, and left it very much to others to sway the affairs of the Church. But he was not unmindful of the dangers by which the Society was assailed, and he bent the force of his mental vigor and Christian experience towards the promotion of individual growth in grace and faithfulness to the divine call, and the diffusion of clear and comprehensive views of Scriptural truth; and when the hour came for sympathising with those who were harassed by doubts, or such as were subjected to trial by the effect of religious dissension, he was ready, with his beloved partner, to share the burden of the afflicted, to probe the wounds of those who had been bruised, and to pour in the oil of heavenly consolation. His note regarding the Yearly Meeting is short:-- The business was of a most important nature, and sometimes very trying. We had strong proof that many spirits professing to have made long progress in the Christian life were not enough subdued by the humbling power of divine grace; but through all, I trust, our heavenly Father dealt with us in mercy, and sent help and wisdom to direct and strengthen his poor tribulated children. On returning to Scarborough, he writes:-- I humbly trust our hearts are truly grateful to the Author of all our mercies, who has granted us once more a little rest of body and sweet peace of mind; but, as it regards myself, I must say that inward poverty has prevailed more since my return home than it has done for the last two years of absence. It is well to know how to suffer want, as well as to abound. Want of occupation was not one of John Yeardley's trials, even when "standing," as he expressed it, "free from any prospect of immediate service, and feeling much as a vessel not likely to be brought into use again." Scriptural inquiry, the study of languages, and of the history of the Church, watching the progress of religious light and liberty on the Continent of Europe, his garden, the binding of his books--these were the employments of his industrious leisure. To these must be added the time bestowed on several small publications from his own and his wife's pen (the latter chiefly poetical), of which the "Eastern Customs," a volume which was the product of their united labor, and the materials for which were supplied by their journey to Greece, is the best known. But there was another object which drew largely on John Yeardley's time during his residence at Scarborough. This was the unsectarian schools established in the town for the education of the industrial classes. Of these the Lancasterian School for girls was his favorite, and the deep and steady interest which he manifested for the improvement of the children, as well as the peculiar talent which he evinced for attracting and developing the youthful mind, are shown in an affectionate tribute to his memory by the late mistress of the school:-- For many years he was a visitor at our Lancasterian School, where it was his delight to impart knowledge to a numerous class of girls. He had a happy method of communicating information. The children used to listen with the greatest attention and delight; they never wearied of his lessons. Scriptural instruction was his first object; the children were questioned on what they had read, and it was delightful to watch their countenances whilst he explained portions of Scripture, which he frequently illustrated by the manners and customs of Eastern nations; and this he did in a way that rendered his teaching valuable, as he did not fail to make an impression and gain the affections of his hearers. One little girl we had whom he used to call the _oracle_; and indeed she was not inappropriately so-called; for whenever any of the girls were at a loss for an answer, they invariably turned to her, and seldom failed to receive a response to their silent appeal. This gifted child died between the ages of sixteen and eighteen; he was a frequent visitor at her bedside during a lingering illness, and it was his privilege to see that his labors had not been in vain. I shall _never_ forget him, not only for the important instruction I derived from him, but also for his valuable assistance. During my labors of more than twenty-five years, I had none to help me as he did. When at home he never failed to visit as every afternoon: no matter what the state of the weather was--snow, wind or rain--he was to be seen at half-past two, with his large cape folded round him, bending before the blast, toiling up the hill near the school. So accustomed were we to him that his coming was deemed a matter of course. After our Scripture lesson a portion of time was devoted to geography, particularly Bible geography; then he would talk to them of places where he had travelled: his descriptions of the Ionian Islands, the people and the schools he had visited there, used to be a favorite theme, and very interesting. In this way our afternoons were passed, and truly they were times of profitable instruction. He seemed to care less for the boys' school; he did occasionally visit them, but the girls were his pets. I have sometimes thought his knowledge of the ignorant and degraded state of the females in Greece was the cause of his taking so much interest in the education of the females in his own land. In addition to J. Yeardley's labors at the Lancasterian School, some of the older girls and a few others who belonged to the school assembled at his house one evening in the week, whom he instructed in reading and Scriptural knowledge. Some of these still speak with gratitude of the benefit they then received. In the Ninth Month of 1835, John and Martha Yeardley visited Settle Monthly Meeting, and Knaresborough, under appointment of the Quarterly Meeting. On their way thither they took up at York their aged and valued friend Elizabeth Rowntree of Scarborough, who was on the appointment. Her company, says J.Y., was a strength and comfort to us; she exercised her gift as an elder in a very acceptable manner, in many of the families we visited, as well as in the meetings for discipline. This notice is succeeded almost immediately by the record of Elizabeth Rowntree's sudden decease:-- On the 25th of the Eleventh Month, we were introduced into deep affliction by the sudden removal of our precious elder, E. Rowntree. Her dependence for salvation was fixed on her Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ, through the help of whose Spirit she had been enabled to lead a life of godliness and of usefulness to her fellow-mortals, and was always concerned to give the praise to Him to whom it was due,--the Lord of Lords. This event, with the removal of another pilgrim to become an inhabitant of the world of beatified spirits, and the pressing subject of the divisions in the Society, form the topics of the following letter from Martha Yeardley to Elizabeth Dudley:-- Scarborough, 12 mo. 5, 1835. During our long sojourn last spring, in and about my native city, my spirit was deeply oppressed, nor did the conflicts endured appear to produce much benefit either to myself or others. Here the way is more open, and, although we also deeply feel the effects of the storm which has been permitted to assail our little Society, we are more able to endure it; and desire to abide in our tents, except when called upon to defend that immediate teaching of the blessed Saviour, upon which we depend for our little portion of daily bread. I can truly sympathise with thee, my beloved Betsy, an having to bear more of the burden and heat of the day, and I do fervently believe with thee, that the more, as individuals, we commit and confide the cause to the Great Master, in humble prayer, the sooner it will be extricated from the perplexities which now harass and distress those who are truly devoted to it. We have deeply to mourn for our endeared and highly valued E. Rowntree, suddenly taken from us about ten days since. She and her sister R.S., from Whitby, had spent the preceding evening with us; she was in usual health, and sweetly cheerful, rejoicing that she had been enabled to assist dear Sarah Squire in a family visit to Friends of this meeting, though she did not sit with her in the families. I heard of her illness and hastened to her; she appeared sensible but for a very few moments after having been got to bed; yet was heard begging for patience under extreme agony; then added, We had need live the life of the righteous, for it is an awful thing to die. Then she suddenly sank into a slumber, and lay till a little after nine at night, when her purified spirit was peacefully liberated. We have got through Pontefract and some meetings in the neighborhood to our comfort, and on the journey had an opportunity of sitting beside the dying bed of dear Sarah Dent, which was indeed a peaceful scene. She was perfectly sensible, and so animated that I could hardly give up hope of her restoration. But she had not herself the least prospect of life, and said that, although she had found it a hard struggle to give up her husband and children, she had, through the mercy of her gracious Redeemer, attained to perfect resignation. This was about a week before her death, and we have heard since, that a little before the close, she said, The Lord Jesus is near, I want you all to know that He is near indeed! Dear Ann Priestman has united with us in visiting this Monthly Meeting: it seems now best for us to remain at home for a short time, under the bereavement which our own meeting has suffered. In 1836 they again attended the Yearly Meeting; of which John Yeardley thus speaks:-- The Yearly Meeting was, I think, on the whole, satisfactory, much more so than many Friends could look for, considering the discouraging circumstances under which we came together. The main bent in all the important deliberations on subjects of great moment to the well-being of our small section of the universal church, was to adhere to the long-known principles of the Society, and to turn aside the sentiments of opposing individuals in the spirit of gentleness, forbearance and love. They visited many meetings in going from and returning to Scarborough. The most interesting of these visits was at Thame, in Oxfordshire, which John Yeardley thus describes:-- 6 _mo._ 14.--Went in the evening to Thame, and had a meeting with a few who have met in the way of Friends for about five years at Grove End. There are only seven or eight who meet regularly, but they are often joined by a few others. No notice had been given to their neighbors of our coming, but on seeing us go to the meeting many followed; the room was quite filled, and a precious meeting it was. Their hearts are like ground prepared for the good seed of the kingdom. The nature of spiritual worship was pointed out, and testimony borne to the teaching of the Holy Spirit. This little company reminded us of many such which we met with in foreign countries, particularly in Switzerland and Germany. We had a good deal of conversation with William Wheeler, who was one of the first to meet in silence. He was a leader in the Wesleyan congregation, and became uneasy with giving out hymns to be sung with those whose states he knew did not correspond with the words. He would then sometimes select a hymn most suited by its general character to the company; at other times he would leave out a few verses, and select others which he thought might be sung with truth by the whole congregation; but the thing became so burdensome that he was obliged, for conscience' sake, to leave it altogether, and sit down with a few others in silence. At first they met with opposition, and even persecution, from persons who came to their meeting to disperse them. On one of these occasions a few rude young men had banded together to beset them the next meeting-day, and disperse them. W.W. was strongly impressed that it was right for him to proclaim an awful warning to some--that the judgments of the Almighty awaited them, that eternity was nearer than they were aware and he wished them to consider and prepare for it. One of the disturbers was taken suddenly ill, and died before the next meeting-day; which produced such an effect on the others that they never more molested the little company in their worship. In reviewing this journey, J.Y. says, under date of the 25th of the Sixth Month:-- I trust my faith is afresh confirmed in the gift of the Holy Spirit to lead in the way of religious duty, and to give strength to do His will. Lord, grant that the remainder of my days, whether few or many, be entirely devoted to the holy cause of endeavoring to promote the Saviour's kingdom on earth. In 1837, John and Martha Yeardley were occupied with making circuits in the service of the gospel through several counties of England. They were attracted to Lancashire, which they visited in the autumn, by the peculiar state of some meetings in that county, an extensive secession having taken place not long before. The difficulties which they had to encounter on this journey are represented in a letter from Martha Yeardley to her sisters, written at Manchester the 4th of the Ninth Month, 1837. I do not recollect that, in my little experience, I ever had more preparatory exercise of mind to pass through; and I believe it has been the same with my dear J.Y. We have, however, in many of our visits, been much comforted under the belief that those who remain firm in the testimonies given us to bear are in a more lively state, and more banded together, than has been the case heretofore, and that, through the mercy of our holy Head and High Priest, there is a renewed visitation to many. In the public meetings, of which we have had many, there has been a rather remarkable openness to receive the truths of the gospel, united with our view of the spirituality of this blessed dispensation. We approached this place in deep prostration of spirit; and truly we feel that all the previous baptism has been needful, in order to enable us in any degree to perform our duty here. There has been a sore rending of the tenderest ties, and the wounds are not yet healed. There are a few who entertain ultra views, and their over-activity tends to keep up excitement in those who are wavering and have not yet left the Society: this makes it very difficult for moderate people to stand between them, and calls for very deep indwelling with the blessed source of love. On the other hand there are, I fear, very many who rejoice in the delusive suggestions of our unwearied enemy--that the cross of Christ is not necessary--that they may speak their own words and wear their own apparel, and still be called by the name of Him who died for them. I think we never have had more to suffer than in some of the meetings we have attended, from a disposition, perhaps in some degree on both sides, to criticise ministry: still there are, I believe, many precious individuals among the young and middle-aged who are under the forming hand for usefulness. There is indeed a loud call for laborers in this large and mixed meeting; and we are ready to weep over the vacant seats of those who have deserted their post, and, I greatly fear, are seeking to warm themselves and others with sparks of their own kindling. Another letter from M.Y., written at the conclusion of this journey, supplies a few more traits of the Christian service into which they were led in the course of it. Scarborough, 10 mo. 7. We remained nearly a month in our lodgings at Manchester, receiving and paying visits, some of which were very interesting. Dear H. Stephenson and family were extremely attentive, and her daughter Hannah was our constant guide in that large place. We spent First-day at Rochdale, and in the evening a large number of young Friends took tea with us, between thirty and forty. This has mostly been the case on First-days, both at Manchester and elsewhere, and these opportunities have tended to our relief. After this we bade farewell to Lancashire, under feelings of thankfulness which I cannot describe, for having been mercifully helped and preserved through such a warfare. In the autumn of 1839 they again travelled southwards, directing their steps through the eastern counties of England, and London, Surrey, and Hampshire, to the Isle of Wight, where they spent five weeks exploring its coasts and corners, in search, not of the naturally picturesque, but of the beautiful and hopeful in the moral and religious world. They returned home by Bristol and Birmingham. So attractive to their spirits was the Isle of Wight, that the next year they repeated the visit, going thither after the Yearly Meeting. In the Seventh Month they attended the Quarterly Meeting at Alton, and on their return to Newport were accompanied by Elizabeth and Mary Dudley and Margaret Pope. They remained in Newport and the vicinity several weeks, during which time, amongst other engagements, they conducted a Scripture class with some young persons three evenings a week. In a letter dated the 27th of the Sixth Month, J.Y. says:-- My dear Martha feels deeply for the Unitarians in this place; we sometimes think the way may open for us to help them a little. Their great stumbling-stones are, the want of clearness in the mystery of the oneness in the Godhead, and of faith in the practical influences of the Holy Spirit, as operating on the heart of man. Our morning reading opens a suitable door of communication for those whose curiosity prompts them to seek our company. In company with Elizabeth Dudley they hold several public meetings at various places on the island. They have left no record of this service, but we have a notice of the meeting at Porchfield, in a letter from E.D. The meeting was very satisfactory, sweet and refreshing to our spirits. The road was rough and hilly. We were behind time, and our friends being punctual, the house looked full when we got there, though more followed, until not only within but outside the walls there was a crowd of orderly, attentive people. Many of them were happily acquainted with the power of religion in their hearts, and prepared for spiritual worship. The assembly was composed of various denominations from a straggling village and more remote habitations. The chapel was built many years ago, by a pious man, now above eighty years old, who was with us, and who enjoys to have the place used by any who from love to Christ and the souls of men are attracted to visit them. The simplicity and openness to be observed and felt that evening was a comforting indication of freedom from party spirit, and those vain disputations which in so many instances keep Christians at a distance, and mar their individual peace as well as usefulness. Before they left Newport, they provided, with the help of several friends, suitable accommodation for the little meeting of Friends in that town. On taking leave of the island, which they did in the Eighth Month, John Yeardley remarks:-- We have had much comfort and satisfaction in our sojourn in this place: a strong evidence is felt in our hearts that it has been ordered by the Lord. We have cause to acknowledge that our labors have been owned by the Divine Presence in our various exercise for the promotion of the Saviour's kingdom. In the spring of 1841 they repeated their visit to the Isle of Wight, spent great part of the summer in religious service in Essex, and visited afterwards Bristol, Bath, and other parts of Somersetshire. At Bath they remained for some weeks. Soon after their arrival in the city, they were introduced into sympathetic sorrow on account of the death of John Rutter, whose guests they were, and who was suddenly removed, by an accident, from time to eternity. This event is described in a letter from John Yeardley to his sister R. S. Bath, 9 mo. 24, 1841. The affectionate family of the Rutters gave us a hearty reception, and we remained under their hospitable roof until Second-day, when they were plunged into deep distress by the awfully sudden removal of their beloved father. He went out before breakfast, and called at his son's wharf. A cart of coals being about to be weighed, he was leading the horse on to the machine; the animal, being a little unruly, suddenly rushed forward and pushed down J. R, and the wheel passed over his body. He was immediately conveyed to his own shop, when the spark of life became extinct, and he ceased to breathe, without apparent pain or emotion. We were nearly ready to leave our room, about half-past 6. o'clock, when one of the sons knocked at our door, and related the awful occurrence. I went down immediately: the scene may be more easily imagined by you than described by me. We endeavored to calm them as much as possible; and, though deeply afflicted, they bear the stroke with sweet resignation. I wrote letters at their request to most of their near relatives; and as we could not think of leaving the sorrowing family to go as proposed to Bristol, we immediately procured a lodging and settled in, in the evening. On Third-day afternoon we went to the Quarterly Meeting at Bristol, and returned to Bath on Fifth day, not wishing to be long absent from the dear sorrowing ones. We have a pleasant situation on the hill-side, called Sidney Lodge, from which, when the gas is lighted, the city is presented to our view like a beautiful panorama. Their minds had been for some time in preparation for renewing, on the Continent of Europe, Christian intercourse with some of their old friends, and for exploring new veins of religious life in countries which they had not yet visited. Accordingly, in the Fourth Month of 1842, they acquainted the Friends of their Monthly Meeting with the prospect of missionary service which had opened before them, informing them that from the conclusion of their last European journey they had believed it would one day be required of them to re-enter that field of labor. The Monthly Meeting accorded its full and sympathetic approbation, which was endorsed by the Quarterly Meeting at a conference of men and women Friends, of which John Yeardley says:-- The great solemnity which prevailed was truly refreshing to our spirits, and I believe to the spirits of many others. Our friends gave us their full unity, _encouragement, sympathy,_ and _prayers_. Martha Yeardley thus expresses the feelings with which she contemplated this arduous journey, in a letter to Josiah Forster:-- It is indeed an awful engagement, now in the decline of life, and, with respect to myself, under increasing infirmities; but I believe it best for me not to look too far forward, but simply to confide in the mercy and guidance of that blessed Saviour who has been our support and consolation under many deep trials, humblingly believing that whether enabled to accomplish the important prospect or not, it was an offering required at our hands, and that we must leave the event to the Great Disposer of all things. In the same letter she mentions their having heard of the death of Louis A. Majolier of Congenies, which, she says, although a cause of rejoicing as it regards him, was read by us with mournful feelings, from the recollection of his fatherly kindness in days that are past, and also from renewed solicitude for the little flock in that country. Before their departure they went once more into the West Riding, to see how their brethren of J.Y.'s earliest acquaintance fared. They were joined by William Dent of Marr, near Doncaster, with whom they were "sweetly united in the fellowship of the gospel;" and they returned to Scarborough with "grateful and peaceful hearts." CHAPTER XV. THE FOURTH CONTINENTAL JOURNEY. 1842-3. In the journey which now lay before them, John and Martha Yeardley were about to explore a part of Europe hitherto untried,--the province of Languedoc, conspicuous in past ages for its superior enlightenment, but now, owing to the temporary mastery of error, wrapt in ignorance and gloom. In this mission, the opportunities which they found for reviving and gathering together the scattered embers of truth, were nearly confined to social intercourse; in seeking occasions for which, they availed themselves of introductions by pious Prostestants from place to place, whilst they were careful, as had always been their practice, to wait, in every successive step, for the direction of the Divine Finger. The mission was performed in much weakness of body, and under frequent spiritual poverty; yet it will be readily acknowledged that theirs was a favored lot, to be able, with the clue of gospel love in their hand, to trace the pathway of Christian truth, and the footsteps of true spiritual worship, and of a faithful testimony for Christ, through the midst of a degenerate and benighted land. They went to London on the 2nd of the Eighth Month, and spent the time before they sailed in gathering information and counsel for their approaching journey, and in social visits. Speaking of one of these visits (to their nephew J. S., at Clapton), John Yeardley says:-- Before parting we had a religious opportunity, in which a word of exhortation flowed in gospel love, and ability was granted to approach the throne of mercy in solemn supplication. I often wish we were more faithful in raising our hearts to the Lord before separating from our friends when met on social occasions; a blessing might attend such simple offerings. In a visit they paid to Thomas and Carolina Norton, the subject of establishing a school for the children of Friends in the South of France came under consideration; a project which, as we shall see, they were able in their visit to that part of the country to carry into effect. They left London on the 16th, and on the 19th arrived at Amiens, where they halted for a few days. They found in this city a movement among the Roman Catholics, a number of whom had joined the Protestant worship. The Protestant Pastor, Cadoret, was very friendly to them; when he heard that they belonged to the Society of Friends, he pressed John Yeardley's hand and said, I am very glad to make your acquaintance; it is the first time I have seen any of your Society, of whom I have heard much. On the 20th J.Y. writes, in allusion to the spiritual darkness which so generally covered the land of France;-- My soul is cast down, but when I am afflicted because of the wickedness of the people, I call to remembrance these words: "Fret not thyself because of evil-doers. Trust in the Lord and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed."--Psalm xxxvii. 1, 3. A large number of workmen of various nations are employed at Amiens in weaving. J. and M.Y., visited several of these in their cottages, and before they left the city invited the people of this class to a meeting, especially intended for their own countrymen, but open to all who were willing to come. The meeting, says J.Y., was an occasion precious to our souls; the Lord gave us ability to declare his word. I spoke in English and my dear Martha in French. At Paris, whither they proceeded on the 22nd, they were disappointed in finding that the majority of the persons at whose houses they called were in the country, and some with whom they had taken sweet counsel in former years had been removed by death. Pastor Audebez was at home, and received them with a cordial welcome. They were detained in Paris longer than they had anticipated, by the illness of Martha Yeardley, and did not leave till the 9th of the Ninth Month. The morning after they had entered Paris the words of Job were brought to J.Y.'s recollection in a forcible manner:--"Thou hast granted me life and favor, and thy visitation hath preserved my spirit." (Job x. 12); and in going out of the city he was refreshed with the joyful language of David,--"How excellent is thy loving-kindness, O God! therefore the children of men put their trust under the shadow of thy wings. They shall be abundantly satisfied with the fatness of thy house; and thou shalt make them drink of the river of thy pleasures. For with thee is the fountain of life: in thy light shall we see light."--Psa. xxxvi. 7-9. Some letters which John and Martha Yeardley received from England during their sojourn in Paris show, the strong sympathy which accompanied them in their journey, and contain, at the same time, references to events which will be interesting to the reader. South Grove, Peckham, 8 mo. 12, 1842. Numbers vi. 24-27:--"The Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace. And they shall put my name upon the children of Israel, and I will bless them." To be pronounced by Aaron the high, priest and his successors, as the type of Him by whom all blessing and favor are bestowed on the church and her children. The above portion of Holy Scripture, with the 121st Psalm, has been so sweetly in my remembrance since parting with my beloved friends John and Martha Yeardley, that, before retiring for the night, I transcribe the words which convey, so much better than any language of my own, the renewed and abiding desire under which they are committed to the care and guidance of the Good Shepherd, in humble but confiding belief that he will equally watch over, guard and keep, those who go and those who stay; causing each, amidst all variety of circumstances, to realize the soul-cheering truth, that, at the throne of grace, mercy is obtained and grace to help in time of need. May the peace which passeth all understanding keep our hearts and minds through Jesus Christ, prays your nearly-attached friend and sister, E. DUDLEY. THE SAME TO MARTHA YEARDLEY. Peckham, 8 mo. 21, 1842. While in the sick-chamber of my sister, instead of at meeting, it feels pleasant to devote part of the evening to thee, my beloved friend. I have enjoyed the thought of your having a good Sabbath at Paris, where, no doubt, a sphere of duty will be found, and perhaps many exercises of faith and patience attend the labor of love which may await you there; while, in the spirit of true dedication and acquiescence so mercifully bestowed upon you, no commandment will be counted grievous, nor any service for your Lord too hard or painful. His words come sweetly to my mind as really the portion of a brother and sister dear in the bond and power of an endless life,--"Blessed are your eyes, for they see, and your ears, for they hear." Accounts from various parts of this land continue to indicate much unsettlement, and there have been large companies of Chartists in the immediate vicinity of London; but happily the civil power proved equal to their dispersion. One would hope the abundant harvest, now ready to be gathered, may turn the current of feeling, and induce the desire rather to praise the Lord for his goodness, than to spend time and strength in murmurings and disputings with their fellow-mortals. The destruction, not only of property, but of life; in some recent contests, is quite appalling, and we certainly live in very eventful times; the tendency, however, both of the good and evil, is so obviously towards an increase of light and knowledge, that it seems warrantable to expect _all_ will be overruled to better views and practices becoming more general, and the kingdoms of this world being thankfully surrendered to the righteous government of the Prince of Peace. But alas! deep and complicated may be the sufferings yet behind for the church and her children to endure, whether in being sharers in, or but the witnesses of, what is pronounced upon the world of the ungodly. FROM JOHN ROWNTREE. Scarborough, 8 mo. 29, 1842. The account of your proceedings at Amiens has been particularly interesting to me. Whether manufacturing employments are unfavorable or otherwise to moral and religions character; or whether it is merely the larger earnings which artizans receive, enabling them more glaringly to gratify their natural and corrupt inclinations than agricultural laborers, can do; whether the passive ignorance of the country laborer, or the more active and intelligent habits, yet combined with moral darkness, of the manufacturing operative, most retards the diffusion of religious truth, are serious questions for us in this country. Our manufacturers have been alarming the whole nation, and threatening us with something like political revolution; but they have received a severe lesson, and many of our jails are filled with the victims of unprincipled agitators. Considering how little of the Christian spirit is generally found in the operations of government, the treatment of these poor creatures has on the whole been lenient, and no very severe punishments are anticipated. Whether the people of this nation have learned more of righteousness from the judgments of the Lord, which have I think evidently been made known in this part of his earth, is perhaps known only to Him who knoweth all things. I often fear;--for surely there is very much of darkness and wickedness among us--yet I can not unfrequently hope that light is spreading, and that although the powers of evil are active and strongly developed, yet the active diffusion of the means of good more than keeps pace with them. "Greater is He that is in you than he that is in the world," is still a consoling assurance to many dejected yet hoping believers. Our dear friend Hannah C. Backhouse is strong in the faith that light increasing, that the fields are white already for harvest, and that the Lord of the harvest is preparing and sending forth laborers into his harvest. The Protestants whom you found at Amiens, and in some other places, would probably remain totally unknown to ordinary travellers, and perhaps we do not enough consider how little known in a great nation the salt that preserves it may be. The reports from the agent of the Bible Society in France seem to me more than usually encouraging. I hope you may be enabled to impart some spiritual gift or knowledge to many hidden ones who appear to be hungering and thirsting after righteousness in that vain-glorious nation, and that your faith may be strengthened by meeting with such. John and Martha Yeardley arrived at Lyons on the 13th, and, after making some calls, intended to proceed to Nismes the next day. But not feeling satisfied to leave the city so soon, they concluded to remain there one day more; and they had cause to be thankful in having taken this course. For, says J.Y., we have made the acquaintance of several religious persons. An evangelist and colporteur named Hermann Lange, a German Swiss, took us to see some Protestant converts, amongst whom we have found much of the interior life. The Lord gave me a word of exhortation for them, and helped me to utter it in French. We had a conversation with our friend Lange respecting the ministry in our Society. Like many other persons he supposed we had no recognized ministers; we explained the usage of Friends, and showed him our certificates, with which he was pleased. He admired the good order in use amongst us, and said that he had for a long time desired to be informed respecting the principles of Friends; that he thought as we did, that an express call of the Holy Spirit was necessary to the ministry, and that women as well as men ought to be allowed to preach, I felt intimately united to him in spirit: on parting we gave him some tracts explanatory of our principles. Lyons is the head-quarters of popery; the Jesuits here exert a strong influence with the government against the Protestants. We visited a good man named Elfenbein, who with his wife, is very useful to the awakened Protestants. He is a colporteur, and introduces the Holy Scriptures into families to whom he speaks concerning the things of God. He and his wife called upon us in our hotel. On parting he proposed we should pray together. This gave us the opportunity of explaining our sentiments regarding prayer; and we proposed remaining a while in silence, and if it should please the Lord to put words of prayer into our heart, we would express them with the help of the Holy Spirit. After a time of silence, Elfenbein prayed for us with unction in a few words: it was a favored time; thanks be to God. On the 15th they resumed their journey, and passing through Nismes proceeded to Congenies. They found there Edward and John Pease, who were travelling on a religious errand, and were about concluding their labors in those parts. The meeting was a source of comfort on both sides. The next day, which was First-day, was a solemn season: the gospel message was largely delivered in the little meeting-house, and Christine Majolier interpreted for those who spoke in English. The Two-months' Meeting was held, and here, as well indeed as on every other occasion, the English Friends missed the company and help of their valued friend, Louis A. Majolier. After residing for a while at Congenies, they removed to Nismes, where they preached to the strangers who attended the usual meetings for worship, distributed religious tracts in the city and its environs, and instituted a Scripture Reading Meeting for the young. But the object which most strongly engaged their attention at Nismes was the foundation of a boarding-school for the daughters of Friends. Louis Majolier, during a great part of his life had conducted a day-school at Congenies: this school was, of course, not accessible to the children of those Friends who lived at a distance; and soon after L.M. died even this was given up, and the means of education in the Society failed altogether. In their project for supplying this deficiency, John and Martha Yeardley found the parents and other Friends ready to second their efforts; and at the Two-months' Meeting in the Eleventh Month, it was resolved to establish in the first place a school for girls only at Nismes, and a committee was appointed to carry this resolution into effect. A mistress was found without much difficulty in Justine Bénézet, a valuable Friend, who had had for sixteen years the superintendence of the Orphan Asylum, and whose health had in some degree given way under the too onerous charge. In reference to the accomplishment of this undertaking, J.Y. writes:-- 12 _mo_. 14.--_Nehemiah_ i. 11:--"O Lord, I beseech thee, let now thine ear be attentive to the prayer of thy servant, and to the prayer of thy servants, who desire to fear thy name; and prosper, I pray thee, thy servant this day." I often think of these words of the prophet, and they [have supported me] when my soul has been cast down on account of the school. During their abode at Nismes they visited the little congregations of Friends which lie to the westward of that city, and had to record that the presence of their Divine Master went with them, giving them his word to declare, and inclining the hearts of the hearers to receive it. A letter from John Rowntree, which reached them towards the end of the year, contains some observations on the work they had found to do in their journey, with an interesting notice of what was passing in England. Scarborough, 11 mo. 14, 1842. MY DEAR FRIENDS, .... The plan of your meetings for Scripture instruction seems to me particularly good; you will, through them, have numerous opportunities for impressing on the minds of your hearers the inestimable value of the Holy Scriptures, when properly received, and made available by the enlightening influence of the Holy Spirit, and the worthlessness--nay, the danger--of resting satisfied with a mere knowledge of their words. The words of our Lord were "spirit and life" to those who would receive them as such; yet how many who heard them were to be judged by them at the that day, because they believed not. We still hear sad accounts of distress in the manufacturing districts of the country. Some of your friends have probably informed you that at our last Quarterly Meeting much sympathy was expressed for the destitute artizans, and a liberal subscription was commenced, and was to be carried forward in all our meetings for their relief: a few days ago it amounted to £800--I hope it will exceed £1000: but what is that, it may be said, among so many? yet I hope much good may be done by it, and Friends in other parts of the nation seem to be considering whether they ought not to make some efforts for similar purposes. At Liverpool we hear that upwards of £200 has been raised. You will probably have heard of the very sudden death of Jonathan Backhouse, whilst his wife was laboring under a religious engagement in the north of our county. His change seemed a translation from that state of strong but imperfect love which a member of the militant Church might feel here below, to that fullness of love which his Saviour had purchased for him above. In the Third Month, 1843, they quitted Nismes, taking their young friend Jules Paradon as their companion. The parting, says J.Y., from the dear family at the school was sorrowful. Before taking leave, we had a religious opportunity with the children, in which all hearts were touched. They arrived at Montpelier on the 7th. The pious characters to whom they were introduced in this city were mostly of the upper class--bankers, doctors, lawyers, and professors. They found that the principles of the Society of Friends were very little known there, but that many were desirous of being acquainted with them. Being pressed in their spirit to propose a meeting for worship with such as were disposed to give their company, their new friends readily agreed to it, and about thirty-five persons sat down with them at their inn. The assembly was, as they believed, owned by the great Master, who showed himself to be their strength in the time of weakness, and gave them power to preach the gospel and explain the nature of true worship. Pastor Lissignol and Dr. Parlier were amongst those to whom they were the most united. The latter filled the office of mayor when Josiah Forster and Elizabeth Fry were at Montpelier. He told John and Martha Yeardley that the meeting they had just held had been strengthening to his faith. That the Lord by his Spirit should move the hearts of his children in a distant land to visit his heritage in other countries, he regarded as a proof of his love; and he spoke of the unity of spirit which is felt by those of different nations who love the same Lord, as a precious mark of discipleship. The town of Montpélier, say J. and M.Y., is built with taste and elegance, and the situation is most delightful: there are 4,000 Protestants in a population of 86,000. On Sixth-day (the 10th) we left this place of deep interest, with hearts grateful to the God and Father of all our sure mercies, in that he had enabled us to bear a testimony to the spirituality of worship as set forth by our Saviour himself. After leaving Montpélier, they continue the narrative of their journey as follows:-- We lodged that night at Passanas, a dark Roman Catholic town. Inquiring if there were any Protestants, the chambermaid replied, "Protestants! what is that?" When we had made her understand, she said there were a few, but they went to Montagnac to _mass_. 11_th_.--We slept at Narbonne, an ancient town of 10,000 inhabitants. No openness to receive even a tract; the inquiry for a Protestant excited an evident bitterness in the reply. On the 12th, held our little meeting with our faithful friend Jules, in which ability was granted to supplicate for the spread of divine light over this benighted district. At 9 o'clock we set out to make a Sabbath-day's journey: the wind extremely high and always in our face, which fatigued Nimrod [their horse] as well as ourselves. We dined at Lesengnan: not a Protestant in the place, yet we met with a circumstance worth recording. Jules, who is ever watchful to find out who can read, gave a few tracts to some boys in the stable-yard. When I went out, writes J.Y., to see our horse, several rather bright-looking boys followed me, asking for books. After ascertaining that they, could read, I supplied them. This was no sooner known, than boys and girls came in crowds, soon followed by many of their parents. As our visitors increased, I ran upstairs to fetch my dear M.Y., and we embraced the opportunity to speak to them on the importance of religion. No doubt curiosity drew many to us, for we were a novel sight there, and the mingled multitude was not less so to us. Among our auditors was a messenger of Satan to buffet us. He was a good-looking man, who expressed a seeming approval of what we had done, saying we made many friends. We told him they were all children of the same Almighty Parent, and that there was but one true religion, and one heaven. This observation drew off his mask, and he began to express doubts whether either heaven or hell really existed, and brought forward the threadbare argument of not believing what he could not see or prove. We asked him if he had a soul: he said he had. We asked him how be knew that he had a soul, for he could not see it: he replied, he believed that he had a soul, but that his soul would die with his body. We then asked him why two and two made four: he said he could not tell, and yet acknowledged he was bound to believe it. The countenances of many around beamed with joy at seeing this darkling perplexed; and we did not shrink from exhorting him to repentance and faith in Christ, who died for him and for all men. On returning to our room the landlady entered with a fine-looking girl, for whom she begged a book. This opened our way to speak to her of things connected with salvation. She said,--"We have not much of religion here." "Why so?" we asked. "Because the people do not like to confess to the priests." "And what is the use," said we, "of confessing to man?" "Because," she replied in somewhat trembling accents, "we think it eases our consciences, for the priests are the appointed ministers to take charge of our souls." "What," we replied, "a man take charge of immortal souls! God never committed the power to forgive sins to man: Jesus Christ alone can pardon sins; he died to save us!" I shall never forget the countenance of this dear woman, which seemed to express her long-shaken confidence in her spiritual guides. We exhorted her to come to the Saviour, who intercedes for us without the aid of man, and gave her a New Testament, which she said she would read. 12_th_.--Went to Maux to sleep. The landlady was communicative: she told us that some travellers like ourselves some time ago had given her a New Testament, which she had lent about the village, together with tracts, and that she wished for more. We inquired if there were any persons in the village who would like to come to us for books. She soon sent us an interesting young woman, a schoolmistress, to whom on her entrance we presented some tracts. She regarded them with an air of thoughtfulness which seemed to measure the quantity to be taken by the price she would have to pay for them. When she found they were to be had gratis, her countenance brightened, and with it the brightness of her mind showed itself. On speaking with her of the responsibility of her profession, and the importance of imbuing the minds of children with just principles, she said, "I am desirous of instructing the children in the religion of the heart. Religion," added she, "though a good thing, is badly put in practice in our church; the people do not like to confess to the priests, and there is a great desire for instruction and to receive books." They saw again at the Inn at Maux the man who had opposed them at Lessengnan, and found him much better disposed than he had been the day before. He told them he had been a Romish priest, but being disgusted with the practices of his church, he had left it and joined the army: he promised to read the books they gave him. Our present mode of travelling (with our own horse), they continue, though somewhat slow, affords opportunities of endeavoring to do a little good, which we should miss in travelling by Diligence or extra-post. It is curious and instructive to observe the various dispositions of the people in the dark places through, which we pass: sometimes they are so fanatical as to tear a tract before our face; others receive them with joy. During a half-hour's rest for our horse at a village near Castelnaudry, my M.Y. made the acquaintance of an aged woman at the door of her cottage, who really did us good. On inquiring if she could read, "It is my consolation," said she, "to read the Scriptures." "And we have great need of consolation," we answered. "Yes," said she, "I am a widow of near eighty years, and have had many cares; but I pray to God, and he grants me the consolation of his Holy Spirit, and if I confide in him he will never forsake me." At Castelnaudry they left the main road and crossed the mountains to Saverdun, in order to visit the Orphan Institution in that place. By not going first to Toulouse, remarks John Yeardley, we saved about thirty miles of travelling; but it was ill-spared, for one part of the road was so bad that it required a forespan of two oxen to drag the carriage through the deep mire and over the dangerous ditches. After a little dinner at a poor place in the mountains, we procured a mule as a reinforcement; for we stuck so fast in the mud that I never expected we should be able to extricate ourselves. My poor M.Y. had to walk a great part of the way; I am quite sure extra strength was given us for the emergency. We lodged at Mazères, where we called on the Protestant minister Bésière, a most open-hearted Christian. He knew some of our Society, and wherever this is the case it insures us a welcome. On our telling him the dangers we had encountered on the road, and that we had escaped unhurt, he sweetly said,--"The Angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him, and delivereth them."--Psal. xxxiv. 7. On arriving at Saverdun, on the 17th, we immediately pursued the object of our visit, and proceeded to the Institution, where we delivered our letters of recommendation, and received a cordial reception from the director, Pastor Enjalbal. When the _little porters_ opened the door, they cried one to another, "Voilà des Anglais!" The director seems to be wonderfully fitted for the post he fills. He was once a captain in the army. After his conversion, his heart was penetrated with gratitude to his Saviour for bringing him to a knowledge of the truth, and he desired to devote the remainder of his days in doing good to his fellow-creatures, particularly in the instruction of youth. The project of the Saverdun school was then in agitation, and a manager was wanted. The excellent Pastor Chabrand applied to him, knowing him to be the man for the office if he would only undertake it. When he visited him for this purpose on behalf of the committee, he found him in his chamber weeping, and, as his confidential friend, he asked him what was the matter. "Why," said he, "my heart overflows with love to the Saviour, for all that he has done for me, and I seem to live without doing anything for his cause in return." "Well," said the pastor, "but the way is now open for you; I am come with a proposal from the committee for you to accept the government of the Saverdun Institution; but I will not have an answer from you at present: weigh the matter for a fortnight, and I will come again and receive your decision." A sense of duty decided him to accept the offer. The superintendent conducted us to the members of the committee, to whom we had brought a kind introduction from Pastor Frossard of Nismes. The supporters of this institution, are the most influential in the town, rich, and withal pious characters. The Mayor, their secretary, is very active: he with his wife, an excellent woman, and several members of the committee, met us in the evening at our inn; they appeared to be greatly interested in works of benevolence, and in everything connected with religion and education. _Toulouse_, 3 _mo_. 20.--We arrived in this great and busy city on Seventh-day evening. Our first call was on the brothers Courtois, to whom we had letters of introduction from our Christian friends at Nismes. They received us in a most cordial manner and were very open and communicative. On First-day morning, after our little meeting, we called on Professor F. Banner; he was rejoiced to see my M.Y., whom he knew at Congenies twenty years ago. He was then a Roman Catholic; indeed, in name he is not changed; but he is become very spiritually-minded, and much attached to Friends and our principles, believing them, as he said, to be the nearest in accordance of any with the doctrines of the New Testament. He has been, with his wife, several times to our hotel, and we feel sweet unity with his quiet exercised spirit. His situation here is important, having a boarding-school for the children of Protestants, with a few Roman Catholics, his piety and sincerity securing to him the confidence of both parties, which is matter of wonder in this day of religious conflict. He is one of those characters, more of whom we are desirous of finding; one who wishes rather to enlighten than to censure the dark prejudices of men. We spent the evening with our kind friends the Courtois, and attended worship in their house. F.C. read the parable of the great supper (Luke xiv.), and made some remarks in explication of it; after which Pastor Chabrand spoke with much feeling on the influence of the Holy Spirit, the gradual operation of the Spirit in the secret of the soul, and the preciousness of dwelling in Christ, as the branch in the vine, in order to bear fruit. Pastor Chabrand told us in conversation that the first time he really saw the state of his soul and his need of a Saviour, was in the meeting-house at Westminster during half an hour's silence. After this time of precious silence a minister arose[8] and spoke in so remarkable a manner to his state, unfolding the history of his life, that he was melted to tears. Ever since that time he has appreciated the principles of our religious Society, and particularly our practice of waiting upon God in silence. These remarks opened our way to speak on a subject which has often given us pain in our intercourse with pious people, viz., the practice of going suddenly from one religious exercise to another. We expressed our opinion that Christians, in general, in their worship, would derive more edification from what is spoken, if they were to dwell under the good feeling which is sometimes raised, before passing so precipitately to singing, or even to prayer. With this he entirely agreed, and thought it a point of the utmost importance; he wished it could be put in practice, for their church in general suffered loss for want of more quiet gathering of spirit before God. John and Martha Yeardley did not go further towards the west than Toulouse; on quitting that city they turned northwards to Montauban. For several days, so they write, before reaching the extent of our journey westward, we travelled through a fertile country, having the Pyrenean mountains on the south, covered with snow, a magnificent sight for those who travel to see the beauties of nature, but our hearts are often too heavy to enjoy them. _Montauban_, 3 _mo_. 23.--Last evening we reached this pretty town, part of which is built on a high cliff overlooking the river Tarn, and commanding an extensive view over a fertile plain. Our first call was on Professor Monod; his wife is an Englishwoman; she was pleased to see her compatriots, and introduced us to Professor de Félice and some other pious individuals. Professor Monod invited us to spend the evening at their house, along with a number of persons who join in their family reading, and we did not think it right to refuse the invitation. A pretty large company assembled in the professor's room at 8 o'clock, among whom were some students of the college. The eighth chapter of the Epistle to the Romans was read, and some remarks made by the professor; he then kindly said, if we had any word of exhortation in our hearts, he hoped we should feel quite at liberty to express it. We felt it right to make some observations with reference to the fore-part of the chapter, which sets forth that state of Christian experience in which the mind is prepared to participate in the many precious promises contained in the middle and latter portions; ability was also given us to express our faith in the one Saviour and Mediator, and in the influence and guidance of the Holy Spirit, and his office in the sanctification of the soul. This favored opportunity closed with supplication. We are well satisfied with our visit to this place; it has removed some prejudices from our minds, and perhaps may have shown to those with whom we have had intercourse that Friends are sound in the faith. The short time we spent with Professor de Félice has left a sweet impression on our minds. He mourned over the want of spiritual life among the Protestants of Montauban, amid, as he said, "much preaching, and many appeals to conscience." At Castres, where they stopped on the 26th, they visited the Orphan House, and held intercourse with the pastors, and with a pious lawyer. On our journey, says John Yeardley, we had heard of a man near this town who bore the name of Quaker, and we inquired of the lawyer if he knew whether he was sound in the Christian faith. The lawyer spoke with respect of the so-called Quaker, but thought that in his opinions he favored Arianism. "If so," said I, rather hastily, "we will not seek him or recognize." "Why," said the advocate, "it is the very reason you should go to see him, and try to do him good." At this reply my conscience was stung on account of my hasty conclusion; and after reflecting on the matter, we walked next morning five or six miles into the country in search of the new Friend. He received us with joy, and we soon satisfied ourselves as to his soundness in the Christian faith; but he was rather ardent in his expectations of the reign of Christ on the earth. Twenty years ago he refused to take an oath on a jury; the judge told him he must go to prison, to which the Friend replied, "I am willing to go to prison, but I cannot swear to condemn any person to death; if you place me as juryman I shall acquit all the criminals." The judge, believing his scruples to be sincere, dismissed him without further trouble. This dear man attached himself to us in such a manner that it was difficult to part from him; he pressed us to remain some days in his house, but this our duty did not permit. From Castres they returned through Béziers to Nismes, visiting various little companies of Protestants by the way, and arrived in the latter city on the 1st of the Fourth Month. They found that the school had increased in numbers, and the scholars had made good progress. On entering the school-room, says J.Y., the girls all flocked to us, their black eyes sparkling with joy, while they clung round us with their little arms to be embraced. The harmony and peaceful feelings which pervade the family are truly comforting to our hearts. In taking a retrospect of what they had done up to this time, they write thus to their Friends in England:-- The manner in which our gracious Lord has condescended to open the way for a portion of labor in this part of his vineyard, adds a grain to our faith: the service which has hitherto fallen to our lot on this journey is of that nature towards which we had a view before we left our native land; and we are bound gratefully to acknowledge, amid many conflicts and discouragements, that sweet peace is sometimes our portion. But our dear friends in England will readily conceive that our baptisms are various and deep, during our separation from the bosom of our own little visible church; and we hope to retain a place in their sympathy and prayers, when they are favored with access to the throne of mercy. Our love flows freely and unceasingly to all our dear friends, from whom it is always comforting to hear. Brethren, pray for us, that the word of the Lord may have free course and be glorified. On the 18th of the Fourth Month they again left Nismes, and commenced their journey towards Switzerland, accompanied, as before, by Jules Paradon. On their way to Grenoble, they had opportunities of spreading many copies of the _Scripture Extracts_, which they had with them, among the Roman Catholics; and they had also some interesting conversation with individuals of that profession. At Tullins, they write, the eagerness to receive books was so great, that a crowd soon assembled around us, and we found it difficult to satisfy them; again, at the moment of our departure, they pressed round our carriage, and we could hardly separate ourselves from them. On the 22nd (to continue their own narrative) we arrived at Grenoble, with a view to spend First-day there. A letter from one of our acquaintances at Nismes to Pastor Bonifas procured us a kind reception, and he invited us to spend First-day evening at his house, where a meeting was to be held. We did not, however, feel quite at liberty to attend, as we found the regular church-service would be performed. The next day we received another invitation from the Pastor to a meeting where only the Scriptures would be read. We thought it best to accept it, and by going a little before the time proposed, we had a very interesting conversation with the Pastor, his wife, and a young Englishwoman, on our peculiar views. The meeting was an assembly of various classes, with a preponderance of young persons, and was a very interesting occasion: many of the young people were deeply affected. In the morning of this day we had been to see an aged Catholic woman of the Jansenist persuasion: she appeared to have no dependence but on her Saviour, and, full of faith and love, to have her conversation in heaven; she gave us a sweet benediction at parting. They left Grenoble on the 25th, and pursued their way by Chambéry to Geneva, taking care to dispose of most of their French tracts by the way, lest they should be stopped at the Savoy custom-house. They arrived in the city of Calvin on the 27th. Here, as on former occasions, they found much to interest them. Several of the ministers and professors whom they had known before, seemed to have become more spiritually-minded; and with the flock of the deceased Pastor Monnié, in particular, "of precious memory," they were united in near Christian fellowship. It seems to us, they write, that the feeling is spreading of the necessity of the immediate guidance of the Holy Spirit; and we believe that this view of the gospel, with that of the universality of divine love, is much more calculated to win upon unbelievers, and to enlighten Romanists, than the high Calvinistic doctrines which have so generally prevailed, and which impede the growth of Christian humility and daily dependence on divine help. At our little meeting on First-day morning, we had the company of a widow and her daughter. The former is like a mother to those around her who are seeking spiritual things, and we were much comforted together. She invited us to tea, and to have a meeting in her house the next evening: a considerable number were collected, among whom were a pastor, several professors, and many females. The pastor read a chapter; and when, after a time of silence, the way opened for communication, it was like casting seed into prepared ground, and the retirement of spirit before the Lord which we recommended seemed really to be experienced before we separated; it was a silence to be felt better than expressed. Amongst other pious persons in this city, they had an introduction to the Countess de Sellon. She received us, says J.Y., with open heart, saying, "I am fond of the principles of your Society, believing they have the real substance of religion, stripped of its forms." She asked us many questions, and we felt sweet unity with her. On the 3rd of the Fifth Month they went to Lausanne, where they renewed their friendship with Professor Gaudin, and had interviews with several other seeking persons. We were, they say, most interested by a pious magistrate, Frossard de Saugy, near relative to a dear friend of ours at Geneva. He inquired respecting the education of children, of whom he has many--by what means he could make them sensible of vital religion. We replied that all we could do was to represent to them the love and mercy of our blessed Redeemer, and recommend them to cherish the convictions of his Holy Spirit, which are very early bestowed upon us all: he entirely united in our views. From Lausanne they went to Yverdun, and the day after to Neufchâtel. Since their last visit in 1834, some who were very dear to them had been summoned to eternal rest, which cast a shade of natural sorrow over their entrance into the place: and they were called upon, in addition, deeply to sympathise with some of those who remained. The family of Professor Pétavel has sustained a great loss in the death of his eldest son, accompanied, by circumstances peculiarly striking. This young man was about nineteen years of age. He had been very serious for some time before his illness, and wished much to be employed as a missionary. Early instructed by his mother in the importance of seeking divine influence, his mind was prepared to receive the baptism of the Holy Spirit; and he had a deep conflict to pass through, which he confided to his mother, and which he seemed to think was the presage to suffering. In performing some gymnastic exercises he received a fall on the head, which after some time was followed by a paralytic affection of the whole body, so that he became entirely helpless, and his speech was taken away. It was only his tender mother who could ascertain his wants and administer to them, which she did with unceasing assiduity. After about six months his speech was almost miraculously restored, and he used it in praising the Lord for the remarkable support and consolation of his Spirit. He said he had been sensible of all that had passed, and that he had been abundantly confirmed in the belief that true religion consists in hearing the voice of our blessed Redeemer, and seeking to do his will. After some time the capability of speaking much again forsook him; yet he lingered some months longer, and when M.Y. beheld him soon after our arrival, he appeared like a precious lamb purified, and waiting to be gathered to the everlasting fold. The resignation of his parents was truly edifying: they proposed that we should both come the next day, and sit quietly beside him for a while. This proved a deeply impressive time; the presence of the Great Shepherd was evidently with us, and called forth thanksgiving for the mercies received and the deliverance anticipated. While listening to a few words addressed to him at parting, he fixed his dying eyes upon us with an expression not to be forgotten, and before midnight the precious spirit was received into the arms of its Saviour. As we left for Locle early in the morning, we did not hear of this until our return the day following. Their visit to their favorite orphan-institution was, as ever, very interesting. They thus describe the state in which they found it:-- Our dear German friend M. Zimmerlin, the associate of dear M. A. Calame, still lives: she received us with overflowing affection. After tea, which we took there, she hastened to show us the improvements in the premises, which, she said, our kind friends in England had contributed to procure by their donations through us. The institution appears to be now in excellent order. In the evening, the children, 138 in number, were collected with the mistresses and family, and we had a very satisfactory opportunity with them. The same precious influence seems to prevail which we have noticed heretofore. They returned to Neufchâtel the next evening, where they heard that the remains of Paul Pétavel were to be interred the next day. His father, they add, was desirous that the meeting we intended to hold with our friends should be held at his house that evening. When M.Y. went to see the family, she found the parents fall of gratitude and praise. The funeral was attended by the students from the college, and a large number of others; for the professor is much beloved, and the affecting situation of his son has been a lesson of instruction to the young people who used to associate with him, and seems to have had an effect on the whole town. The evening of this day proved to be a memorable time: a considerable number were collected, among whom were several pastors and a number of young persons. I seldom, says J.Y., remember to have attended a more solemn occasion. The Saviour's presence was near, to console and instruct. After my M.Y. and I had relieved our minds in testimony and supplication, the professor and the other pastors spoke with much feeling; I think it was evident they were constrained by the Spirit. We parted (to resume the words of their joint epistle) from the family under a strong conviction of the support and consolation which those experience who depend in living faith upon their blessed Redeemer. From Neufchâtel, John and Martha Yeardley went to Berne, where they renewed the bond of friendship with those to whose spiritual state they had ministered in former years. With these they united several times in worship and in social religious intercourse. At the close of one of these meetings, the lady of the house, an active and benevolent character, acknowledged, that she was sensible of the truth of what they had heard, and believed that in the present day the Lord was leading many of his devoted children to listen to his voice, that they might be brought more under the teachings of his Spirit, and from this would flow their consolation. "This (they observe) is the more remarkable, as, when we were here before, she held views on election and the _finished_ work of grace, almost to the exclusion of the work of 'regeneration and the renewing of the Holy Ghost.'" We find in some here, writes John Yeardley in his Diary, a desire for food of a more spiritual nature: they really enjoy waiting on the Lord in silence; but the customary activity is strong, and not easily broken through. I trust the day will come when silence will more prevail in the assemblies of the people. We left Berne with feelings of peace and of much affection for many in that place, and thankful to our Heavenly Father, in that he had prepared the hearts of his people to receive the invitation to feed on that spiritual food which alone can nourish the soul to eternal life. They arrived at Basle on the 17th. Since they had visited this city in 1834, Hoffmann, the director of the institution at Kornthal, had succeeded Blumhardt in the superintendence of the Mission-house. He received them with his usual kindness, and one evening they supped with the students, and had a religious meeting with them. They spent another evening with a pious family, where several missionaries and pastors were present. In speaking of this occasion, John and Martha Yeardley were led into a reflection which deserves to be pondered by Christians of every name. Before separating, they say, the Scriptures were read, and some of the missionaries spoke on the importance of uniting in desire for a more general outpouring of the Spirit: J.Y. also spoke much to the same effect. It was, we trust, a profitable season; but the reflection arose on this occasion, as it has done on some others when among serious persons not of our profession, that if they would but suffer the degree of divine influence mercifully afforded thoroughly to baptize the heart with the true baptism, much creaturely activity would be done away, and the light of the gospel would shine in them and through them in much greater purity. We paid and received visits, they continue, from some of the _Intérieurs_ whom we had known before, and had to lament something of a visionary spirit in the midst of right feeling. We recommended simplicity, and close attention to the Scriptures and to the Shepherd's voice. One day John Yeardley went into the mountains to see an establishment called the Pilgrim Mission Institution, where he was interested in meeting three young men from Syria, who had come there to escape the scenes of war in their own country, and with the desire to be rendered capable of instructing their countrymen. They left Basle on the 22nd, and entered Germany. They were, for a time, a good deal embarrassed with the change of language from French to German, having had little or no occasion to use the latter tongue during their journey. They stopped at Carlsruhe, where they called, with an introduction, on the Princess of Würtemberg. She received us, they say, very kindly, and we had a satisfactory interview with her, and also with an interesting female who has the charge of her children. After much conversation with the princess in French, she introduced us to her three lovely children, and asked J.Y. to give them a word of exhortation. We remained silent awhile, and, under a precious feeling, offered prayer for the divine blessing on this family and all its branches; after which the word of sympathy and exhortation flowed freely. At parting, the princess took a cordial leave of us, and said she received our visit as a blessing from the Lord. The next day they pursued their way towards Pyrmont. Being weary with travelling, and their horses also needing rest, they tarried two days at Frankfort. Here they saw their old friend Von Meyer; and spent much of their time in the company of Dr. Pinkerton. "I was instructed," says J.Y., "with seeing the charity and Christian meekness in which he daily lives." On the 3rd of the Sixth Month they reached Pyrmont, where they remained a few weeks. They attended on the 2nd of the Seventh Month the Two-months' Meeting, at Minden. Many peasants were present in the meeting for worship, and on John and Martha Yeardley's return to Pyrmont, some of them came to the meeting there on First-day, and begged the Friends to go to Vlotho to meet a company of their brethren. They gave the peasants liberty to call a meeting at that place for Third-day, the 18th. On Second-day, as they were setting off, an accident happened to John Yeardley. He had left the horse's head, writes M.Y., to attend to placing the baggage, when, hearing another carriage drive rapidly up, our horse set off, and my J.Y., in attempting to stop him by catching hold of the reins, fell, and was much bruised, but through mercy no limb was broken. We applied what means were in our power, and I urged our remaining at Pyrmont, and sending to defer the meeting; but he would go on to Lemgo. His whole frame was much shaken, and we passed a sleepless night, so that the meeting next day was not a little formidable. It proved a much longer journey to Vlotho than we had expected; when we arrived we found a large number assembled. Five of our Friends came from Minden to meet us, and it was a remarkable meeting, notwithstanding we had gone to it under so much discouragement: we have cause to bless and adore our Divine Master, who caused his presence to be felt amongst us. August Mundhenck interpreted for J.Y. and for me. J.R. also suffered his voice to be acceptably heard in testimony, after which the meeting closed in solemn supplication. We pursued our way that night to Bielefeld and the next day towards the Rhine. On their way home they stopped at Düsseldorf. The ten years which had gone by since they had visited the Orphan Asylum at Düsselthal, near this town, had wrought a great change in the physical condition of Count Von der Recke. He looked worn and ill, the effect of care and anxiety for his numerous adopted family; but he evinced a spirit of pious resignation, and had a hearty welcome ready for his visitors. They returned to England through Belgium, and arrived in London on the 8th of the Eighth Month. They did not at once return to their home at Scarborough, but spent a month in Hertford, Oxford and Buckinghamshire, attending the meetings of Friends in these counties, and visiting that of Berkhamstead several times. CHAPTER XVI. REMOVAL TO STAMFORD-HILL, AND COMMENCEMENT OF THE FIFTH CONTINENTAL JOURNEY. 1843-48. The tour which John and Martha Yeardley made in and around Buckinghamshire, and which is mentioned at the conclusion of the last chapter, was undertaken in quest of a new place of abode. In a letter from Martha Yeardley to her sister, Mary Tylor, written on the 3rd of the Eleventh Month, she says:-- Thou art aware that we have thought, if way should open of going nearer to you, and of pitching our tent within the Quarterly Meeting of Buckinghamstead. We offered to purchase a cottage at Berkhamstead, but for the present that has quite fallen through: we therefore intend to rest quietly here for the winter, in hopes that in the spring or summer something may offer, either at B. or in that quarter, to which we feel attracted; yet desiring to commit this and all that concerns us into the all-directing hand of our great Lord and Master, who has a right to do with us what seemeth him good. Not long afterwards they purchased a house at Berkhamstead, called Gossom Lodge, to which they removed in the Fourth Month, 1844. Very soon after they had taken possession of their new dwelling, they made a circuit through the meetings of Buckinghamshire and Northamptonshire, holding a few public meetings by the way: and the next summer they undertook a more extensive religious visit--viz., to the six northern counties of England. In the course of the same year we find them meditating a further removal, into the immediate vicinity of London. One of the few entries in his Diary which were made by John Yeardley during this period, speaks of the apprehension of duty under which they contemplated this change: it was written after their removal. For some years past I have often thought the time might come when we might see it right to settle within Stoke Newington Meeting. This feeling now began (1845) to fasten more strongly on our minds than it had done before, and we thought it right to make an effort to let Gossom Lodge, and seek a residence at Stamford Hill; and we have reason to believe that in this important step our prayer has been answered, and that all our deliberations have been guided by that wisdom which is from above. Very strong is my conviction that our Heavenly Father is not unmindful of the outward circumstances of those who seek his counsel, and desire to act under the guidance of his Holy Spirit. We were favored to let our house at Berkhamstead without trouble; the very first person to whom we made it known took it off our hands: and with equal ease we found another dwelling at Stamford Hill, which I consider as a proof that our prayer was heard and answered in this serious step: the signs I had asked were granted. They removed to Stamford Hill on the 2nd of the Twelfth Month, 1845. As soon as they had settled in, John Yeardley became seriously indisposed with his old complaint, which ended in the jaundice. In the course of the spring and summer of 1846 he repaired with M.Y. to Bath, and afterwards to Harrowgate, to seek a restoration of his health. The waters of the last-named place proved, he says, very efficacious both to my beloved M.Y. and myself. My precious dear, he continues, suffered much in her health through the fatigue of nursing me during the winter. How my soul overflows with gratitude to my Heavenly Father that he has united me to such a partner, who takes more than a full share in all my sorrows; and, thanks be unto our God, we have often to rejoice also together in Him! On their return from Harrowgate they visited many of the meetings in London and the vicinity,--a service which they had always had in view, in looking towards a residence at Stamford Hill; and from the Eleventh Month, 1846, to the First Month, 1847, they were occupied in a religious visit to the families of the members and attenders of Gracechurch-street Monthly Meeting, in which their service was very acceptable. The friends appointed to arrange the visits, says J.Y., have done so with willingness and efficiency, and we have, I believe, the help of their spirits. In passing from house to house, we are made sensible of our inability to render aid to others unassisted by the Spirit of our Divine Master. Wherever we have gone we have been received with kindness and Christian cordiality; and in thus being permitted to mingle our feelings with those who are bound up with us in religious profession, we feel sweet peace and comfort, and our hearts are filled with thankfulness to the Lord, that he has enabled us to do that which we believe he put in our hearts. They returned the minute which had been granted them for this service on the 6th of the First Month. Many who read this Memoir will remember how the tidings of the death of Joseph John Gurney, who suddenly expired on the 5th, spread through the Society, and produced wherever it came an impression of sorrowful but heavenly solemnity. The event is referred to in the notice of this meeting which is contained in the Diary. The meeting for worship was particularly solemn. The spirit of our dear departed friend J.J.G. seemed present with us. The event had impressed our minds with the awful uncertainty of time. My dear M.Y. ministered to our comfort, and so did dear ----. I was constrained, under a sense that the Lord had withdrawn many laborers from his vineyard, to lift up a prayer for the remnant that is left, to crave prosperity for the blessed work of grace in the hearts of all present, and to ask for more devotedness to the Lord's cause. The next day they received intelligence of the decease of one of their Scarborough friends, whose dying words are worthy to be preserved in lasting remembrance. 1 _mo_. 7.--On returning from meeting we found a letter informing us of the sudden decease of Isaac Stickney of Scarborough. When the doctor attempted to give him brandy in his sinking state, he said, Doctor, don't cloud my intellect; if this be dying, I die in the arms of Jesus. These last words of my beloved and long-known friend are sweetly consoling to my spirit. In the Second Month of 1848, John Yeardley again prepared to go forth and preach the Gospel in several countries on the Continent of Europe. He was accompanied by his beloved wife, partly in the character of a fellow-laborer, constrained by the force of Christian love to the same field of service, and partly as his companion and helper in countries where she did not otherwise feel herself called to labor. The course of their anticipated travel is described in the following extract from the Diary. They were unable, as it proved, to obtain admission into the Russian Empire; and this part of the mission was accomplished by John Yeardley alone, and at a later period. 1848. 2 _mo_. 8.--At our Monthly Meeting at Gracechurch street, I proposed my concern to visit some parts of South Russia, particularly the German colonies; also some places in the Prussian and Austrian dominions, parts of Switzerland and France, particularly Ardêche, and a few places in Belgium, and to revisit parts of Germany. My precious M.Y. also was constrained in gospel love to tell her friends that she had long thought of a visit to France and Belgium; and, if health permitted, should think it her religious duty to accompany me to South Russia. We had the full unity of our friends, who expressed much sympathy and encouragement, to our great comfort. It is about twenty years since I first thought seriously that I might have to visit the Crimea, and for thirty years I have had a prospect of some parts of Bohemia. Truly the vision has been for an appointed time; and if the period be now come, I trust it is the Lord's time, and that his presence may go with us. Many have been the conflicts and deep the baptisms through which I have passed, before coming to a willingness to offer to do what I believe to be the will of my Divine Master. Feeble as are my powers, I desire they may be devoted to his cause for the remainder of my days; and I do esteem it a great mercy to have arrived at a clear pointing in this important prospect. May the blessing of preservation rest upon the beloved partner of my sorrows and my joys, and on myself; and may He whom we desire to serve heal all our maladies of body and mind! While their attention was thus turned to foreign lands, a storm was gathering in France which in the course of this month burst upon Europe with extraordinary violence, and overturned or endangered half the thrones on the Continent. This convulsed state of the European nations rendered it needful for them to wait a few months before they commenced their undertaking. In the Seventh Month, John Yeardley speaks of having obtained the further concurrence of the church, and of the feelings which the immediate prospect of the journey awakened in his mind. 7 _mo_. 1.--At the Quarterly Meeting, and also at the Yearly Meeting of Ministers and Elders, our friends entered very fully into our proposed visit to the Continent. The expression of sympathy and full unity was abundant; there was a strong evidence of the good presence of the Lord being near during the deliberations, which proved a strength and comfort to myself and my beloved partner. The needful certificates are now all in our possession, and are expressed in terms the most appropriate and encouraging. My mind is deeply humbled at the near approach of our departure, in the present state of affairs on the continent of Europe: but I feel a confiding hope in the divine power for protection and safe guidance. May the Lord Almighty give us strength and resignation to commit our lives into his hand, and to say, Thy will be done. Amen! This series of travels was the last in which John and Martha Yeardley were to be engaged as joint-laborers in their Lord's work. The health of the latter had been for several years seriously affected; and although she continued to take a deep interest in the spiritual condition of the countries they had visited before, and was enabled to the end to afford her husband the assistance of her strong sympathy and of her religious exercise of mind, the fatigue of constant travelling told more and more upon her enfeebled frame, and she did not long survive the accomplishment of this journey. John Yeardley, less advanced in years, and possessing a hardy constitution, had not yet lost the fire of his earlier days. The same spring and impulse was still strong within him which had animated him in former journeys, and which those who knew him in middle life will not fail to remember. Some of these will have before them the mental image of his person and manner--the fixed resolution, the concentrated mind, the ardent and devoted spirit, which shone through his impressive countenance and his whole figure, when he was engaged in his Lord's work; and perhaps also they may call to mind the very words of faithful counsel, or of encouragement, drawn from the well-spring of gospel sympathy, which fell from his lips. John and Martha Yeardley did not accomplish the extensive mission which now lay before them at one stroke, but in three stages, returning to England between each. The most prominent object in the first journey was Belgium; in the second, the Rhine country; in the third, they were called to sow seeds of Christian doctrine in lands lying beyond the limit of any former travel--viz., in Silesia and Bohemia. This was the first time that the Roman Catholic country of Belgium had called forth the exercise of their Christian charity. They left London in the Seventh Month, and spent about three weeks in travelling through the country, resting chiefly at Ghent, Brussels, Charleroi and Spa. They were accompanied as far as Brussels by Robert and Christine Alsop, and through the whole journey, by an ingenuous young man whom they had engaged to assist them, named Adolphe Rochedieu. The religious opening which awaited them at Brussels was very encouraging; few incidents which arose in the course of their numerous journeys were of a more animating character than the acquaintance which they made with the pastor Van Maasdyk and some of his flock. We give the narrative from J.Y.'s Diary and letters. 7 _mo_. 19.--H. Van Maasdyk paid us a long visit this morning. He was educated in a convent in Belgium, and becoming a priest, he exercised the functions which devolved upon him with much credit to himself, and to the satisfaction of his superiors, until the year 1836. He possessed a Bible in Latin, which he never read. He had the cure of a large parish, in which, down to the year above mentioned, there was not a single copy of the Scriptures in the Flemish tongue. About that time the colporteurs introduced the New Testament in Flemish, and some copies of the Bible, which greatly excited the priests, and in particular the bishop, who said the translation was mutilated and falsified, and commanded that the members of the Catholic Church who had received copies, should either burn them themselves, or bring them to the curés for that purpose. Van Maasdyk's parishioners accordingly brought their Bibles and Testaments (five copies) to him to be burned. He was zealous in the Romish faith, and had preached violently against the distributors of the wicked books, as they were called; and he was about to fulfil the command to burn them, when suddenly he felt something in his heart which restrained him, and he thought, I will at least first examine the foundation of the bishop's charges. He took up his Latin Bible, and placing beside it the copy in Flemish, began with the charge of mutilation. He found it not at all abridged. He then went to the charge of falsification, and found the two copies to agree with slight variations here and there; in fact, the modern translation proved to have been made from the Vulgate, which was the one in his possession. He read the denunciation of our Saviour, "Woe unto you Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites," and it struck him forcibly; he felt that he must say, "Woe is me, I am one of those who deceive the people." He read again, "There is one Mediator between God and man;" and here again his conscience smote him: "Woe is me, I teach the people in their confessions that the saints make intercession." His sorrow was so deep, that he thought he could die a thousand deaths rather than continue a Romish priest. Now his persecution began. He was beloved by his flock, who entreated him not to leave them. After much conflict of mind, he wrote a decided letter to his bishop, who in the end gave him his dismissal. Still feeling himself called to proclaim the Gospel, he began to assemble the people in little companies, and to instruct them in the Scriptures. At the entreaty of his friends he settled at Brussels, where there was a wide field for labor amongst the poorest of the Roman Catholics, who speak only Flemish. His congregation consisted at first of some fifteen or twenty persons; but such was the success he met with, that they have been obliged four or five times in succession to seek a larger building, and his congregation now consists of 500. He is said to be one of the most powerful preachers in the Flemish language. It is delightful to be in his company; his heart is filled with gratitude, and his eyes sparkle with joy, when he is with those who love the Saviour. Nothing is paid him by his congregation; he has a little property of his own, and sometimes receives a little help from the Adolphus Society. After a long conversation with him on the spiritual nature of worship, he took us to see some of his flock, with whom we had family sittings from house to house. This is exactly the class our hearts longed to visit; thanks be to our Heavenly Father who has thus opened our way. 20_th_.--The meeting at Pastor Marzial's last evening was much larger than we had expected. Van Maasdyk came in unexpectedly after the service which had been held at his dwelling, and with him a part of his flock. Many of the company were those who had renounced Romanism; some of the young men interested us exceedingly. I had a deal of conversation with them as to their religious experience. There were several young Germans among them, who are residing in Brussels; with these I conversed in their own language, which was highly gratifying to them. As Pastor Marzial speaks English well, I clung to him in the hope of having him for an interpreter; but he encouraged me to speak as well as I could in French, as the natives like it much better, and consider it a compliment to their language. This made me very low, it being a company of well-educated persons, and I asked Van Maasdyk what I should do. I would rather, he replied, hear ten words from your own mouth, than ten thousand through the mouth of another; we shall understand you, and what comes from the heart goes to the heart. This settled the question; I gave myself up to the language, and was helped through. My M.Y. was favored in her communication. After a short address from M., I concluded the meeting with supplication, also in French. I do believe the Spirit was poured upon us from on high; many hearts were touched, and tears flowed freely from many eyes. The Lord has indeed opened a wide door for us in this place; the dear people follow us from meeting to meeting, entreating us for an opportunity of the like kind in their own houses; but we must be watchful to see our own way. However, if the oil is staid, it is not for want of vessels, for what we have to communicate seems like seed cast into the prepared ground. May the Lord himself be their teacher, and carry on his own work; for it is most assuredly his. To those who are spiritually minded, to hear of a society holding spiritual views, is like marrow to their bones. It is not so much what we are able to say to them, but our being as living witnesses to the truth which these awakened people feel in their own hearts. 21_st_.--Attended a meeting of Van Maasdyk's in the poorer district of Brussels; about seventy to eighty persons present, consisting of converted Romanists, seeking Protestants, and two awakened Jews. Two of the company were blind men, very pious, who gain their living by selling matches. Our friend read, explained, and applied the tenth chapter of John, in Flemish; he also interpreted for me a few words, which I spoke in German. On their way to Charleroi, after passing through Mons, they traversed the great Belgium iron and coal country, where the people speak a patois but understand French. Here they made a free distribution of the religious tracts they had taken with them, and found an able co-adjutor in their postillion. When he understood what their object was, he allowed few opportunities to pass by without putting these little messengers into the hands of his fellow-countrymen. At Charleroi, where they arrived on the 22d, they enjoyed Christian association of the most interesting kind, especially with Pastors Poinsot and Jaccard, and with Marzial, who followed them from Brussels. They seem to have found much more of the life of religion among the newly-awakened in Belgium than they had expected. We have, says J.Y., good reason to believe that the burden we have so long felt for the inhabitants in some parts of Belgium was laid upon us by our Divine Master, who is now pleased to make way for us to throw it off; thanks be to his great name. From Charleroi they went by Liège to Spa, where they procured a lodging in order to enjoy a period of needful rest. The tracts they gave away on the road were received with eagerness. Adolphe handed them out freely right and left, and when any one hesitated to take them, a significant nod from the postillion never failed to secure a ready reception. The country from Namur to Liège, writes John Yeardley, and particularly from Liège to Spa, is beautiful, the road running along the banks of the Meuse, amid wooded rocks. These are the works of my Heavenly Father, but I sigh after the workmanship of his hands, created after his own image. Passing over several incidents of religious intercourse and labor, we select a circumstance which illustrates the state of the country, and of their own feelings in relation to it. Under date of Spa, the 2nd of the Eighth Month, John Yeardley says:-- My M.Y. made acquaintance with an interesting young woman in a shop, and gave her some of the _Scripture Extracts_. She came to us last evening, and remained some time conversing on the Romish religion. She had never seen the Bible. When we asked her what was the nature of the mass, she said she did not understand it, but she attended it because others did. We gave her the Bible used by ourselves, having no other at our disposal. Her eyes sparkled with joy at the newly-acquired treasure. Her heart is touched by the Spirit of God, and I humbly hope her eyes will be enlightened to seek for strength independently of her blind guides. I never saw and felt more sensibly the awful account the priests will have to give for thus deceiving the people in the things which belong to their salvation. On the 3rd they quitted Belgium, and proceeded to Bonn. Here they had the pleasure of meeting their old friend, Charles Majors, formerly of Strasburg. In a walk which they took with him, they renewed the sweet intercourse of former days. 8 _mo_. 5.--We took a walk with Majors and his family to the top of "Mount Calvary," and mounted a steep hill pitched with sharp stones, on which the poor Romanists go barefooted, repeating prayers at each station, supposed to be as many as the times when our Lord rested when bearing his cross from the gate of Jerusalem to Mount Calvary. Having descended, we sat down at the foot of a cross, and spoke of Him who bore our sins on the cross in his own body. A desire was felt and expressed that the little company might ever dwell near to Him who died on the cross. At Mannheim, John Yeardley writes:-- I took a walk in the public gardens, opposite the Hotel de l'Europe, where we lodge. All very quiet without, and I felt peaceful within myself, reading a chapter and sitting alone. The Spirit of my Divine Master was near, and I felt assured that there was something in this place with which we could unite. They found here a little company, who met together without any regular pastor. "They gave us", says John Yeardley, "a cordial reception, and their countenances indicated that they had been with Jesus; and, although scattered as sheep among wolves, they appeared to belong to the fold of the true Shepherd. After a few family calls, we were conducted to the house of a pious widow, where the meetings were usually held. As we were in haste, these Christian people kindly appointed a meeting for worship, to be held the same evening, to receive our visit, which, through divine mercy, proved like a refreshing brook by the way: the Saviour's presence being over us, his doctrine dropped like dew on the thirsty ground."[9] At Strasburg they found Pastor Ehrmann, and several other pious persons whom they had known in 1833, with whom and with some others they had much conversation on religious subjects, and were called upon to explain the views held by Friends, particularly on marriage, education, and the care of the poor. "Before parting", says John Yeardley, M. Passavant asked for silence, and we had a sweet time of religious communion, in which consolation and encouragement were offered, and thanks rendered for the favor of being permitted to meet together, and for the favor of the Divine Presence. Basle was their next halting-place. A letter written by Martha Yeardley from this city, contains some notice of the social and religious life by which their tarriance in foreign cities was characterised, and of her own peculiar position as a gospel minister. The pious Spittler, she says, has just been with us; he is still full of faith and good works. M.L., whom we knew as a nice girl at Corfu, is married to a serious merchant of this place; a sister of C. Majors' wife at Bonn, with her husband, also resides here; and we have fixed to take tea with them and some of their friends to-morrow evening. My J.Y. is gone with a converted Jew, Spittler, and one who has been a missionary to Jerusalem, to a lecture this afternoon, where it is probable he may have an opportunity of speaking to those assembled. As it is to be all German, I excused myself in order to rest and continue my letter. I have deeply felt on this journey, as on others, that it is difficult for females to make their way as gospel ministers; we have always found it tolerated, but I am always sensible of a prejudice against it. On some occasions my J.Y. has explained our views on this important subject. 15_th_.--Yesterday we went to see a remarkably interesting institution for missionaries, on the top of a high mountain, called Chrischona Berg. It was established by Spittler, and, is well worth the trouble of a little fatigue in getting to it. Twelve young men of the poorer class, who have offered themselves from a sense of duty to become missionaries, are there taught various languages, and retained until some field of labor opens for them to which they feel bound. It is also a working institution; they are taught various trades, in order that when they go out they may earn their living. After viewing the premises and hearing a lesson in Arabic, we saw the pupils assembled in the schoolroom. Instead of a hymn in English, which they had learned, we asked for a little silence, which was felt to be precious. My J.Y. then addressed them in German, and was much helped. The superintendent, a very interesting man, was in England for some time; and in consequence of a hurt received on the head in Malta, was sent to the _Retreat_ at York, where he became acquainted with several Friends, Samuel Tuke in particular. Under the gentle treatment there he recovered, but he lost his wife and one child at York, and has left two others in England. I felt much for him, and ventured to offer him a little consolation, and also to express my interest for the institution, which Spittler desired him to repeat in German.--(_Letter to Mary Tylor_, 8 _mo_. 13.) Whilst at Basle they visited Pastor Lindel, an old friend of theirs. He related to them that he had been some time before applied to, to join the Evangelical Alliance. "I told them," he said, "we have got further than you have. In looking over your rules, I observe there is a class of Christians in England whom you exclude; and we can receive them. Our bond of union extends much beyond yours; it embraces, without any distinction, all who love the Lord Jesus Christ." From Basle they went to Berne and Neufchâtel. Their visit to these favorite spots was, as at former times, accompanied by a good measure of the blessing of the gospel of Christ. 18_th_. _Berne_.--Many of our former friends having heard of our arrival, came this morning to our inn; and having called together a few other serious persons, we had a precious meeting. They have suffered much since our last visit; our hearts were dipped into sympathy for them, and our tears were mingled together. The Lord's presence was over us, and he caused the word of consolation, exhortation, and supplication to flow freely. Some precious souls whom we have known in this place have been taken to their rest since we last saw them. Soon shall we also be inquired after and not found! Lord, grant that we may be prepared to meet thee at thy coming! 20_th. Neufchâtel, First-day_.--The meeting was held in a saloon at our hotel, (_Des Alpes_). The room was quite crowded; we were surprised to see them continue to come in, by twos and threes together, at so short a notice. The unhallowed thought arose, Where shall we find bread to feed this multitude? But, thanks to Him who is the Bread of Life, he dispensed food to the refreshing of our souls. My M.Y. supplicated for us, and the gospel-word flowed freely: the meeting closed with thanksgiving by me. Sad reflections on the political and religious state of the country oppressed their minds while travelling through Switzerland. 21_st_.--In all the times we have visited Neufchâtel, I never saw it look more beautiful. But the place was dull, and a depressed feeling manifested the life of religion to be wanting. Switzerland has suffered through the recent changes in the governments: infidelity is sorrowfully increasing. An abundant harvest has been gathered into the barns, and Nature everywhere smiles on ungrateful man. Woe to the nations when the ungodly bear rule! Persecution still rages in the Canton de Vaud. Speaking of the great advantage which an acquaintance with the French and German languages afforded them, John Yeardley observes:-- How I long that some of our dear young friends in England might give up their minds and a portion of their time to the acquisition of these languages--and, above all, give up their hearts to be prepared for the Lord's work! How wide is the field of labor! From Neufchâtel they proceeded to Geneva, and thence to Grenoble. Here they were received in the most open-hearted manner by the Protestant minister, Amand; but their feelings were severely tried by the martial display which the city presented. 26_th._--On arriving at Grenoble, we inquired the name of the Protestant minister, and called on him without loss of time. So soon as he understood the object of our journey, he offered us his chapel for a meeting; or, if it would be more agreeable to us, he would convoke a meeting in the schoolroom for to-morrow evening with a number of persons who usually meet there. We accepted the latter proposal. It is comforting to find such a brother in the gospel; but O for the morrow! how my heart fails me for fear! Lord, help us, and give us to trust in thee! 27_th._--This day is a day of suffering. The soldiers, the drums, the trumpets, with the shouting and dancing of the people, is enough to sink the heart of the reflecting Christian beyond hope, had he not a refuge in retirement before the Lord. The whole course of the military system tends to evil, and the corruption of manners. The meeting was well attended, and they were thankful in being enabled to mingle in spirit with a company of sincere and pious Christians. The pastor called on them the next day. He had succeeded their good friend Bonifas, spoken of in the journey of 1843. Conversing with him on points on which Christians may differ, he observed, "The Church of Christ is like a great house built on a rock. There are different apartments for the various classes of Christians; but they are in the same house, and on the same rock, Christ." After attending to some other gospel-service at Grenoble, they resumed their journey, held meetings in Valence and the neighborhood, and crossing the Rhone, entered Ardêche. A meeting which they held at Privas was an occasion of remarkable stillness and solemnity. 31_st._--There was a room filled with serious persons, who immediately settled into silence like a Friends' meeting: indeed, I wish our meetings in England were always times of as much good feeling. A chapter, the second of the Acts, was read; after which I supplicated, and my M.Y. spoke in testimony, as well as myself. M.Y. closed the opportunity in supplication. They held another meeting at Vals, a village in the Cevennes mountains, near the town of Aubenas. Lindley Murray Hoag, from America, had had a meeting there not long before. There was no resident pastor, and the schoolmaster called on John and Martha Yeardley, and informed them that when no one was present to preach, the congregation were accustomed to read a sermon, the liturgy, and prayers. They explained to him their objection to written sermons, and he appeared to be sensible of the inconsistency of them with true gospel ministry, but alleged that the people would not be satisfied without having the greater part of the time occupied with "service." As they could not undertake that this should be the case, it was agreed that they should be informed when the usual engagements were concluded, and that the schoolmaster should give notice of their intention to hold a religious meeting. In the morning (First-day), unexpectedly, a young man arrived, who came to see if he could be established in the place as pastor, and the schoolmaster introduced him to J. and M.Y. He raised no objection to their speaking after the service, but the sermon which he preached, as they afterwards found, was on the politics of the day, and when it was concluded, they were still kept waiting during a conference which the consistory had with him. This delay, and their persuasion that the members of the consistory were not the men to sympathise with them in their religious exercise, was exceedingly proving to faith, and they entered the chapel under a pressure of mind almost beyond utterance. After a pause John Yeardley rose and spoke in French, in which he felt himself to be much helped; an influence superior to words was spread abroad, lifting up the messengers above the fear of man. Martha Yeardley followed, inviting the people to come under the teaching of the Holy Spirit, through faith in Christ Jesus, and especially addressing herself to the mothers. They remained at Vals a week. Our lodging, says J.Y., is situated amid scenery the most romantic: high-planted rocks, deep glens, and purling streams. For reading and writing we spend much time on a spacious open gallery, protected from the penetrating rays of the sun by a roof; and in the interstices are creepers, vines, and flowers, delightful and airy. 11_th_.--This has been a trying week. I have been low in mind and suffered much in body, but, thanks to a merciful God, I am restored to comparative health, and my beloved one is better. The peasants who inhabit the mountains can only come to the town on First-days; and as they live dispersed in places almost inaccessible, we concluded to wait over another First-day to see some of them at Vals. We had them invited to the schoolroom. A small number only assembled, but it was a feeling time: I hope a few were instructed, and we were satisfied in having done what we could. From Vals John and Martha Yeardley proceeded to Nismes, where they had some interesting service, both within and beyond the little Society of their fellow-professors. The account given by J.Y. of the way in which one of their evenings was spent may be transcribed. 15_th_.--The wife of De Hauteville came to invite us to spend the evening with a few religious friends, who met at her house for reading the Bible. We had known the pious young woman years before, and were most easy to accept the invitation. The little company mostly knelt down, and waited some time in silence; and then a young man offered a short and sweet prayer. The fourth chapter of the Hebrews was then read, and nearly all present offered a sentiment on the subject, in meekness and in love, though they did not agree in their interpretation. They spoke one after the other, until all seemed tired; looking earnestly at me, as wondering what I would say, not having spoken on the question. At length one of the company asked my opinion. I felt freedom at once to say I found no difficulty in the matter; I could well understand the text, but I could not understand their interpretation of it. This remark surprised them, and raised an air of pleasantness on every countenance. My remarks on the passage closed the subject, and I think they were accorded with in the general. Stillness was then had, and myself and dear M.Y. spoke to the company. There was a precious feeling, and we were glad in not having missed uniting with such spirits in passing an hour or two instructively together. The service which remained for them to do before returning to England consisted chiefly of religions labor amongst the Friends of Congenies and the vicinity, and in printing and distributing a large number of tracts. They found the Society of Friends in a drooping condition as to spiritual things, and in going round to their little meetings, Martha Yeardley felt it to be her last visit, and she labored to clear her conscience towards those among whom she had long been conversant, and for whose eternal welfare she felt deeply concerned. They returned to London on the 20th of the Tenth Month. CHAPTER XVII. COMPLETION OP THE FIFTH CONTINENTAL JOURNEY. 1849-50. The disorganized state of Germany presented a serious obstacle to John and Martha Yeardley's resuming their labors on the Continent. FROM JOHN YEARDLEY TO JOHN KITCHING. Scarborough, 6 mo. 23, 1849. We spent two days at Malton with our dear friends Ann and Esther Priestman, in their delightful new abode on the bank of the river: we were comforted in being at meeting with them on First-day. On Second-day we came to Scarborough, and soon procured two rooms near our own former residence. The sea air and exercise are beneficial to the health of my M.Y. and myself. Scarborough is certainly a most delightful place. The changes in the little society here are great: we miss many whom we knew and loved when we were resident here. It feels pleasant, though mournful, once more to mingle our sympathies with the few Friends who are left. We sometimes sigh under the weight of our burden on account of poor Germany, from which land the accounts continue unsatisfactory. Mannheim, where we had such a sweet little meeting with a few pious persons last year, is now being bombarded; also in several other parts of the Rhine the insurrection is not yet subdued. Our friend Dr. Murray returned on Second-day last from a tour through part of France, Belgium and the Rhine. He told us he was obliged to return after having proceeded as far as Mayence, as the steamers were interrupted in their course beyond that place, south. This is the very line which we had thought to pursue; we cannot tell how soon an alteration may suddenly take place for the better. We must wait in patience, faith and hope. The political horizon soon became clearer, and they resumed their journey on the 2nd of the Eighth Month. They again passed through Belgium, stopping at several places, and distributing a large number of religious tracts. On reaching Elberfeld they were received in a very cordial manner by R. Hockelmann, and they held a satisfactory meeting in that city with a company of serious persons, originally Roman Catholics, who had at first followed Ronge, but afterwards separated from him. John Yeardley says of them: They are rejected by the Lutheran and Reformed Churches. They have adopted the name of German Catholics to attract the Romanists to them. There is real life of religion with some of them; perhaps with still a little obscurity on some important points of doctrine. Light does not always shine clearly all at once; nor is it always obeyed, so as to be received in its fulness. Still more interesting was a meeting they had at Mühlheim on the Ruhr, where, it will be remembered, they found an open door for their ministry on their first continental journey. We give the narrative in John Yeardley's words:-- 8 _mo_. 17.--On our arrival at Mühlheim we received a visit from the three pastors resident here and in the neighborhood, along with Pastor Bochart, from Schaffhausen, whom we had known some years before. One of them, Schultz, immediately asked me if we were not the parties who had held a meeting in a school-room in this place twenty-four years ago. We entered very fully into the awakening that had taken place in this neighborhood. The spiritual seed of Tersteegen has never died out; and they told us of a person, Mühlenbeck, in Sarn, who represents those who are acquainted with the interior life. The youngest minister said directly, I will fetch him. In an hour's time he came again, accompanied by a middle-aged man, much like a good old Friend. He recollected us again, and spoke of our meeting. When we went to see him the next day in the village, he took us to the house in which he had lived in 1825, and placing me in the centre of the room said, There stood thou twenty-four years ago, and preached the gospel in this room; there sat thy dear wife and her friend, with the young man who interpreted for her. They soon set about making a meeting for us, which is to be held this evening in a large room in the house of one of the brethren. O, my Saviour, strengthen us for this evening's work, and forsake us not in the time of need! 18_th_.--The meeting last evening was got well over. There were two rooms filled with men and a few women; their minds seemed sweetly centred on the Source of good. A precious silence prevailed, and I was enabled to address them in German from Acts xi. 23:--"When Barnabas was come to Antioch and had seen the grace of God, he was glad and exhorted them all that with purpose of heart they would cleave unto the Lord." The nature of silent worship was also dwelt upon, and freedom from sin, through repentance and faith in Christ. My M.Y. spoke a few words in German, and I supplicated in the same language. Many hearts are prepared to receive the doctrine of the influence and guidance of the Holy Spirit: it seemed like marrow to their bones. After the meeting some came to our inn, and remained till 10 o'clock. They seemed as if they could not part from us. We spoke of our ministry, missionary journeys, baptism and the Supper, in which we seemed to be one in sentiment and heart. Our short tarriance here has excited curiosity to know who and what we are, and a great desire for books; and a liberal supply has been furnished them. Those tracts on our religious principles are just the food many are prepared to receive. In coming this morning from Mühlheim to Elberfeld, my heart was tendered under a sense of the Lord's mercies. I feel poor and unworthy, but it is impressed on my heart from day to day that my little remaining strength and my few uncertain remaining days must be devoted to my Great Master's cause. I am thankful that we have not through discouragement been deterred from entering on this part of our religious service; for, after all we have passed through on the occasion, I do believe the present time is seasonable.-- (_Diary and Letter_) Before leaving the neighborhood, they had a second meeting at Elberfeld, the holding of which was endangered by the animosity which prevailed between the different religious parties. After the place and hour were advertized, it appeared the room would be required for a missionary meeting. The president of the missionary society was so unfriendly to those who associated with John and Martha Yeardley, that he not only refused to let them have the room, but refused also to let notice be given at his meeting of the alteration in time and place which it was needful to make in theirs. They therefore hastily arranged their meeting for another day, and the alteration was announced in the daily newspaper. The disappointment proved, in the end, to be a subject for thankfulness on their parts; for just before the hour of assembly of the missionary society, an alarming fire broke out, and threw the whole town into commotion; and the missionary meeting was obliged to disperse as soon as the opening hymn had been sung. The Friends' meeting, which took place two days afterwards, was held in quiet. John Yeardley preached on a subject which seems to have engaged his mind ever since he had entered the place,--viz., the Fall of Man. While in Elberfeld he printed a tract on this subject; and in a conversation which he and Martha Yeardley had with a doctor from Charleroi, the doctor told them it was the very thing which was wanted, being exactly adapted to the condition of the numerous sceptics in that part, of whom he had once been one. Their sojourn at Bonn, where they arrived on the 31st of the Eighth Month, was exceedingly cordial to their religious feelings. The persons with whom they were the most intimately united were two ladies, Alexandrine Mackeldey and the Countess Stynum; the latter of whom had come to know the way of salvation during a visit to England. J.Y. describes the opening for service which they found in this city, in a letter to Josiah Forster:-- This morning, the 1st of the Ninth Month, we received an early visit from a pious young woman, _interior_. On her entering the room we felt the Spirit of Jesus was near. As soon as we discovered the piety of her mind, and her sweet and open disposition, I said to her: Now, tell us who there are in this place who are really spiritually-minded persons. She said, I will; and instantly took the pen, and put down about six or seven names, among which was the name of the Countess Stynum. This lady, said she, I am sure, will be rejoiced to see you; she is too weakly to leave her house, but I am going to her and will tell her you are here. Our kind helper soon returned with the expression of a warm desire from the Countess that we would remain tomorrow and hold a meeting in her saloon in the evening, and invite any of our acquaintance, and she would give notice to her own friends. There was so evidently a pointing of the Great Master's finger in this matter, that we were at once constrained to accept the invitation. 9 _mo_. 3.--A little before six o'clock last evening the Countess sent for us to take coffee with her, to have an hour of our company before the meeting. She gave us a hearty reception, and in such Christian simplicity, that we soon felt at perfect ease in her company. She has a well-informed and enlightened mind and a strong understanding, and lives, believe, in the fear of the Lord. She asked many questions about the religious sects in England, as to the state of real piety, their forms, baptism, &c. Then she came to our own Society. I was in poor plight for answering questions; however, I explained the spiritual view we took of those subjects, and asked permission to send her books, in the reception of which she seemed to promise herself much gratification. Her commodious and elegant saloon was conveniently seated and pretty well filled. Our manner of worship was quite new to every one present. We first explained it privately to the countess, who immediately comprehended our view; there was no wish at all shown to sing or read; a precious solemnity prevailed, and I was enabled to speak, in German, first on the nature of our silent worship, then on what [else] rested on my mind. The young woman above-mentioned, A. Mackeldey, interpreted for my dear M.Y., who, I thought, had the best service; and she did it so well and so seriously that the right unction seemed to be preserved, and prevailed over us; and after a supplication in German we parted under a very precious solemnity. A.M. said afterwards that she had been instructed by what she had heard, and was prepared to appreciate the value of silence. She observed, I think it a marked favor of Providence that you should have come at the present perplexing time, to comfort and confirm the faith of some in this place, and of me in particular. Speaking of those with whom they had intercourse in this city, John Yeardley says:-- 9 _mo_. 2.--Should it be the will of our Heavenly Father, I hope we may be permitted to see those precious souls again, and water the seed the Great Husbandman has deposited in their hearts. I consider such little companies, or individuals, as a little leaven working silently in a corrupt mass. I never remember, he writes the next day, to have had more satisfaction in distributing Friends' books, or having intercourse with pious persons, than thus far on the present journey. The thinking part of the people, under the tossing of the present moment, are really thirsting for food more spiritual than they have hitherto received. At Neuwied they were informed that the _Inspirirten_ whom they saw there twenty-four years before, had, with the exception of a few families, emigrated to America, and that those whom they visited at Berlenburg had done the same. From Neuwied they went to Kreuznach. This was a place to which they had no thought of going when they left England; indeed, John Yeardley, though passing near it on former journeys, was not aware of its existence. But when they were at Elberfeld, a swarthy youth from Cape Town, an inmate of the Mission-house at Barmen, mentioned to them that four of his fellow-countrymen had been for a time at Kreuznach. On hearing this place named, it occurred to J.Y. that it would be well for them to take it in their way. They had good reason to believe, before they left the place, that it was the Lord who had directed their steps thither, and that he had prepared the hearts of some who dwelt there to receive them. John Yeardley thus relates what occurred:-- 9 _mo_. 6.--On our sending to a tailor named Ott, he could not come to us by reason of bodily infirmity; but on paying him a visit I found him a meek and spiritual man. He undertook to speak with some others of the same way of thinking, to meet us in our hotel at 7 o'clock. On making it known he found more were desirous of coming than he had expected; a number of young people asked permission to be present, so that our commodious saloon was pretty well filled. We read the fourth chapter of John, and then I addressed the company with great freedom; my M.Y. also spoke in German, and was well understood. Friend Ott said, "You may travel about, and think your journeyings and labors will do but little good, but they will be blest far beyond what you may expect. What you have said this evening has gone to my heart. If we had only some one to whom we could look in holding meetings, we should grow." He was reminded of Him, the Head of his church, to whom we must all look. Of this he was fully aware, but said, as they were mostly of the lower class, they had no room, and the pastors did not encourage such meetings. 7_th_.--This morning our new-made friend accompanied us to three of the villages, to visit several of his friends. We were pleased with the simplicity and real Christian feeling with which, they received us. We arranged for a meeting in one of these places for First-day afternoon, and one with our Kreuznach friends in the evening. My poor soul can only say, Lord, help![10] 8_th_.--Called again on J.A. Ott, and found him looking very serious. He told me he had read farther in the books we left with him, and the more he saw, the more conviction was brought into his mind that what they unfolded was the truth; and that he believed it his duty thoroughly to weigh the matter, and then speak with a few of those who united with him, to see whether they could unite in holding a meeting after our manner, but that it was a serious matter, and they required time to mature it. We were quite of his mind in this respect; at the same time I believe if they had strength to meet together it would be advantageous. 10_th_.--Yesterday we met the little company in Horweiler, a room well filled with souls thirsting, I believe, for spiritual food. "All thy children shall be taught of the Lord," was much dwelt upon by me. My dear M.Y. was wonderfully helped in German. It was a precious season; the presence of the Lord was near, uniting our hearts in him. At 7 o'clock we had the meeting in our room. It was not so lively as the one in the country; but we can thankfully acknowledge the Great Master was near to help in the needful time. It was a day of great exercise of body and mind. Our friend Ott accompanied us throughout the day's labor, and I felt the help of his spirit. There are several villages around Kreuznach (some of which we have visited), where dwell a good many spiritually-minded people, who meet together for improvement. We have just received a sweet visit from Adam Tiegel of Schwabenheim, who is come to have a little talk with us. He seems to be the first who was awakened in 1805, and was made the means of awakening others, who now hold meetings in an old monastery.[11] Passing on to Mannheim, they saw the effects of the revolution in Baden; the fine stone bridge over the Rhine had been blown up, and not yet replaced. The handful of pious persons with whom they had met in 1848 had been preserved in the midst of the danger; and their meetings had been maintained and were increased in numbers. One of these, a widow, told them that, during the bombardment of the city, a cannon-ball had entered her house, and had passed by her bedside when her children were in the room, and also that a shell had burst before her door; but on neither occasion were any of the family hurt.[12] At Stuttgardt they received the affecting intelligence of the decease of Elizabeth Dudley, who died of cholera on the 6th of the Ninth Month. The removal of this, one of her earliest and dearest friends, was a severe stroke to Martha Yeardley, and sensibly affected her bodily health. In a letter to her sisters, of the 14th of the Ninth Month, she thus gives vent to her feelings:-- It would not be possible to set forth in words what we have felt from the affecting intelligence contained in dear R.'s letter. What shall we do but seek ability at the Divine footstool to bow in humble resignation to this afflictive dispensation? I have had for some time a strong impression that something of this kind awaited us in our immediate circle; and it was with a trembling hand that I opened the letters. The tie which bound me to her, and which is now perhaps for a very short time broken, as far as relates to earthly things, was sealed upon my heart by a communion of more than forty-eight years, and includes all the various changes of an eventful life, during which my best feelings were ever cherished and encouraged, both by example and precept, and by the tenderest affection. But I must not dwell upon this subject, lest I become unfitted for the duties which our present engagement daily calls for. To these afflictive tidings was added some discouragement in respect to their proposed journey to Russia. The little hope that John Yeardley still entertained of being allowed to cross the Russian frontier was extinguished by the information he received at Stuttgardt. A large number of the German emigrants who settled in the South Russian colonies were from the neighborhood of this city, and John Yeardley inquired of some of their ministers, who had served in the colonies, how far the country was likely to be accessible to a foreigner going thither to preach the gospel. The information he received was unfavorable, and his endeavors to obtain in this city the signature of the Russian ambassador to his passport were fruitless. They had, however, something to console them under these trials. In all our former travels in Germany, says J.Y., we never experienced such an open door and spirit of inquiry among the people as in the present journey. It is said that there is scarcely a village in all Würtemberg where meetings for worship are not held in private houses. The late revolutionists declare vengeance against these people, the pietists, as they call them, and that if the war breaks out again, they are to be the first to be cut off. But the present king gives them their liberty and his protection, and has openly said the pietists have saved his country.--(_Letter of 9 mo_. 15.) Before they left Stuttgardt they were refreshed by a social evening's recreation, one of those occasions of the familiar intercourse of friendship, under the canopy of divine love, in which John Yeardley especially delighted. 17_th_.--Our two young friends, Reuchlin, came to conduct us to their garden among the vine-hills in the environs of the town. We there met their precious mother, and were joined by a good many _interior_ ones, who had been invited to meet us. We had a precious little meeting in the arbor, after which we gave them some account of the religious movement in Belgium, &c., which pleased them much. We afterwards partook of fruit, biscuits, and wine. I shall reckon this garden visit among the happy moments of my life, because the presence of the Most High was with us. On the 18th they went to Kornthal to visit the interesting society in that place. Hoffmann's widow, who seems to have returned from Basle after the death of her husband, was there, but so aged and infirm as to be confined to the house. The inmates of the establishment were therefore convened in some apartments adjoining her chamber, so that she could partake in the spiritual repast. Their kind friend Reuchlin had prepared the way for them; and when the assembly took their seats, a solemn silence ensued. John Yeardley and "Brother" Kölne addressed the meeting, and the former supplicated at the conclusion. On their way back to Stuttgardt, Madame Reuchlin interrogated them on the doctrine of election, and was rejoiced to hear from them their full belief in the universality of the grace of God; and as they communicated to one another their convictions respecting this great truth, their spirits were knit together in the love of the gospel. From another pious person in this city, John Yeardley received a word of timely encouragement. He was anxious about their going into Bohemia, not having, as he thought, a sufficiently clear guidance to determine his course. 9 _mo_. 19.--A very acceptable visit from a worthy brother, Weiz. He introduced himself and commenced speaking on the guidance and consolations of the Holy Spirit, and spoke of his own experience as though he had known the thoughts of my heart. I have, said he, sometimes earnestly prayed to the Lord for direction what way to take, and have received no intimation; all has been dark within; I knew not whether to go right or left, and I have been compelled to go forward. I have then said, Lord, thou knowest my heart, be pleased to prosper my way; I leave the consequence to thee. The conclusion to which they came in regard to Bohemia was, not to attempt the journey at that time, but to return to England for the winter, and leave the remoter districts of the circuit which they had in prospect till another year. They therefore returned by Heilbronn to Kreuznach, where they again found many opportunities of instructing and strengthening such as had made some progress in the Christian course. 26_th_.--This evening had about a dozen serious persons to tea. After a long conversation, we read a chapter, and made some remarks: there was also a time of silence, with supplication. 10 _mo_. 1. _First-day_.--This afternoon we attended a meeting at Schwabenheim, a few miles from here. Notice had been given of our intention to be present, and the company was consequently larger than usual. They meet in an old convent, the other end of which forms the parish place of worship. After the singing and a short prayer, the good old A. Tiegel read a chapter in the New Testament, and was proceeding to make some remarks upon it, when I stopped him, feeling something on my mind to say to the people. I was led to recommend a patient waiting upon God for the renewed help of his Spirit, and also to speak on the progress of the Gospel Church from Isaiah ii. 2, 3, &c. My M.Y. spoke a little in German on the "still small voice," and the teaching of the Spirit. I did not in this instance feel quite easy to put aside the whole of their service. After meeting we had coffee with Tiegel, and took back in our carriage a few of our Kreuznach friends who had walked to the meeting.[13] 4_th_.--Yesterday evening we had a few friends with us two hours, by appointment, to speak concerning the rules, &c., of our Society. Many questions were asked, and a pretty detailed account given by us, as well as we were able. The company were all satisfied, and wished to come again. 6_th_.--To-day we received a visit from a young English lady. She came to ask how we understood the passages in Paul's Epistles forbidding women to speak in the church. We soon gave her an answer, and handled the matter so fully that she was quieted down before she left, little thinking, as she acknowledged, that so much could be said in defence of the practice among Friends. She even said she thought it to be a general loss to the Christian Church that women are not permitted to take part in the ministry. She is a thorough Millenarian, and said the prophecy in Joel, that the Spirit should be poured out on all flesh, referred to the coming of Christ to reign on the earth, until I reminded her of what happened on the day of Pentecost, when Peter said expressly that it was the fulfilment of the prophecy of Joel. Two other ladies were with her. We parted friendly, and she thanked me for the information I had given her. 7_th_.--Went to Treisen to a meeting. The little company meet only about eight persons usually, but we found about thirty assembled in a small room. I thought it one of the most lively meetings we have had. They wished me to conduct it in our own way. I told them we always commenced our worship by sitting in silence. They said, We will also sit still. I was favored with strength to speak to them of the pool of Bethesda, when the angel troubled the water, and on the nature and advantage of true silence before God. At the close, none seemed to wish to depart, but entered into serious conversation. I think I never saw more satisfaction exhibited at receiving books than on this occasion. After coffee, we returned to our lodgings with thankful hearts. In the evening came three young women, with an elderly lady, the mother of one of them. We had much conversation, and a precious little meeting, which concluded with solemn supplication--a nice finish to our sojourn in interesting Kreuznach. Our friend Ott has accompanied us; he has been to us as eyes in the wilderness. From Kreuznach they returned to Bonn, stopping at Darmstadt, Wiesbaden and Neuwied. John Yeardley had allowed some discouragement to enter his mind in regard to the meeting they had had the previous month at the Countess Stynum's. They found, however, on repeating their visit to this place, that the occasion in question had been one "of peculiar benefit and encouragement." They renewed their religious intercourse with the Countess and her friends to their great refreshment and joy. 12_th_.--The evening was spent with the Countess, in a quiet and more private interview than she had with us the last time, owing to so many strangers being present. After tea we had a long conversation on various religious subjects, particularly on some points relating to the principles of Friends, arising from what she had read in the books we left with her in our former visit. We were glad of an opportunity to answer her questions. A few of her private friends were present, much to our comfort. Before leaving, the forty-sixth Psalm was read, and we had a comforting time together: the Lord be praised! How sweet in him is the fellowship of the gospel! Writing to Josiah Forster from Bonn, John Yeardley makes some general remarks on the religious state of Germany, as they had found it in their frequent intercourse with individuals of various character during this journey. There is no doubt that there is in the German character generally a tendency to the visionary. We have found a few who hold doctrines on certain points, which it might do harm to publish; but we find or hear nothing of fanaticism now as formerly. Those who are spiritually-minded are more chastened, and more sound and scriptural in their views of religious truth; but not without exception. A meeting at Mühlheim "not large, but a good time," closed their religious service in this part of their long and arduous engagement. They arrived in England on the 20th of the Tenth Month, "with peaceful feelings, and in gratitude to their Heavenly Father for all his mercies towards his unworthy servants;" but "mourning the loss of some beloved ones who had died in the Lord in their absence." After about five months passed in the quiet of home, they made preparation once more for accomplishing the work to which they had been called. The prospect of distant travel was discouraging, both on account of Martha Yeardley's weak health and of the state of the Continent; but, writes John Yeardley, "my mind is peaceful, and I have an abiding conviction that it is right to proceed, trusting in the Lord for light, strength and safety." On their way through Belgium, the same feeling was strongly impressed upon his mind. 1850. 4 _mo_. 7.--In the train, soon after leaving Brussels, my spirit was melted under a feeling of the Lord's goodness. The object of our journey came weightily before me, and I considered we had left our home and every object most dear to our natural affections, with the sole view to serve our Lord and Master, and in the desire to use our feeble powers to draw souls to Him, that they might partake of spiritual communion with the Beloved of souls, through his grace. A degree of precious resignation followed; and, whatever may be the result as it regards ourselves, I believe it is the Lord's will for us thus to go forth, in his name; and should I or the precious partner of my bosom not be permitted again to see our native land, we shall be happy and at rest, through the mercy of that Saviour who gave his precious life for us. On arriving at Berlin their first duty was to apply to the Russian ambassador for his signature to their passport, with permission to enter the Russian territory at Odessa. Their application met with an immediate and positive refusal, and the extinction of his hopes in this respect was to John Yeardley a grievous disappointment. The next evening, after they had borne their burden all the day, dejected in spirit, and uncertain which way to turn, their hearts were lightened by a visit from August Beyerhaus, who at once attached himself to them and offered them help. He could indeed do nothing to facilitate their entrance into Russia, but he was the means of diverting their minds from the consideration of what had now become hopeless, and of opening to them, in Berlin, a door of usefulness. Through his introduction they became acquainted with several devoted Christians, some of them of wide reputation in the Church. These interviews, which were occasions of heartfelt spiritual communion, are thus noticed in the Diary:-- 4 _mo_. 22.--Samuel Elsner is an aged warm-hearted Christian, full of faith and good works: he gave us important information, and will send me some names of pious persons in Silesia. Pastor Gossner we found green in old age; seventy-five years of a variegated life have taught him many useful lessons. His refuge now is strong faith in the Saviour. He was at work in his arm-chair, and was much pleased to see us. 23_rd_.--Pastor Knack, successor to Gossner, is a man of a lively spirit, to whom we at once felt united. He very liberally offered us the liberty of speaking to his flock (the Bohemian congregation in Berlin); and also invited us to visit the little company in the village where we propose going this evening. At 3 o'clock we had a sweet interview with Professor Neander, an aged man of a striking figure and a Jewish countenance, pervaded by heavenly calmness, and illumined by the bright shades of gospel light. His eyes are become dim through excessive study; his heart is very large, full of love and hope in Jesus Christ. He seemed pleased to hear some account of the order of our Society, particularly with regard to the ministry and gospel missions, observing, "With you, then, there is liberty for all to speak when moved by the Holy Spirit, just as in the primitive church." This observation led us to several points of our discipline, and he seemed delighted that a society existed whose practice, in many things, came so near to that of the primitive church. Before parting the spirit of supplication came over us, under which prayer was offered, particularly for this aged servant of the Lord. His disinterestedness is great. The king will sometimes give him money, that he may take relaxation in going to the baths, &c. But so susceptible is his heart for many who are necessitous, that he will often give to others all that he has received. The good king has then to repeat his gift, and send him away almost by force from his labors. After these choice visits, John Yeardley says:-- 24_th_.--A ray of light and hope has broken in upon our gloomy path,--not into Russia; there _Satan_ is still permitted to hinder; but in this city. They spent two days at Rixdorf, the village alluded to above, three miles from Berlin, where was a small congregation of Bohemian Brethren, who took refuge there in 1737. The women of the society held religious meetings by themselves twice a week. These meetings had been instituted many years before by Maria Liestig, to whom John and Martha Yeardley were introduced, and whom they found to be of a meek and intelligent spirit. She gave them a relation of her extraordinary conversion, which John Yeardley published in No. 3 of his Series of Tracts, under the title of the _Conversion of Mary Merry_. They held a meeting in the village, in which they both had to "speak closely on the necessity of silence in worship." They had also a small meeting at their hotel in Berlin, when "the gospel message flowed freely, in speaking of the spiritual dispensation in which we live, and the progress of light." On the 29th they left Berlin, and went to the beautiful watering-place of Warmbrunn, in Silesia. The dwellings of the laborers in Silesia struck them as being of a wretched description. "What they do." says J.Y., "in a rigorous winter, like the last, I cannot tell; they appeared to be mostly. Roman Catholics." They resided a month at Warmbrunn. Some of the simple incidents which befel them there form the subjects of the following extracts:-- 5 _mo_. 10.--Yesterday was a thorough rainy day; but in the afternoon, to our surprise, came in eight men together, who had heard of strangers having arrived in Warmbrunn to visit those who love the Saviour. We explained to them our religious principles; their countenances brightened when we spoke of the Spirit being poured out upon all--sons and daughters. A sweet feeling was present with us, and supplication was offered under much solemnity. 11_th_.--I have had a long conversation with C.W. Grossner, of Breslau, on the Supper, &c. We opened the Testament, and read the various passages, and I explained our views as well as I could. I think he is brought under serious thoughtfulness, and half convinced of our principles with regard to the rites, which he acknowledges are vain without the substance. "Religion with many, nowadays," he observed, "is like a polished shell without kernel." 13_th_.--The Countess Schaffgotsch sent her butler with a message from the castle that she would be glad if we would call on her. She gave us a hearty reception, and thanked us for taking so much interest about the people. On our presenting her with some books;--But I am a Catholic, she said. We told her that made no difference to us; we loved all who loved the Lord Jesus. She spoke very sweetly of the influence of the spirit. 14_th_.--The Countess paid us a long visit, and spoke much of the Roman Catholic faith. She has no more faith in the efficacy of the prayers of the saints than I have, and said she had not prayed to them now for four years; their church only _advises_, not _commands_ it. 16_th_.--We went to dine with the Countess Reden and her sister, who live at the castle in Buchwald, one of the most lovely spots in the most lovely of countries. It is truly a peaceful abode, whose inmates fear their God, love their neighbor, and greatly esteem their king. We had been announced to the Countess from Berlin a week before; she and her amiable sister received us as a brother and sister beloved in the Lord. I never witnessed more intelligence combined with Christian politeness and real simplicity. The Countess is about seventy-six years of age; she is the president of the Bible Society, and the spiritual mother of all that is good in the neighborhood. She nursed the present king on her lap when he was a baby, and her great influence with him now she always turns to good account in serving benevolence and religion. Both she and her sister spoke with much affection of dear Elizabeth J. Fry, and her visit with Joseph John Gurney. 26_th_.--Our last meeting, on First-day evening, consisted of all men, several of whom had come from Erdmannsdorf and the colonies of the Tyrolese. They seemed to appreciate the time of silence, and expressed much satisfaction with having made our acquaintance, and with the meeting. On the 30th of the Fifth Month, J. and M. Y. quitted Warmbrunn and proceeded towards Bohemia. We passed, says the former, through Hirschberg. Goldberg, Liegnitz, and to Dresden, Leipzig, and Halle, making acquaintance in all these places with serious persons, and, I hope, scattering here and there a little gospel seed; but truly we may say, It is sown in weakness. At Halle we were much gratified with our visit to Dr. Tholuck, but I think, not less so with his wife, a most lovely person, delighting to _feel_ and to _do_ good. On arriving at Dresden, it became evident that Martha Yeardley, who had, suffered much for some time from an affection of the windpipe, required repose and medical care; and they concluded to rest awhile at the baths of Töplitz. The illness of his wife, and some degree of bodily indisposition from which he himself suffered, did not prevent John Yeardley from employing the time in the diffusion of evangelical truth. He had heard at Berlin that within a few months several hundred Bibles and Testaments had been sent into Bohemia, and had been eagerly bought there by awakened persons. He thought that if a translation could be made into the Bohemian language of some simple religious tracts, much good might be done by their dissemination; but he supposed that the intolerant laws of the Austrian Empire, which forbad all freedom of religious action, were still in full force. His account of his feelings and those of Martha Yeardley under the burden which this supposition imposed on them, and of the agreeable manner in which permission was unexpectedly granted them to print and circulate their little messengers of peace, must be given in his own words:-- Our hearts yearned towards the people, but we were afraid to give them tracts, which in other places had often been the means to conversation and to making acquaintance. This brought us low in mind; the body was already weak enough before. We thought it would not do to pass through the country in this state of depression, without trying to remove the cause. I went, therefore, the next morning to the head of the authorities, took with me one of our little tracts, mostly Scripture extracts, and asked whether I might be allowed to have the little book, or such as I then presented to him, printed for circulation. He received me politely, indeed kindly, and looked pleased with my tract, saying as be turned over its innocent little pages, Ah, nothing about politics; nothing against the religion of the country: it is very good, it is beautiful. You are quite at liberty to print and circulate such tracts as these. And when he found that the object was to do good to all, without cost to the receiver, he said, That is lovely.--(_Letter of 6 mo. 23._) The Bohemian translations were not made until J. and M. Y. went to Prague, which they did on the 22nd. Their feelings on entering this city, and the manner in which they were helped in their work of love, are described in the following diaries:-- 6 _mo._ 23.--Last evening we arrived at Prague. Our heart sunk on approaching this great city. The twenty-eight statues of saints, &c. on the bridge, with the many lamps devoted to these images, the crucifixes, &c., all indicated that superstition rages rampant. We lost no time in sending to the Protestant pastors, one of whom kindly came to us in the evening, and we conversed till late. I showed him my little _Spiritual Bread for Christian Workmen_, with which he was much pleased. I told him I wanted it translated into the Bohemian language. This afternoon he paid us another visit, and brought his wife to see my M.Y. He produced the translation of the introduction to the little tract. We are to have 2000 printed. Most of the poor people read only the Bohemian language. I have promised to place 1000 at the disposal of the pastor; he is delighted with the opportunity of having anything of the kind _printed in Prague_. Much, adds J.Y. in a letter, as I have suffered in the long prospect of a visit to this place, I feel a peculiar satisfaction that it has been deferred until there is liberty to print and circulate gospel tracts. Small as such a privilege may appear, until very recently such distribution of books would have been visited with a very inconvenient imprisonment on the individual transgressing the law.--(6 _mo_. 23.) 24_th_.--I gave Pastor Bennisch for perusal, and choice for translation, William. Allen's _Thoughts on the Importance of Religion_, and our tracts on the _Fall, Regeneration and Redemption, True Faith, and the Voice of Conscience_. There is a great movement among the Catholics; they have need to be instructed in the first principles of Christianity, and it is very important that the doctrine of faith in Christ should be combined with that of the practical working of the Spirit as set forth in many of our tracts. On this account, I am glad they are likely to take precedence of others in their circulation; for I do not hear that any tracts decidedly religious have yet been printed in Prague. During their stay in the city, and after they left, there were printed 12,000 copies of the tracts in Bohemian, and 1000 in German. At Töplitz, which they revisited before leaving Bohemia, occurred the interesting incident of the Bohemian soldier, which is related under that title in John Yeardley's series of tracts, No. 4. When they finally quitted the country, they took the nearest road to Kreuznach. On the way, they distributed tracts in the villages, at one of which, where they were detained for want of horses, the inhabitants flocked so eagerly to them to receive these little messengers, that they had difficulty in satisfying them. Notwithstanding this circumstance, the reflection with which John Yeardley concludes his account of their travels in Bohemia was, "It will require a power more than human to make the _dry bones of Bohemia_ live." They spent three weeks at Kreuznach, confirming the faith of the brethren, and printing German translations of several tracts. In passing through Neuwied, they intended only to spend the night there; but hearing that much inquiry after the way of salvation had recently manifested itself in the villages around, they decided, after the horses had been ordered for departure, to remain and visit one of these villages. A meeting was called, and so many attended that the room could not contain them all. It was a good season; De Freis, the friend who had made them acquainted with the religious condition of the place, accompanied them as guide, and was a true helper in the work. He had been twenty years missionary in Greenland and South Africa. They returned home, both of them worn with travelling, and Martha Yeardley exhausted with disease, which was making sure progress in her debilitated frame; but they were supported by the peaceful consciousness of having accomplished all the service to which they had been called to labor in common. CHAPTER XVIII. DEATH OF MARTHA YEARDLEY, AND JOHN YEARDLEY'S JOURNEY TO NORWAY. 1851-2. Martha Yeardley continued very unwell during the autumn, and by the end of the year her disorder assumed a more alarming form. It soon became evident that her dedicated life must at no distant period be brought to a close; and after many weeks of suffering, with confinement to the chamber during the latter part of the time, she expired, full of peace and hope in Christ Jesus, in the Fifth Month, 1851. The following memorandum, touchingly descriptive of her illness and death, was penned by her bereaved husband, probably soon after her decease. After our return from the Continental journey my beloved M.Y. became more poorly. A severe influenza cold weakened her much; and a second attack she seemed never to recover. It was succeeded by a regular rheumatic fever. From the commencement of 1851, with but little exception, she was confined to the house, and for a little while to her bed, until the 8th of the Fifth Month, when her sweet and purified spirit ascended to her Saviour, and commenced an eternity of bliss. Thus was I deprived of my only earthly treasure. She was the Lord's precious loan, granted me for nearly a quarter of a century, for which I can never be sufficiently [thankful]. She was his own, bought with the blood of his dear Son, and he saw meet to take her from me. Ours was a blessed union, and a happy life, spent, I hope, unitedly in the service of our Lord. In all our imperfections we did desire, above all earthly things, to do the work of our Divine Master, and to labor for the promotion of his kingdom, and for the spread of his knowledge in the earth. I was her only nurse till within ten days of her happy close. Long had a covenant been made between us, in the time of health, that whichever of us was taken ill the first, should be nursed by the surviving one, if permitted and strength afforded; which it mercifully was to me, and a happy season was the sick-room. We seemed to live together in heaven; never, I think, could two mortals be more favored with the answer to prayer. In the early part of her illness she spoke much of the satisfaction she had felt in our three last journeys to the Continent, and that she was thankful in having been enabled to go through the whole of the service which her Lord had put into her heart. I have since thought it was a mercy that I did not proceed into South Russia, as, in all probability, my precious one would have fallen on the journey, and never seen her peaceful home again. During the whole of the illness her delight was to speak of the joy of heaven. My sins of omission and of commission, she said, are all passed by; my iniquities are all forgiven, and washed away in the blood of the Lamb; and now I rejoice in God my Saviour. His love and mercy to me are beyond all bounds; and so strong is my faith in my precious Saviour, that I have scarcely known, the whole of the illness, what it has been to be troubled with an evil thought. When she expressed a desire to go to Heaven, I reminded her of my loneliness when she should be taken from me. The Lord will care for thee, was her constant reply. He has promised me over and over again that he will care for thee; the answer to my prayer has always been, I will care for him. Nearly the last conversation she had with any of her beloved relatives was with ----, to whom she observed: My affection for thee is strong; I believe thou lovest thy Saviour: I desire that thou mayest keep nothing back that the Lord may require of thee, but serve him with greater devotedness of heart; and if ever thou art called to bear public testimony to his truth, be sure to preach the whole gospel, faith in Christ, and the necessity of the practical work of the Holy Spirit to produce holiness of life. To [another of her near relatives] she observed: Thou hast often been sweetly visited by the love of thy Saviour, and be assured thou wilt never find any joy equal to that of yielding thy heart in prompt obedience to the will of thy Lord. Her last words to her affectionate sisters were, The Lord bless you all: Farewell. Towards the end of the year John Yeardley again communed with himself in the language of sorrow, but also of humble resignation. At the same time he speaks of an engagement of gospel labor from which he had then recently returned, the first which he had undertaken alone since his marriage with Martha Savory. Having seen his faithful and well-tried comrade fall by his side, he had now to learn again to gird himself and enter, as in the days of his youth, alone into the combat. 1851. 12 _mo._ 13.--How often have I prayed that the portion of her Lord's spirit which animated her devoted life may rest on me! Her heart, her tongue, and her pen were all employed in promoting the cause of her Divine Master, whom she delighted to serve. All my earthly joy was now gone to heaven, and I felt alone in the world; but my spirit seemed never to be separated from her: she seemed to be hovering over me constantly. My heart does sorrow for the loss of her sweet society; to me she was a wise and sound counsellor, and a never-failing consoler in all my troubles. I do mourn, but I dare not murmur. I hope my merciful Heavenly Father will keep me in the hour of temptation, and be with me in the last trying hour, and prepare me to join this precious one and all by whom she is surrounded with her God and Saviour in the centre of bliss. I had often mentioned to my precious one a prospect of religious service in Ireland, and once since our return home from our last Continental journey; when she replied, "I have no concern to go to Ireland--thou must do that when I am taken from thee." It cost me many tears and prayers before I could be resigned to request a certificate, alone, for the first time since our union; but, looking seriously at the subject, the language was constantly in my heart, The hour cometh when no man can work. Life is uncertain, and I can only expect sustaining grace by faithfully following my Lord: and, blessed be his name, he has kept and sustained me in every trial. This day would have been the twenty-fifth anniversary of our union. How near it has brought my precious one to me in spirit, and how strong are my prayers that my Lord may preserve me faithful to the end of the race! I can say my desire is, when he cometh, he may not find me idle. The visit which John Yeardley made in Ireland was general, comprehending all, or nearly all, the meetings of Friends in the island, and including a few public meetings in Leinster province. He has left very few notes of this journey, except an itinerary of the places at which he stopped, but makes frequent mention of the hospitality and kindness of Friends. From Cork he writes:-- I am in the midst of a family visit to the Friends of Cork, and shall have, I expect, from ninety to a hundred sittings. I am lodged a few miles in the country, in a mansion surrounded by beautiful grounds, and all the beloved inmates most affectionate and helpful to me. They send me to my work in or about the city mostly to breakfast; and I return, in the evening, and enjoy the refreshing breezes and the quiet: but then I have the family visits to resume next morning. In riding to town to-day, I tried to raise my heart to God; when the language sweetly occurred to me, Bread shall be given thee, thy water shall be sure.--(_Letter of 8 mo. 5, 1851._) A few days after his return from Ireland, he left home again to visit the Isle of Man, in company with Barnard Dickenson. On his return, he was refreshed by a visit to Dover, where he spent three weeks in the company of his kind and sympathising friend Margaret Pope. The interval which elapsed before the recommencement of his missionary labors was to be short. In the First Month of 1852, we find him again under exercise of mind for foreign travel; having, this time, to direct his course towards the interesting community of religious persons in Norway, whose principles and practices are the same as those of Friends. The Diary which follows is the utterance of his heart in the prospect of this work. 1852. 1 _mo._ 24.--This has been a precious morning unto my soul; such a season of spiritual comfort I have not been permitted to experience for a long time. I think it is vouchsafed me through the efficacy of earnest prayer, which has brought me to resignation to my Lord's will. I have now no more doubt as to Norway. Light springs on my path. How powerful is the love of God when it fills the heart; there is not a place on the Lord's earth where I think I could not go, if favored with the strength, and blessed with the presence of my God and Saviour. Unto thee, Lord, do I commit all my concerns, spiritual and temporal; do thou give to thy unworthy servant an answer of peace. Keep me faithful and patient to the end of the race. Lord, grant that my ministry, which thou hast entrusted to me, may proceed purely and entirely from thy love, and be exercised in thy fear and under the unction of thy Holy Spirit. Lord, keep my heart fixed, on the last, last awful moment that I may have to breathe; grant that it may be breathed out in the bosom of my adorable Saviour; all sting of death taken away, my robes washed in his blood, and my spirit purified and ready to be united to those beloved ones who are already enjoying a blissful eternity with thee! The next entry in the Diary was made at Christiania, where he thus speaks of the unity and concurrence which his friends had testified with his mission. Since I last wrote any notes in this journal, I have passed through many conflicts respecting my long-thought-of visit to Norway. When the subject was proposed to my friends in London, it met with the warm encouragement and sympathy of all, in every stage, to the receiving the full unity of the Yearly Meeting of Ministers and Elders. I am accompanied by my dear friend, Peter Bedford, whose sweet and constantly cheerful spirits comfort and cheer me. We have already had many proofs that our being joined together in this laborious journey is of the Lord. Our friend William Robinson proves an efficient helper. John Yeardley and his companions left London on the 9th of the Sixth Month, and went first to Homburg, as he wished to place a young person in whom he was interested, at the school kept by the sisters Müller at Friedrichsdorf, near that town. Whilst at Homburg he was suddenly attacked with a severe and painful disorder, and was reduced to great extremity. After about two weeks of suffering, he was restored to convalescence, when he thus breaks forth:-- How can I sufficiently record the mercy of my God in sustaining me in a time of great extremity, even when there was but little prospect of my ever seeing Norway. He blessed me with resignation and sustaining grace, so that I could rest as on the Saviour's bosom, for life or death. I knew my Lord and Master could do without my poor unworthy service in Norway; but if he had work for me to do in that land he would raise me up in his own time; and so he has done. As soon as he had sufficiently recovered his strength, they set forth for Kiel; but not before John Yeardley had had a religious meeting with the pupils in the school. I was, he says, enabled to address them in German; a precious feeling was over us, and many spirits were tendered before the Lord. F. Müller expressed her great satisfaction with this parting visit. They reached Kiel by easy stages in seven days. From this place he writes:-- My very soul pants to be in Norway; had I wings I could fly there. And yet how few are the days since the cloud between me and that land was so dense that I could not see through it. But even then, O, what sweet peace and resignation were the clothing of my humbled spirit. There seemed nothing in my way to heaven, whether from Germany or Norway. I do believe my eye and heart are fixed on my precious Saviour, and he has been my stay in the hour of sore conflict of body, but none of mind. All seemed peace and bliss when I glanced at the happy home above, already inhabited by my precious one and many more who were dear to us on earth.--(_Letter of 7 mo._ 2, 1852.) On the 5th of the Seventh Month they proceeded to Christiania, John Yeardley employing the time on the voyage in adding to the little stock of the Norse language which he had acquired at home in anticipation of the journey. On landing at Christiania they were refreshed by seeing Asbjön Kloster of Stavanger, who had come to meet them, and for two weeks had been waiting their arrival. At a meeting which they held in this city, both John Yeardley and Peter Bedford were engaged to minister to the spiritual wants of the people; A. Kloster interpreting for them. The company were so much interested, that many of them went afterwards to the hotel to converse and ask for tracts. The Friends left Christiania on the 10th, and sailed through the rock-bound sea to Christiansand, the passage between the cliffs being in some places so narrow that there was no more room than was sufficient for the vessel to pass. In this town they enjoyed much freedom in the gospel, and held two public meetings. Regarding the first of these, John Yeardley says:-- 7 _mo_. 13.--Our large room at the hotel was filled half an hour before the time appointed, and it was with difficulty that we made our way to our seats. A little unsettlement prevailed from the desire to enter, which subsided after a few explanatory words. A time of quiet ensued, and there was much openness to receive the gospel message. Before the close of the meeting I became exceedingly thoughtful about appointing another for the next evening; and on intimating the same to P.B., I found he was under the same impression. It was, therefore, announced to the assembly before they separated, and appeared much to satisfy them. The dear people were unwilling to part from us without a shake by the hand.--(_Diary and Letter_.) At one of the meetings which they held in this town, whilst John Yeardley was preaching, he became sensible that his interpreter had himself received something to communicate to the congregation; he therefore stopped speaking, and the interpreter, faithful to his duty, took up the word until he had cleared his mind from its burden. After he had finished, John Yeardley resumed his discourse. On the 14th the Friends drove out a few miles into the country to "pay some family visits." They had two double carrioles, or gigs: the road over which they passed was "steep and rugged beyond description." In returning, the carriole in which Peter Bedford rode struck against a rock at a sharp corner and was overset. Peter Bedford's right shoulder was dislocated, and he otherwise bruised. In conveying him into Christiansand he suffered much from the shaking of the car; but the joint was quickly set by a skilful surgeon; and, in the evening, the love he felt for the people was so strong, that he could not remain absent from the meeting which had been appointed for that time, and he even took part in its vocal exercise. It was, writes John Yeardley, a favored time. Peter Bedford gave some account of the difference between our religious Society and other professing Christians. It opened the way for me to speak on the peculiar doctrines and practices of Friends at more length than I ever remember to have done before; after which the glad tidings of the gospel flowed freely, and the people were invited to come to Christ and partake of the full blessedness of his teaching by the Holy Spirit. A precious solemnity prevailed, and the serious attention of the company was great. A good many soldiers, and some officers, were present; but the expression of our dissent from all wars and fightings had not displeased them, for they shook hands with US most kindly.--(_Diary and Letter_.) Besides being interested for the people of Christiansand in general, John Yeardley and Peter Bedford were especially attracted towards several young men who had embraced the doctrines of Friends, without any knowledge of the Society, and without any instruction from man. With these persons they met more than once. John Yeardley writes:-- "We had a precious meeting with them. They were invited to embrace the doctrines of the gospel in living faith, and to give full room to the workings of the Spirit of Jesus, whose voice they had already heard inviting them to come under his teaching. We encouraged them to meet for divine worship." On the 16th the Friends proceeded thirty-five miles to Mandal, travelling post. From thence, John Yeardley and Asbjön Kloster went by the road to Stavanger, leaving Peter Bedford and William Robinson to follow by steam-vessel, the former being unable to bear the motion of the Norwegian carriages. John Yeardley, in one of his letters, in a lively manner describes the mode of travelling:-- The usual vehicle in this country is the single-seated carriole, made exactly to fit the figure of the traveller, and no spare room except a little well under his feet. The seat is placed on two crossbars fixed to the long shafts, the spring of which is intended to mitigate the jolting of the road. We chose double cars on iron springs, which we found _not too easy_: they were like old-fashioned, worn-out, and very shabby English gigs. The posting is under government regulation, and is performed by sure-footed ponies kept by the farmers, who are obliged to supply them under any circumstances after having had notice. A _forbud_ is sent on with printed notices filled up with the time at which the traveller expects to arrive at each station. This _avant-courier_ is often a little boy, and sometimes, to save the expense of a horse, for which the traveller has paid, he is sent on foot. On one occasion we met a young girl, with bare feat, who had walked sixteen miles with notice papers, as our _forbud_. Now away goes the traveller, accompanied by a man, or more often a boy, or it may be a little girl, to bring back the pony. They run by the side, but down hills always seat themselves behind on the luggage as best they can. The traveller drives himself, and the little horses are so brisk that, whatever the state of the road may be, they run down the mountains as fast as they can clatter, and so sure-footed that they are scarcely ever known to fall; but a person of weak nerves has no business to be the rider. From Christiansand to Stavanger is about 200 miles, which took us four days. Our road lay occasionally over a wild and stony heath by the sea, sometimes along the river-banks, lakes, or fiords, but more often among and upon the high and rugged rocks; the passing of some of which is, I think, more difficult than crossing the Alps between Switzerland and Italy.--(_letter of 8 mo. 3._) On the way towards Stavanger John Yeardley had a public meeting at Flekkefiord, the first time such a meeting had been held in the place. It was "a good time," and so well attended that the town-hall could not contain nearly all who came together. Immediately on arriving at Stavanger, the Friends commenced visiting the families of the Friends in the town and on the adjacent islands; and on the next First-day held a meeting about eleven miles up one of the fiords, to which so many flocked from all directions that they were obliged to assemble in the open air:-- It was, says J.Y., a lovely sight to see so many clean-dressed peasants, in their mountain costume, with a seriousness in their countenances which indicated that a motive better than curiosity had brought them together. I was reminded and had to speak of the miracle of our blessed Saviour, when he commanded the multitudes to sit down on the grass, and fed them with five barley loaves and two fishes. Since this time, he says in a letter, we hold our public meetings in the open air, and the stillness that prevails is quite remarkable. Last evening we had a solemn opportunity in a plantation belonging to one of our Friends by the seaside. The hushing of the trees, the gentle rolling of the waves behind a strong sea-wall, and the warbling of the little birds, all seemed to aid our worship; but these would have been nothing had not the presence of our Divine Master been near. After the meeting, as many as could be seated partook of tea, &c. The seriousness, simplicity, kindness and hospitality, are great. All flock together as if they were one family.--(7 _mo_. 28.) After this the Friends availed themselves of the efficient assistance of Endré Dahl, and of the active peasants who form a large portion of the Society of Friends there, in a more extensive excursion which they made up one of the fiords which in so remarkable a manner intersect the country. John Yeardley gives a graphic description of this voyage. Our efficient helper prepared his own boat; our ship's company are all volunteers. We set out with seven, but were joined by others on the way, so that this morning we started with ten men. They are a most cheerful and playful company, all interested in the object of our voyage. It does my heart good to see with what delight they bring planks for seats, and run in all directions to give notice of our meetings. Each seems to strive which shall show us the most attention, even anticipating our wants. They enjoy our family readings and worship; their conduct is instructive; and the solemnity on these occasions precious. On Fifth-day we landed on an island (Findon) sprinkled with trees, and with a park-like bank sloping to the water. This was refreshing to the eye after having seen nothing but bare rook for many days. The meeting was at our friend's house who owned the pretty little farm. It was sweet and refreshing; and afterwards a number of these people accompanied us to the boat, and did not quit their standing till we were out of sight. My heart yearned towards them in gospel love. Next morning we started before 6 o'clock, and when we had rowed fourteen English miles put into a little village, Ielsom. We were all strangers in the place, and Friends and their principles unknown. Our friend Endré Dahl had a pointing that we should try for a meeting, which was appointed for 2 o'clock. After waiting till 3, only one or two persons came, and we had a consultation whether we should proceed on our voyage, but concluded it safer to go in and sit down. When we were seated (I may say in faith), first one and then another came in, till the large room and passage were filled, and a number were outside under the windows. It was quite a remarkable meeting, and we were well satisfied in having exercised patience as well as a little faith. We were informed that it was the custom of the place not to attend any appointed meeting till an hour after the time named. We arrived at Sand about 9 o'clock, after hard rowing, the tide being against us. Sand is beautifully placed at an opening in the rocks, at the mouth of a river where salmon-fishing is good. As soon as we landed, our ship's company made the object of our journey known, when a serious-looking man immediately offered to go about six miles to inform a person who he knew would like to attend. Two individuals in this place have for some time been in the practice of holding a silent meeting for worship; they had no knowledge of Friends, nor Friends of them. Fixing the meeting for the First-day evening, John Yeardley and his companions pursued their way the next morning, which was Seventh-day, to Sävde, situated at the head of the fiord, and consequently the extreme point of their voyage. Before starting they went a little way up the Sand river, to view one of the grand Norwegian waterfalls, and also to see how the salmon-fishery is conducted. A hamper of about six feet in diameter, and the same height, made by the fisherman of the roughest wicker-work, is placed in a side stream of the rock, in the bed of the river. The anxiety of the salmon to mount up the stream is so great, that he forces himself through a hole into the hamper, as the easiest way of advancing upwards, from which position he cannot again escape. In this manner, in a favorable season, sixty-three salmon have been caught in one night in a single basket. It is a source of wealth to the little town of Sand. At Sävde they held a meeting on First-day morning. We reached the head of the fiord, writes John Yeardley by 12 o'clock, and found but poor accommodation. We three had one room with three beds; Endré Dahl with his willing-hearted and contented men lodged in a barn on straw. There was time enough to arrange for a meeting in the morning, and we applied for a room at the inn; but a little knot of illiberal Haugeans [followers of Hauge], or _Saints_, as they call themselves, persuaded our landlord not to let us meet in his house. But we obtained better accommodation under the rocks in a house containing two rooms connected by a passage, and, seating ourselves in the centre, could be well heard by those outside the door. We had a good meeting. Returning to Sand, he continues:-- The wind being against us, the men had to work very hard at the oar to bring us in time for the meeting appointed for 6 o'clock at Sand. Some of the Friends from near Sävde accompanied us in their small boat; and some from Sand had gone many miles to attend the meeting at Sävde, and returned to the one at Sand. Their zeal is great and their love fervent. This was a very crowded meeting, and proved a satisfactory time. We found here a few of the _Saints_, but of a more liberal cast; they expressed great grief that their brethren at the head of the fiord had refused the peaceable messengers of the gospel from a far country a house in which to meet. This unwelcome news had reached them long before our arrival. At a later date, John Yeardley relates an occurrence which happened at Sand, worthy of note in itself, and which must have been not a little confirmatory of his faith. It came to his knowledge after his return to Stavanger. When we were at Sand, one of the Friends who joins in holding the silent meeting invited several of our ship's company to his house; but the man's wife was so exasperated that she drove them away, saying she would not have such folks under her roof. She had confounded the principles of Friends with those of some wild persons who had gone about the country spreading ranterism, and giving the people the idea that they were of our Society. It was in vain to reason with her, and the husband, for the sake of peace, mildly consented to let the Friends withdraw. However, she attended our public meeting, where the gospel doctrine of our Society was pretty fully illustrated; and I felt constrained also to preach on the unreasonableness of persecution for conscience' sake, either by the government, private persons, or families. Conviction seized her heart, and she became broken to pieces. After the meeting she sought up the Friends whom she had driven from her house, and told them she could not be happy unless they would give her a proof of forgiveness by taking up their abode in her family so long as they might remain in the place. Several of them accepted the invitation, which gave them an opportunity for free and satisfactory conversation. How merciful are the Lord's doings with us in sending help in the needful time! I was so spent when we arrived at Sand, having had nothing from breakfast till 5 o'clock, that I said in my heart, It is impossible to get through the meeting this evening. The Friends had some religions service at several other places about Stavanger, and on the 6th of the Eighth Month proceeded northward to Bergen, accompanied by Endré Dahl and his wife and Asbjön Kloster. Their chief service in this city was a public meeting, at which there was a large attendance. John Yeardley says of the meeting:-- There was a great mixture of feeling. Many pious, thirsty souls, I believe, were present, and I hope such were encouraged and comforted; but the strong impression on my mind was to call the sinner to repentance. On their way back to Stavanger, among the passengers were two Finland convicts, for whose peculiar case they felt much sympathy. On board our steamer were two prisoners on the deck, in heavy irons. They were natives of Finland, and had been sentenced to some months' confinement in irons at Christiania, for having, it is said, committed some outrage on the priest in disturbing the national worship. There has for some time past been a great awakening about religion in Finland and other parts of the North, and the most active among this number, in their zeal not tempered with right knowledge, have transgressed the law. I heartily pitied the two poor creatures, inasmuch as I feared justice had not been done them; the prejudices of the priests and judges are so great in all matters connected with any separation from the national worship. They were chained together, and were clothed in their native reindeer skins, and on their ironed feet were snow-sandals turned up with a long toe. We offered them money, but they turned from it; and when acceptance of it was pressed, their change of countenance indicated anger. They understood nothing but the Finnish language. On their return to Stavanger, Peter Bedford felt that his share in the work was accomplished, and that it was not his part to accompany John Yeardley in the service which remained for the latter to do in Norway. After being present at another public meeting in Stavanger, and in a parting interview with the Friends of the town, he went with William Robinson direct to Kiel. John Yeardley had two or three more meetings in the neighborhood of Stavanger, where the desire of the people to attend was more remarkable than ever. On the 11th of the Eighth Month he bade farewell to this interesting place, and, accompanied by Endré Dahl, again crossed the mountains to Christiansand, holding meetings at several places on the sea-coast, where none had ever been held before. His notices of some of these meetings are well worth transcription. 14_th_--Journeyed about fourteen miles up the fiord, into the mountains, to Aamut in Qvindesdalen. This meeting was the most solemn of any we have had. Many said, in tears, at the conclusion, This is a doctrine that we cannot resist; it goes to our heart, and meets the conviction of our own experience. What shall we do?--our heart burns within us! 15_th_.--We returned to Foedde to a meeting this afternoon, which was, I think, the largest we have had. There were two large rooms filled, and a number seated on planks on the grass; not less than about 700 persons were present. Many followed us to the lodging, to converse on subjects that lay near their hearts, and to ask for tracts and books. Among them was a man who goes about to exhort the people to amendment of life. He appeared to be a simple, sincere character, and was much satisfied with our meeting, saying, as if from the bottom of his heart, How remarkably, how wonderfully, have the truths of the gospel been opened and explained to us this day! 16_th_.--At Fahrsund we had some difficulty to procure a place for a meeting. It is a brandy-drinking place. No one would bear anything of our business. A rich old lady has a large room which she lets for all kinds of purposes except for anything connected with _religion_; she gave an abrupt refusal to the application. E. Dahl and I went to the English vice-consul, showed him my certificate, and explained to him the object of my visit to Fahrsund. He kindly accompanied us to the old lady, and told her that we belonged to a respectable religious society in England and were not the persons she supposed, come to preach wild doctrines. She consented to let us occupy the entrance-hall, which was good and spacious. The consul then went with me to call on the sheriff; he said he and his lady would attend the meeting, which they did, with a good many of the respectable inhabitants, but the common people would not come near us. One man to whom a notice was offered, when he saw the word _worship_, immediately tore it to pieces. The lady to whom the room belonged sat near me all the meeting, and looked serious before the close; and she took leave of us with very different feeling from that in which she first met us. The sheriff came to me after the meeting and offered his hand, saying, I thank you for the present occasion--I shall never forget it. Before the meeting at Foedde John Yeardley had an opportunity of refreshing his mind with the charms of Norwegian nature. My friend E. Dahl and I went out for a quiet walk. It was a lovely Sabbath morning; the sky cloudless, and the sun shining brightly on the water as it rapidly foamed down the cliffs. After gathering a few cranberries we seated ourselves on a shady rock to meditate. All was silent around--nothing heard but the shepherd-boy playing his horn; the sound coming from the distant mountains into the wooded valley where we sat, first shrill, then softening into a simple irregular note. My friend asked me what I thought the instrument was. It is made, said he, of a goat's horn, and is blown to keep the fox from taking the young lambs, and as a means of communication with other shepherds when widely separated on the mountains; the sound of this horn also keeps the sheep from straying. They arrived at Christiansand on the 19th; and Endré Dahl, finding a vessel sailing for Stavanger, engaged a passage in it for himself. After parting with him, John Yeardley writes:-- E. Dahl and I have been closely united in the gospel bond; he has been a truly affectionate sympathizer and efficient helper. I am thus, he continues, left alone in a strange land; but I do feel a peaceful and a thankful heart to my Heavenly Father that he has in mercy blessed me with light, strength, and faith to go through this service in Norway. Imperfectly has it been performed, I know; but I have done what I could, and a song of thanksgiving is due to my Lord. John Yeardley returned by Germany to England. At Obernkirchen, near Minden, where some persons had not long before been convinced of Friends' principles, he had a meeting, in which he was joined by a number of Friends from Minden. A few years before, Thomas Arnett, from America, desired to hold a meeting for worship in this place, but was prevented by the police. The object was now accomplished by engaging a room without the limits of the state of Bückeburg, in which the town is situated, and within the Hessian frontier, which includes, in fact, a part of Obernkirchen. A public meeting for worship in that place (says John Yeardley, in a letter written after his return home,) was such a new thing, that on our arrival we found a press of persons whom the room could by no means contain. The landlord readily granted us his barn, which was commodious, and we threw open the large doors into the yard, which was seated; besides which, the people stood in numbers. We had a solemn meeting. There is a little company who hold a meeting at Obernkirchen; several of these have suffered on account of their religions scruples in refusing baptism to their children, &c. These we invited after meeting to take coffee with us, about thirty persons, all serious. It was a delightful occasion. After the coffee we had a sweet parting meeting with this truly interesting company. We had been given to expect that, although we had taken the precaution to _pitch our tent_ without the limits of the intolerant place, the police would be present, and would most probably disperse our assembly. But no such thing;--all was quiet. I was thankful (he adds in his Diary) that the meeting was held in quiet, for there is a bitter feeling of persecution in the neighborhood. I was previously much cast down, but "thanks be unto God who always causeth us to triumph in Christ." CHAPTER XIX HIS JOURNEY TO SOUTH RUSSIA. 1853. The call which John Yeardley had received to visit the German colonies in South Russia, and which had lain for a long time dormant, now revived. A friend who had watched with regret his unsuccessful attempts on former journeys to enter that jealous country, and who augured from the political changes which had taken place that permission might probably now be obtained, brought the subject again under his notice. The admonition was timely and effectual. After carefully pondering the matter--with, we doubt not, as on former occasions, a childlike dependence on his Omniscient Guide for direction,--he came to the conclusion that it was his duty once more to address himself to this undertaking: and when it was accomplished, and he had returned in safety and peace to England, he alluded more than once to the manner in which the concern had been revived, saying he had been, before he was thus aroused, like _the prophet asleep_. He re-opened the prospect of this service before his Monthly Meeting, on the 3rd of the Fifth Month, 1853. In a letter written the same day, he says:-- I am just returned from our Monthly Meeting in London, where I mentioned to my friends my concern to visit the German colonies in the South of Russia, which, thou wilt probably recollect, was included in my certificate for religious service on the Continent of Europe, five years ago. I received the expression of much sympathy and unity from my friends, and the certificate was ordered, including on my return, if permitted, any service that may present in Constantinople, the island of Malta, and some places in the South of France. Weak as I am, I cast myself once more into the hand of our Lord and Blessed Protector, in holy confidence that he will do all things well. On receiving a passport from the Secretary of State, with the requisite counter-signature of the Russian Ambassador, he wrote to John Kitching, the 25th of the Fourth Month:-- I want thee to know that, through the kind and efficient aid of our mutually dear friend Samuel Gurney, I have at length been enabled to procure a Russian passport, and also a letter of recommendation to one of the first houses in Petersburg. Thou knowest, my dear friend, for a long time this matter has been heavy on my mind. It is a great comfort to have the ground cleared in this respect. John Yeardley left London at the end of the Sixth Month, and went to Hull to take the steam-packet direct to Petersburg. In the narrative which follows, we have interwoven with the Diary extracts from his letters to his sisters; and we have been allowed the use of William Rasche's Journal, in relating and describing many circumstances of which J.Y. himself made no record. _Petersburg. 7 mo._ 10.--On the 30th of the Sixth Month I left my peaceful home at Stamford Hill for my Russian journey. At our kind friend Isabel Casson's at Hull I met my young companion William Rasche. We were affectionately cared for by dear I. C. and her daughter, and she and several other friends saw us on board the steamer. It is a fine ship, well ventilated, with good sleeping accommodation and provisions: the captain is a kind, religious man. On First-day evening, the captain invited us to the ship's service--an invitation which we gladly embraced. When he had finished, I addressed the company, much to my own comfort: great seriousness prevailed. After I had relieved my mind, the captain closed with a few sweet and feeling words. When the occasion was over, he came to me and expressed his thankfulness that I had been enabled to strengthen his hands by throwing in a word of exhortation. He said that sometimes, when he had felt indisposed and unprepared for his religious duty, he had given himself to a quiet dependence on the Lord, and had been mercifully helped, to the benefit of his own soul, in endeavoring to do his duty to others. There is great uncertainty (he says in a letter written during the voyage), how we shall find things at Petersburg, and whether they will permit us to proceed to the South; but this I must leave. Whatever way it may please Providence to turn the matter, as it regards myself I believe I shall be relieved from Russia in having made this last attempt. They arrived at Petersburg on the 9th of the Seventh Month, after a safe and agreeable passage of seven days. Before we reached Cronstadt, to quote from J.Y.'s Diary, we encountered a strong gale, so that the officers from the guardship, who came to see that all was in order, had hard work to get on board. There were eighteen Russian sailors with oars, yet they could not draw the boat, and our steamer was obliged to throw ropes and haul her in. The sight of Cronstadt was formidable; for more than two miles in and near the harbor there was a line of ships of war. At Cronstadt we had to be put on board a smaller steamer, which caused us much detention. At the custom-house all passed off well; they were more civil and less strict in their examination than in England. The Russian sailors look very unbright; they are not active in managing a boat. They not unfrequently received a few strokes from the fist of the helmsman, or a rope's-end, either of which they took with that unconcerned composure which showed they were accustomed to it. We are located at the hotel of H. Spink, an intelligent Yorkshireman; his wife is very kind and attentive. 13_th_.--Spent this day at Peterhoff, with W.C. Gillibrand and wife, with two of their friends. It is the first opportunity we have had for serious conversation in this place, and I hope it was to mutual comfort. They took us a drive after dinner to see several of the Emperor's pavilions, mostly surrounded by beautiful pieces of water. There was an intelligent man present, who had spent some time in India, ---- Watson; he now has charge of the British school in Petersburg. We find the Scripture Lessons are no more in use in the school; nor is the New Testament in the Russian language allowed to be circulated in the country. The Bible Society is just alive, but can hardly breathe; other institutions languish for want of support; party spirit has crept in to their great injury. The law is still very stringent in not allowing a member of one religious body to join another; but the different sects are allowed their own worship and schools. 20_th_.--Left Petersburg by the train at 11 o'clock yesterday, and arrived at Moscow about nine this morning. The road, with but little exception, is flat and uninteresting. The forests are immense, mostly of firs and birch, which being thickly set grow small. Many of the stations are superb. The line of railway did not conduct us near any towns or villages that I could observe, but by some of the poorest scattered huts I ever saw in any country. At Moscow, John Yeardley and his companion called on Pastor Dietrich, a German, residing a little out of the city:-- He is, says J.Y., in one of his letters, a worthy pastor of the Old Lutheran Church, a sweet venerable-looking man with long white locks. He was at dinner with his family when we called, but he would not allow us to go away, but took us up to the attic story to his study; primitive indeed, but clean, and to him I have no doubt a room of prayer, as well as of study. He seemed delighted to find our mission was to the Colonies. "But what will you do about the language?" said he; "they speak nothing but German." I wish the dear girls could have seen his countenance lighted up with cheerful brightness, when he found we could speak German: "Ah, I need not trouble you any longer with my poor English!" He knows a great many of the pastors, and will give us letters of introduction to the little flocks in the Colonies and the Crimea. As might be expected, it was with a sinking heart that John Yeardley contemplated the formidable journey before him; but, as in other times of extremity, he cast himself wholly upon the Lord, and found his soul to be sustained, and his courage renewed to undergo the hardships that awaited him. 7 _mo_. 21.--Rose this morning much cast down in mind at the thought of our long journey, and a want of a knowledge of the Russian language. Poured my complaint in fervency of soul before the Lord, and was a little comforted in believing that he would still care for us and preserve us in this strange and long wilderness travel. It is his own cause in which I am engaged, and I am willing to endure any bodily fatigue if I may only be strengthened to do the works to which my blessed Master has called me. The Divine Finger seems pointing to the place where the people I am seeking are to be found. I went after breakfast to the dear Pastor Dietrich. His heart was filled with love for me, and I felt the sweetness of his spirit to encourage me; preciously was the divine unction spread over us. He gave me some information of the religious state of things here. There seems to be about 800 of the evangelical party in Moscow, including the French and English Protestants, and the different classes of Lutherans; a small number out of 350,000 souls which the city contains; the rest are Roman Catholics and of the Greek church, mostly the latter. God knows the hearts of all. 22_nd_ [?]. "In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust; let me never be ashamed: deliver me in thy righteousness. Bow down thine ear to me; deliver me speedily: be thou my strong rock, for a house of defence to save me."--(Ps. xxxi. 1, 2.) "Hear the right, O Lord, attend unto my cry; give ear unto my prayer, that goeth not out of feigned lips."--(Ps. xvii. 1.) The above sweet words were brought home to my heart with power this morning after a time of conflict in spirit. Lord, grant me faith and patience to the end of the race, when I shall have to say, Now, Lord, lettest thou thy servant depart in peace. Amen. Providing themselves with food, and with small change of money for the journey--two things indispensable to Russian travel--John Yeardley and William Rasche left Moscow on the 23rd, by _malle-poste_ for Orel. They stopped some hours at Toula: the land south of this town they found to be well-cultivated, and the harvest had begun; it consisted mostly of rye. The journey to Orel occupied forty-four hours. Among their fellow-travellers was a resident of Moscow, Charles Uyttenhoven, who spoke English, German, French and Russ, and who, like themselves, was going to Kharkov. He was a pleasant and gentlemanly companion, and was of great service to them in acting as spokesman on the road. From Orel there was no _malle-poste_ in which they could continue their journey, and they were obliged to hire a _tarantas_, or posting-carriage, a very inferior kind of conveyance. In consequence, besides, of the fair at Pultowa, every vehicle of this description had been taken up except one, which was of course the worst in the town. When they had loaded their luggage and spread hay to lie upon, they started; but before they were out of sight of the stable the crazy vehicle broke down, and they were detained till nearly eleven o'clock at night, whilst it was being repaired. In this new kind of conveyance they experienced great discomfort: they could neither sit nor lie with ease, as the space was much too small for three passengers. The country they passed, through was very rich; it may be called the granary of Russia; they found the harvest more advanced the farther they penetrated into the south. At Koursk they hired a fresh _tarantas_. The roads were inferior to those along which they had travelled, but the country was more picturesque, still fertile, and producing much wheat; the weather was very hot, as it had been all the way from Petersburg. On the 27th, at midnight, they reached Kharkov. We have travelled, says John Yeardley, four days and nights in succession from Moscow to this place. The conveyances of the country are exceedingly bad; they almost shook our bones asunder. The next day they visited Pastor Landesen, to whom they had a letter of introduction from Pastor Dietrich. They spent the day with the family of this intelligent and pious man. Tea was spread in the garden, to which meal a number of Christian friends were invited. The pastor's wife, says John Yeardley, is a sweet-spirited woman. After much social converse our garden-visit closed with a religious occasion, in which I expressed a few words of exhortation. I think we were sensible of the nearness of the presence of our Divine Master, which proved a brook by the dreary way. We met at the pastor's Louse Superintendent Huber, a worthy and experienced Christian, kind and fatherly to us. The next day William Rasche went with Pastor Landesen to hire a carriage. No such thing, however, was to be had, and they would have been happy if they could have engaged as good a vehicle as their old crazy _tarantas_; for the only alternative was a _bauer-wagen_ (peasant's cart), if we except the very expensive extra-post carriage, with which they would have been obliged to take a conductor. It happened that a young man, an apothecary's assistant, wanted to go to Iekaterinoslav; his ancestors were German, and he could speak both that language and Russ. By Landesen's recommendation they took him as their companion, and he was very useful to them on the road. The _bauer-wagen_ was much more uncomfortable than the _tarantas_ had been; travelling in it was like gallopping over a bad road in an English farmer's waggon; and, as the vehicle had no cover, the travellers were exposed without protection to the full power of the sun. The floor of the waggon was spread with mattresses, and, thus furnished, it served them for parlor, kitchen, and lodging-room. They travelled in this way through the night, but the next day were obliged to wait at a small dirty station for horses till the afternoon; and in the evening John Yeardley became so ill, from hard travelling and exposure to the heat, that they were compelled to alight at another little station near Novomoskovsk, and make the best of the poor accommodation they could procure. The next morning, somewhat refreshed by rest, they went forwards to Iekaterinoslav, where they happily met with a clean inn, the Hotel Suisse, kept by a German. The same day they went in a boat up the river Samava, to Rybalsk, seven miles, to see a German schoolmaster named Schreitel, to whom they had a letter of introduction. This is a colony of twenty-five families, founded in 1788: the schoolmaster, who was also the minister, received them in a brotherly manner. It was here that their mission properly commenced. From this place a succession of German colonies extend in a south-easterly direction to the Sea of Azov. The villages are all built on the same pattern, being formed of one straight street of neat houses on both sides, adorned with trees in front and gardens behind. The German colonists consist principally of Mennonites and Lutherans. The former are the most numerous and thriving; they were invited to settle there by Catherine the Great, in order to improve the state of agriculture; but their example has not had the desired influence on the surrounding districts. Although his German neighbor is in an infinitely better condition than himself, the Russian peasant will not imitate the husbandry which is practised so successfully before his eyes. At Rybalsk, John Yeardley had a Scripture reading and a religious opportunity with a few serious persons who came to the house; and the next evening he held a meeting for worship with the colonists. On the 3rd, they left for Neuhoffnung. They travelled in a covered carriage, which, though without springs, was a great improvement on their last vehicle. They came the first day as for as Konski, where they passed the night, sleeping in the carriage, the air being very mild the night through. In the afternoon they arrived at another Mennonite colony, Schönweise, where they had a short interview with Pastor Obermanz and a few of his flock. These people produce a small quantity of silk. The travellers were now on the Steppes; they found them very thinly peopled, so that all the country out of sight of the villages appeared like a vast desert. On the 4th they passed through three colonies--Grünthal, Priship, and Petershagen. The settlers here are from all parts of Germany, mostly from Prussia and Würtemberg. Next came Halbstadt, the seat of the Bishop, and Alexanderwohl, where the Friends passed the night. They were surrounded by a large number of settlements on all sides. These were the places where, according to his previous impressions and apprehension of duty, John Yeardley was to have entered on that work of gospel-labor to which he had so long looked forward. But, instead of finding, as on former occasions of a similar kind, his heart enlarged and his mouth opened to preach the word, he seems now to have felt himself straitened in spirit, and to have been obliged to pass in silence from colony to colony, a wonder perhaps to others, a cause of humiliation to himself. Never before, in all his many journeyings, had such a trial befallen him; and it may be supposed that, coming so soon after the copious and unrestrained exercise of his gift which he had experienced in Norway, it would press upon him with peculiar force. The people to whom he was now come, seem, it is true, to have been in a different state from the simple-hearted Norwegians, who thirsted for the "pure milk of the word;" and their comparative indifference to spiritual things may have been a main cause of the silence which he felt to be imposed upon him. With the reserve natural to him, he has left but little clue to the motives and feelings under which he acted. Great must have been the relief when, as happened on several occasions, his bonds were loosened, and the command was renewed to speak in the name of his only-loved and gracious Lord. On the 5th they passed through several colonies to Gnadenfeld, where, says J.Y.:-- We halted to breakfast with one of the colonists, and found him a sweet-spirited man, and his family pious. His name is David Voote. He appreciated the object of our mission, and spoke of the awakening that had taken place of late; telling us that devotional meetings had been established, but that some of their preachers did not approve of them. We sent for one of the ministers, with whom I was pleased; he invited us to hold a meeting with them on a future occasion if we could make it accord with our journey, which I hope will be accomplished. We obtained some information respecting the Molokans, and were directed to Nicolai Schmidt in Steinbach, who often has communication with them. We found him a delightful man, quite of the right sort to be useful to us. As the Molokans speak nothing but Russ, we shall be in want of an interpreter in our visit to them. I told him he must go with us; and he immediately said. I will go with pleasure; whenever you return here and incline to go, I will be at home and will accompany you. This seemed an opening of Providence, and removes one great difficulty in the way of a visit to this people, for whom I have felt more than towards any others in South Russia. N. Schmidt is a wealthy farmer, and sets himself at liberty to promote the extension of the Saviour's kingdom; I felt at once at home with him as a friend and brother. From Steinbach, which lay a few versts out of the direct road, they proceeded to Stuttgardt, and the next day, the 6th, to Neuhoffnung, where they were accommodated at a farmer's, and had the comfort of a good clean apartment and kind attention to their wants. This is the principal seat of the German Lutheran colonists. On Seventh-day, says John Yeardley, we attended the school-children's meeting, about 200 present. After Pastor Wüst had questioned on or explained the Scriptures, I had an opportunity to address them. On First-day afternoon we held an appointed meeting [with Wüst's congregation], which was not large, on account of many [with the Pastor himself] having to attend an interment in the neighborhood. After the meeting we received a salutation from some of the young sisterhood, who came to us and surprised us with their sweet melodious voices, singing in concert a hymn well suited to our present situation. After they had ended I went out and had a long conversation with them. In all my journeyings, he touchingly continues, I was never so much cast down as in this scene of labor; I never before so much missed the help and consolation of my precious one as I now do; but, blessed be a gracious God, she is safe with Him, and free from a toil which she could never have endured. I marvel, and praise his great name for upholding me thus far; I am astonished at the way in which I am enabled to bear the hardships of this journey, and am preserved in health. It is the doing of my gracious Saviour, and I thank him out of a grateful heart. Should I never be permitted to return to my earthly home, I have a joyful hope he will take me to a glorious rest with himself and with those I have so tenderly loved on earth. On the 8th, William Rasche went to Berdjansk, on the Sea of Azov, to change some English money, and to inquire if there were any religious people there. He met with some interesting persons, who seemed at first to be prejudiced against the Friends but after some conversation became very loving, and desired he would bring J.Y. to see them the next day. Accordingly, on the 9th, J.Y. and W.R. went to Berdjansk, accompanied by Pastor Wüst and several others. The meeting which they went to attend was held in a private house. It commenced in the usual manner, with singing; after which, ---- Buller read a chapter, and the pastor commented upon it; and then they asked J.Y. what he had to say regarding it. He answered by giving his view of the subject, and afterwards addressed them in the ministry. Various individuals then related their experience, one after the other, as is usual in the more private religious meetings in these churches. ---- Buller (writes J.Y. in recording this meeting) is an interesting man; I had much conversation with him as to his own conversion. It seems to have been a work of the Spirit, without, in the first instance, any other instrumentality than reading the Bible. I met several pious persons in the meeting-room, and held converse with them to mutual comfort. They are simple and sincere. We took tea in the garden after the meeting, and did not reach our lodging in Neuhoffnung until 12 o'clock the same night. 10_th_.--This morning they started for Elizabethsdorf, accompanied by Robert Lehmkuhle, a teacher from Kharkov. Their way lay entirely through the boundless steppes, where so many ways ran into each other that the driver missed the road, and they wandered about until 10 p. M., when they took shelter at a German colonist's. The inmates, who had gone to rest, rose to give them milk and bread. The next day they proceeded to Elizabethsdorf, being escorted on the way by hospitable members of the settlements through which they passed. At Elizabethsdorf they were received by schoolmaster Seib, a brotherly Christian man, whose conversation was "seasoned with grace." After tea, says John Yeardley. we held a devotional meeting, in which I had an opportunity to address the little company; but the people generally in the colonies are busy till late in the evening. Being much weary with our jolting journey, I retired to the waggon for the night, as I supposed; but W.R. soon came to inform me that a number of young persons, men and women, were come, it being as early as they could be liberated from their day's labor, to have some of our company. I sprang from the waggon with joy, and we had a delightful meeting, with a pretty large company. They sang repeatedly, and betweentimes I related to them something of my travels in Germany and Greece, with which they appeared wonderfully pleased. We were all served with tea out of doors, and the company remained together till after eleven o'clock, and then returned joyfully home. I was much pleased with Seib. He and another schoolmaster, named Kapper, have been dismissed from their office of teacher, because of their holding private meetings and preaching in them, or explaining the Scriptures. Some of the Lutheran ministers are so lifeless that they will not allow the people to meet in private for their edification. The dead persecute the living, and light struggles with darkness. This is even the case in some districts among the Mennonites. The ministers fear that their people should go before them in religious light. The more I see of the _one-man system_, the more I prize the gospel liberty in my own beloved religious Society. They returned to Neuhoffnung, and on the 13th went to Nicolai Schmidt's at Steinbach. Attended the meeting there in the morning, and at Gnadenfeld in the evening, in both which places opportunity was given me to communicate what was in my heart for the people. The settlements of the Molokans, consisting of three villages, each of about a thousand inhabitants, lie to the south of the German colonies. These people are native Russians and seceders from the Russo-Greek church; they receive their name from the word _Moloko_, milk, because they drink milk on fast-days, which is forbidden by the national religion. The Steppes are their Siberia, to which they have been banished. Their worship is simple, commencing with silence and prayer, and they do not use the ceremonies and discipline common among most other Christians; but they are firm believers in the Christian faith, and many of them are spiritually-minded people. On the 15th John Yeardley and William Rasche, under the conduct of N. Schmidt, left Neuhoffnung to visit the Molokans. The first village they came to was Novo-Salifks, a prosperous colony in worldly matters, but said to be behind the others in spiritual life. At the next, Wasilowkov, they met with Terenti Sederhoff, the apostle of the Molokans, whose remarkable history J.Y. related in a tract called _The Russian Peasant_, forming No. 12 of his series. Here they also met with A. Stajoloff, who remembered William Allen's visit in 1819. Sederhoff accompanied them to the third village, Astrachanka, where they had a conversational meeting with several of the chief men, but the intercourse was carried on at a double disadvantage. They spoke, says John Yeardley, nothing but Russ. T never regretted more the want of the language. Schmidt had a manifest unwillingness to interpret all I wanted to say, because it did not accord with his own sentiments, and he feared it might strengthen the people in those views from which the Mennonites would draw them. There was a precious feeling over us, and I felt assured they appreciated our motive in visiting them; they often pressed my hand when comparing Scripture texts on which we were of one mind. I felt satisfied in having done what I could to direct them in the right way, and to strengthen them in it. They are well read in the Scriptures. The travellers passed the night at this village, sleeping as usual in their carriage; and the next day, taking a loving leave of their friends, directed their course over the steppes into the Crimea. Here they found themselves in the heart of the Tartar country, beyond the verge of civilized life. The Tartar villages, says John Yeardley, are the meanest possible, consisting sometimes of mere holes dug in the earth, or huts standing a little above the ground. The men wear wide drawers with the pink shirt over them; the women have a chemise reaching to the calf of the leg, dirty and coarse, an apron round the waist, sometimes so scanty or so ragged that it will not meet, and a handkerchief tied in a slovenly manner on the head. In these three articles of dress they drive the horses and oxen; the sun burns them to a dark brown, almost black. The children we saw were quite naked. Various attempts have been made to civilize and instruct them, but without success. One missionary pursued the work so far as to feed and clothe the children, and collect them for instruction, which they received for a while, but all at once and with one consent it was at an end. When I see the Tartar galloping over the steppe as if riding on the wind, it constantly makes me think of the wild Arabs. When we are anxious to find a well of water where we may take our meal, and when we see travellers assembled to water their cattle and flocks, and the camels running loose on the steppes--which they do till autumn, when they are sought up for work,--all reminds us of customs of the East. This evening they halted at a Tartar village, where the occupant of the _traktir_, or house of entertainment, persuaded the driver to take out his horses for the night. The conduct of this man and his companions was suspicious; they eagerly examined the mattresses of the travellers, which were of superior quality; and when William Rasche came to make the tea, which he did by the moonlight outside the hut, the boiling water which he poured in to rinse the teapot came out into the tumblers a white liquid; and after the tea was put in the innkeeper held up the pot against the moon, and looked curiously into it. Instead of retiring early, as the Tartars always do, the men in the hut kept a watch upon the travellers; and the suspicions even of the driver were awakened, when one of them came to him, as he was lying by his horses, to borrow his knife. His horses, however, were so weary, and he himself so unwilling to move, that the travelers contented themselves with harnessing the horses, and making ready to depart in case of necessity. Soon after midnight, finding they were still watched by the Tartars, and apprehending that these waited only till they should all be asleep, to carry off their horses or to rob their persons, they decided to make the best of their way out of their hands. The driver being slow to move, W.R. jumped into his place, seized the reins, and drove quickly off, thankful to have effected a safe escape. It is very common for the Tartars to prowl about in the night, and steal the horses and waggons, of their more settled and thrifty neighbors. After about three hours' driving, the moon shining so bright that they could see to read by it, they arrived at another village, of a less suspicious character. On the 18th they reached Simpheropol, where they were glad to rest. The next day they wished to visit Pastor Kilius of Neusatz, to whom they had an introduction: as they were considering how they should get to him, he opportunely came to the hotel. He introduced them to several estimable persons, and took them the next day to his dwelling, situate in a picturesque mountain village, twenty versts from the city. At Neusatz commences another chain of German colonies, settled by the Evangelical Lutherans. The next morning they attended the public worship, and in the afternoon the Scripture-teaching for the children. On the 22nd they went to Zürichthal, a village formed of well-built houses, but where they found the school in a very low state. The 23rd they started early for the Sudag colony, intending to spend the time there until the departure of the steamer for Odessa; but they found nothing to interest them in this settlement, and accordingly proceeded to Feodosia, (or Kaffa,) a watering-place on the south coast of the Crimea. The German inns in this place were all full, and to procure a wholesome lodging, the; drove the next day four miles among the hills, where they hired a large apartment at the house of a German. The situation was romantic, with an extensive prospect over sea and mountains; and on the hill-side was a thicket, forming a delightful bower, where John Yeardley and his companion "live by day, walked, talked, reposed, and wrote." In this retreat, breathing cool air and quietude, J.Y. received the physical refreshment he so much needed, while he reviewed the course of his laborious journey. Notwithstanding his discouragements, he was able to cast all his burden upon his Saviour, with whom he seems to have dwelt in nearer communion as his day on earth went down. 8 _mo_. 26.--This morning I felt more sweet union with my God in spirit than for a long time; and a strong desire has arisen to live in closer communion with Jesus, the beloved of my soul, the only access to the Father--the only place of rest, safety, and true _peace_. I long more than ever not to be troubled with cross occurrences over which I have no control, and which have too long perplexed me and disturbed my inward peace. I long more than ever to spend my few remaining days on earth as with my God in heaven, to refer everything to Him, and to pray more earnestly and diligently for his grace to preserve me near to himself under _all_ circumstances, until he shall have prepared me to be taken to heaven, to join the happy company there in a blissful eternity. "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee, because he trusteth in thee."--Isa. xxvi. 3. On the 1st of the Ninth Month they sailed to Odessa, where they had to remain eight days. In this city they received a visit from a pastor, who conversed with them on the work of the heavenly kingdom then going on in the Bast, especially in Constantinople and Asia Minor. The Saviour's kingdom, writes John Yeardley, in allusion to this conversation, is spreading, and many instruments are being raised up in various nations to help forward the great work. The kingdom of Satan is in danger; he sees it, and stirs up the jealousy of men, setting them against one another, and, by their seeking through party-spirit to exalt their own particular religion, hindering the Lord's work. Into whatever nation the beams of the Sun of Righteousness shine, the inhabitants begin to inquire the way to Zion, and turn their faces thitherward. This alarms the rulers whose kingdom is of this world. From Odessa to Constantinople they had a quick and safe passage. At Constantinople John Yeardley was deeply interested in the institutions which the American missionaries have founded for the religious and temporal improvement of the Armenians. He visited two of these, the high school at Bebek and the girls' seminary at Has-keuï, both beautifully situated on the shores of the Bosphorus. In the former they found forty-eight young men,--sixteen Greek and thirty-two Armenian. The industrial part of the education was particularly gratifying to him. Cyrus Hamlin, he says, who has the superintendence of their studies and labor, is wonderfully adapted for his vocation. He is assisted only by native teachers. The young men looked serious: some of their countenances were peculiarly impressive, indicating that they had been with Jesus. I saw them assembled in the school-room, and addressed them for some time; and C. Hamlin most willingly interpreted into Armenian what I said. It was a sweet and memorable time. The Armenian teacher would scarcely let go my hand after the meeting, he had been so touched with the power of divine love. In the girls' boarding-school we found twenty-five girls, all Armenians, with the exception of two or three Greeks. It was a lovely sight to see so many of this class under a course of religious and useful instruction. Many of the countenances were marked and pleasing, and were _fixed_ on me with great apparent seriousness while I addressed them, along with some of the neighbors.----Everett (the conductor of the school) kindly and most willingly interpreted what I had to communicate. He and his wife have also a day-school for boys and girls. I consider these institutions as bright and hopeful spots in the East, from which much good may arise. The persevering and well-directed efforts of the American missionaries for the evangelization of the Armenians, and the field of Christian labor which was thus opened, took firm hold of J.Y.'s mind; he longed to visit the schools and congregations in Isnik and Brusa, and probably only abandoned the journey at this time in the hope of undertaking it at some future day. John Yeardley describes Constantinople as-- Built entirely on the hills which slope from a considerable eminence down to the Bosphorus. The trees towering among the houses, the high spires and gilded domes, have a most imposing effect; but what is the astonishment of the traveller when he commences his ascent up steep, narrow, clumsily-pitched streets. I could only compare them to the worst-constructed bridle-roads in England which the packhorses traversed centuries ago. The three days we were in the city I only saw one or two carriages,--the most curious vehicles; indeed, there is scarcely a street in which two carriages can pass. Donkeys are the chief carriers. As to dogs, they are born and bred in the streets and are the property of the town, and in the day-time He by dozens in the streets, young and old, are always under the feet of the traveller, and he must constantly poke them out of the way with his stick; by night they are furious. The shops present a jumble of all kinds of wares; and the Turks sit cross-legged in the window, or work at their trade inside. They left Constantinople on the 15th, and on the 17th went on shore at Smyrna, where, at the house of the American missionary Ladd, they met with another missionary, named Stacking, returning with his family from Persia, where he had labored sixteen years among the Nestorians. The account which he gave John Yeardley of the creed and condition of the Nestorian Church, and of the schools which had been opened in Persia, aroused his deep sympathy and produced an abiding impression on his mind. Smyrna, like the other Turkish cities which they saw, vividly impressed the travellers with its Oriental character. Like Constantinople, says J.Y., it is a town of all nations. The streets are narrow, with a run of dirty water down the middle. We met docile camels in great number, bringing figs from the interior. In the fig-market were thousands of boxes being prepared and packed for exportation. It is a sight of interest to see Turks, Greeks, &c., huddled together, walking, talking, or sitting cross-legged and smoking their long pipes. We took donkeys and ascended the hill, where we obtained a good view of the town, and then examined the ruins where the ancient city stood, and saw the place where the message from Heaven was received by the angel of the church of Smyrna. The church of Polycarp stood not far from that of John the Baptist. After a visit of peculiar interest, I returned to the steam-ship and read the message to the church of Smyrna, which gave rise to more reflections than I can here record. Steaming on the sea of Marmora, (to continue J.Y.'s narrative of his homeward journey), the Bosphorus and the Greek waters, was very pleasing. We had a good sight of the walls of ancient Troas, where the apostle Paul received the message in vision from the man of Macedonia, to come over and help them. The quarantine prevented us from landing at Syra; but I conveyed a note through the English Consul to my old friend Hildner, who came alongside our steamer. I learned from him that Argyri Climi was five years in his school, and usefully filled the office of teacher of the higher classes; had been married about ten years to a lieutenant in the army; had three children, and was living happily with her husband at the Piraeus. It appears she retains her religious principles. 21_st_.--Arrived at Malta. Ours is the first steamer that has reached the island since the removal of the quarantine; we went on shore directly after breakfast. Isaac Lowndes was rejoiced to see me. We met in the street, and he conducted us to his house. He has been in Malta seven years, acting for the Bible Society; he gives no bright account of among the Greeks, as to spiritual religion, nor of the island generally. The present governor has admitted the Jesuits into the island, who are doing mischief; privileges are being granted to the Romanists to the prejudice of the Protestants; and a regulation has been proposed which would subject a Protestant to six months imprisonment for not taking off his hat when he meets the procession of the Host. Isaac Lowndes took John Yeardley and William Rasche to visit Selim Aga, or, as he was named after baptism, Edward Williams; who with his wife, sister-in-law, and four children, formed an interesting Christian household. J.Y. published the history of this man in No. 13 of his series of tracts, _Turkey and the Converted Turk_, where also he has depicted several scenes from the latter part of this journey. Arriving at Marseilles, they proceeded quickly on to Nismes. It was with a gush of natural sorrow that J.Y. revisited a place whore he had often sojourned with his beloved wife. The thought, he writes, of the difference in my circumstances now and when last in this place fills me with sorrow. The beloved one of my bosom, then the stay and solace of my heart, is no more with me to help and comfort me in the toils of life. Yet when I consider what a large amount of suffering she has escaped, I cannot but rejoice that she is at rest with her God and Saviour, where I humbly hope soon to meet her. Lord, prepare thy unworthy worm for that awful but joyful day! John Yeardley held a small public meeting at Nismes, and the next day, the 3rd of the Tenth Month, set out for the bathing-place of Bagnères de Bigorre, in the Pyrenees. His principal reason for going there was to recruit his shattered health. "On our arrival at Nismes," he says, "and during our few days' sojourn there, I began to feel the effects of my long, toilsome Russian journey; and, in the hope of preventing a return of my suffering complaint, I thought it justifiable to make trial of the sulphur baths and water of Bagnères." But he had also another object in view: "I had long thought," he adds, in a letter from Bigorre, "whether there was not a seeking people in this neighborhood, and now I think there is." His first care on arriving at Bigorre, was to call on Pastor Frossard, formerly of Nismes, who feelingly reminded him of the changes which had happened to each of them since they had met before. He proposed to John Yeardley to meet some Christian friends at his chapel. This was just what J.Y. had been wishing for. The meeting was held; and after it was over he gave the company an account of his travels in Russia, with which they were highly gratified. In a letter to his sister, Mary Tylor, which he wrote from this place, is the following characteristic sentiment: Thy welcome letter duly readied me at Nismes, and drew forth my tender sympathy for thee and your whole circle in the loss of a kind and beloved brother. It is another link taken from the family chain, and the shorter it becomes the nearer we are drawn together in the bond of affection. How the spirit seems to ascend with those loved ones who are taken from us, and from earth to heaven! Our desire for a blissful eternity becomes more ardent, because they have already entered upon it; but above all, we desire to be with Him in whom we shall be one, and all will be glory. Returning to Nismes, he occupied himself with holding meetings in many places in that neighborhood. In some meetings which he attended in the city, he had for fellow-laborers Eli and Sybil Jones, from the United States, with their companions. Amongst the audience at one of these meetings were three soldiers, who, with two others, had been awakened at Lyons, and who manifested the progress they had made in Christian doctrine by refusing to kneel before the procession of the Host. Their officer observing their disregard of this required practice, held his sword over the neck of one of them, saying he would strike off his head if he did not bow down. The man was firm in his refusal, and was sent to prison. To encourage one another in their new profession, these men were accustomed to keep religious meetings. They were in consequence accused of sedition, and when they asserted the simply religions character of their meetings, one of them was required to swear to the truth of his statement; he refused to take an oath, pleading that the New Testament commanded him not to swear. A second was then called upon in the same way; he also refused; and their stedfastness was reported to the commanding officer as an act of contumacy. The officer happened to be a Protestant, of an enlightened and pious disposition; he said that soldiers were called upon to vindicate the innocence of their companions, not to procure their condemnation, and that if they did not choose to give evidence the law would not compel them. Two of the five received their discharge from the army; the rest were removed to Nismes. John Yeardley had some conversation with these three after the meeting, with which he was well satisfied. They told him that when they were awakened they wrote and received so many letters that it excited suspicion, and that the police who examined the letters took the texts of Scripture, or rather the figures that referred to the chapters and verses, for a secret language, used to deceive their vigilance. On the 8th of the Eleventh Month, J. Yeardley and W. Rasche, accompanied by Jules Paradon, went to Valence, and visited Bertram Combe, at Pialoux, where they remained a few days. B.C. had fitted up a commodious room adjoining his own dwelling, where he held meetings regularly:-- And where, says J.Y., we had several solemn and edifying occasions; and as our being there became more known the attendance increased, so that the last gathering was quite a large one, and peculiarly quiet and satisfactory. Among some meetings which we appointed in the neighborhood two were held in the _temple_ of the Protestant Church, which was a mark of great liberality; these two occasions were peculiarly favored. In the latter B.C. alluded to the persecution he had had to endure on account of the disuse of the Supper and Baptism. He boldly avowed the conviction he felt as to the non-use of these things, and that the preaching of the gospel ought to be free. I have seldom been in a district where there is more openness for the gospel message in its simplicity, than in this mountain region. From Valence, John Yeardley returned direct to England, only stopping at Friedrichsdorf. where he visited the boarding-school. I reached my home, he says, on the 24th of the Eleventh Month, with a thankful heart to my Heavenly Father for his merciful preservation. CHAPTER XX. FROM HIS RETURN FROM RUSSIA TO HIS LAST JOURNEY. 1853-1858. John Yeardley had scarcely returned to England before war was declared with Russia. The confirmation he received from this lamentable event, that his journey had been made at the opportune time, filled his heart with gratitude. The work he had been able to do had been small, but he had the satisfaction of knowing that it had been accomplished at the only juncture in which it would have been practicable. The year 1853, he writes, closed with many mercies to a poor unworthy servant. I consider it a great blessing to have accomplished the visit through Russia and to Constantinople before the horrible war broke out. What a frightful state are things in at the present moment!--no access could be had to those countries. In the Spring of 1854 he spent some time at Bath. He attended, whilst there, a public meeting appointed by Sarah Squire, in which he had a testimony to offer in the gospel. Hearing afterwards that a military man who was present had been brought to conviction by the doctrine which had been declared, J.Y. noted in his Diary the subject on which he had preached. 4 _mo_. 2.--I recollect, he says, alluding to the awful state of the times in which we live, and the need of a refuge in God, and the blessedness of the consolations of the Holy Spirit in a time of trouble. That the Spirit of God was the first agent in the work of man's salvation, bringing to the Saviour who died for sinners: the Father drawing to the Son, the Son perfecting the work, and presenting each member of the living church without spot or wrinkle to the Father. Blessed unity of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit! The Father creating, the Son redeeming, the Holy Spirit sanctifying. In making a brief note of the Yearly Meeting this year, John Yeardley takes occasion to record his sentiments on a subject which then, as now, strongly engaged the attention of the Society. The Yearly Meeting has been a precious time; it has strengthened the bond of love and unity. There is, under all discouragements, a love to the Society manifested in the young people of both sexes. It is true there is a great want of bearing of the cross, and many are seeking for excuses to persuade themselves that many of those things that have long distinguished our Society are now no longer of use. But I still think there is more religion in many of our young members than their outward appearance would authorize us to believe. I love to cleave to the good, and to hold out a helping hand to encourage the tender budding of grace, and for the good to overcome the evil. I want them to be brought to conviction, and to be told that they are not required to wear plain clothes, and to use plain speech, because our Friends have done so, but because Christianity leads into simplicity, and the language of Scripture is that of truthfulness, and to follow the changing fashions of the world is too low for the notice of the Christian whose heart is placed on heavenly things, and whose time is too precious to be spent on trifles. There is no peace to the regenerated heart equal to a devotedness of life in promoting the extension of the Saviour's kingdom upon earth. He soon after alludes to the Memoir of Joseph John Gurney, then just published, and to the sharp stimulus which he received from its perusal--a stimulus which minds fixed upon improvement always receive from the vivid representation of time and talents diligently employed. 6 _mo_. 16.--Many of my solitary moments are cheered, and I am greatly edified, in reading J.J. Gurney's Memoirs. It is a real privilege to be introduced into the daily walk of the life of a Christian man with such an enlightened and enlarged mind, whose expansive heart is filled with love for the whole human race. Strengthened by faith, and filled with the unction of the Spirit, his life was devoted to doing good to the family of man, laboring for the conversion of sinners, and comforting believers. The diligence of J.J. Gurney in study, &c., has stimulated me to renew the reading of the Greek New Testament, but I sink into the dust when I see what he accomplished in comparison of my own insignificance. It is, however, a comfort to know that I have a merciful Lord, who will not require of me the exercise of gifts that I have not received. O that I may he more faithful in the employment of the capacity which has been entrusted to me, for the good of souls and the honor of my Lord! The reflections which follow add another to the numberless testimonies of the saints' experience, that the Christian life is a continual warfare. I am sensible of having lost ground for some time past for want of more diligence in watchfulness and prayer. I have been deeply sorry for it, and I do hope my compassionate Lord has forgiven me. As a proof of his forgiveness, I am permitted to enjoy once more the smiles of his countenance, which cheer my lonely walk. How greatly do I long for more intimate communion with the Beloved of my soul, the precious Saviour! Lord _preserve_ me in _every moment_ of _temptation_, and make me more entirely thine! Grant me more confidence in the immediate action of thy Spirit in the ministry of the word, that my communications of this nature may be deep and clear, and under the unction of thy Holy Spirit. _Amen_! 6 _mo_. 23.--This morning I have been favored, more than usual, in my endeavor to pour out my soul before God in prayer, in desiring more purity of heart, more faith; and that it might please my compassionate Lord to sustain and console me in my solitary lot, and preserve me faithful to the end of the race. Many relatives and near friends were brought to my remembrance, whom I endeavored to present to the mercy of a merciful God. In the same diary is an appropriate notice of Dr. Steinkopf, and a tender tribute to the memory of Martha Yeardley. The other evening was spent at J. and M.C.S.'s with Dr. Steinkopf. "The hoary head" of this aged and experienced Christian is as "a crown of glory," for "it is found in the way of righteousness." He is full of love, speaking constantly out of a grateful heart of the mercies of his God. Before parting he read a few verses, exhorted us and supplicated for us. A little more than three years have fled away since my precious and dearly-beloved M.Y. entered on a blissful eternity. How do I feel the loss of her sweet, cheerful, and edifying society! Ever since her blessed spirit fled from earth to heaven, she has never by night or day been long absent from my thoughts. How often does my soul pant and pray for a preparation of heart for that blissful state where she now is, near to her precious Saviour, who redeemed her with his own blood. He enabled her to serve him when on earth, and now she sings his praises in heaven. What a charm did she impart to my daily life! Our pursuits were always one and the same; and now what a desert I still have before me,--but it may be very short. In the Eighth Month, John Yeardley went to Minden on a visit to Ernst Peitsmeyer, whose daughter Sophie had been for some time his kind and cheerful companion, and who now, with her parents and other friends, welcomed him again to Germany. Whilst at Minden he derived benefit from the sulphur baths of the Klause, not far from the town. The bath, he says, is one hour's gentle exercise on the saddle. The farm where the spring is stands quite alone in the midst of a wood, and the way to it is delightful,--much suited to my taste. Sophie rides sometimes with me: it cheers me to have her trotting by my side. The handful of inquiring persons at Obernkirchen, whom J.Y. visited on his return from Norway, continued to claim his sympathy, and one First-day he joined them at their usual place of worship. It was, he writes, a refreshing time in this little meeting. When the little company first met together they were dragged into the street by the police; but they persevered, and, on making an appeal to the magistrate at Rinteln, stated their case with so much simplicity that the government has granted them liberty to meet together undisturbed. How marvellous, the Friends are protected; and the Baptists, under the same government, are persecuted with increasing rigor! No interference on their behalf has been of the least use.--(_Dairy and Letter_.) In the Fourth Month of 1855 John Yeardley received a certificate "to visit his friends in Yorkshire, and to hold meetings with persons not in church-fellowship" with Friends. I arrived at Halifax, he says, in a letter of the 28th of the Fourth Month, on Fifth-day evening, and attended the Monthly Meeting of Brighouse on the 20th. It looked formidable to me in prospect on the first entering into harness; but I hope the meeting proved a good introduction, and I saw a good specimen of a large, harmonious, and well-conducted Monthly Meeting. There might be near 250 members present. When he had completed the service, he took a week of repose at Harrowgate, where he briefly reviews his journey. 5 _mo_. 29.--In passing along through my native county, I found many countenances missing which were very familiar to me years ago, and who are now gone to their rest. But I was comforted to find in many places a race of young people springing up who bore the marks of being plants of my Heavenly Father's right-hand planting, and who gave hopes of becoming useful in his Church. It is with a grateful heart that I record the mercy of my Lord, in that he has granted me strength in a remarkable manner to do what he put in my heart to do, from place to place. Blessed be his name! After having finished the service in Yorkshire, I have had a week's tarriance at Harrowgate. The rest and quiet have proved beneficial to my health, and very precious have been the seasons of sweet communion I have been permitted to hold with my God in this retirement. This summer he repeated his visit to Minden, and hired a lodging at the Klause. A reflection in one of the letters which he wrote from this retreat affords a pleasing glimpse of his mind:-- I sometimes think that a large portion of comfort and joy are allowed to those who really love the Lord; and how chastened are the pleasures of the humble Christian! They abide with us long after the causes of them are passed away; and the more our permitted pleasures are enjoyed under a grateful sense of the goodness of the bountiful Giver, the longer they may be permitted to us. In the Ninth Month, he attended the Two-months' Meeting at Pyrmont. It was not without emotion that he visited once more the place which had been so familiar to him in earlier days. The hopes he had then conceived, and which, as we have seen, he had so fondly cherished, with regard to the Society of Friends in that part, had been disappointed; the little company had dwindled in numbers and declined in religious influence; and when he took leave of Pyrmont for the last time, it was with a sorrowful heart. From Minden, accompanied by Sophie Peitsmeyer, he went southwards, and took up his abode at the little town of Neuveville, on the Lake of Bienne, in Switzerland. I spent, he says, two or three days at Neufchatel, and visited many of my old friends in the place and neighborhood; but it was affecting to find how many of those I had known years ago were no longer on this earth. Madame Pétavel was as warm-hearted as ever; the professor, her husband, is ripening for heaven. John Yeardley had gone to Neuveville with the intention of passing the winter in Switzerland. After remaining a month, however, he returned to England; and this change of mind was the result of a remarkable circumstance. He became silent and reserved, with the air and manners of one who is not at peace with himself; until one night, when he was heard to cry out in a loud tone, as though speaking to some one. The next morning at breakfast he appeared subdued and full of tenderness; and on his young friend inquiring what had made him cry out in the night, he told her that he must return home, for there was more work for him to do. He said that a prospect of service in the gospel had latterly opened before him, and that as he had greatly desired to remain in Switzerland, he had striven against the sense of duty and refused to yield; but that during the night he had had a vision, in which he heard the command repeated to return home and enter again upon his labor, and that he felt, as he thought, the touch of the heavenly messenger's hand. This caused him to call out; and when he awoke, he found that willingness of spirit had taken the place of his former obstinacy. Thus turned from his own purpose, he set about to accomplish the will of his gracious Master with his usual resolution, and they made the best of their way back to England. The nature of the service which he saw before him is touched upon in the following passage from a letter, dated Neuveville, the 14th of the Tenth Month. My home duties press heavily upon me.... Very long have I thought about the young men, and the younger part of our Society; and I have a hope the way will be made for my finding access to them, in a religious and social point of view. Should it be permitted, the Lord grant that it may tend to mutual comfort. John Yeardley returned through Paris. He spent a day or two in that great city, which he never saw "so quiet and free from soldiers." We extract from his Diary a short note of a conversation which took place at the _table d'hôte_ of the hotel where he lodged, and which appears to us to be of an instructive character. Two men contended respecting the motive by which mankind are influenced to good actions. One attributed it to _reason_; the other held that it was _virtue_ which restrains from evil and impels to good, and maintained that we must do good actions from the love of justice and virtue, and not from the fear of punishment or the hope of reward. The latter had the advantage over his antagonist in the argument:-- I had not, says J.Y., taken part in the conversation; but at the close I felt constrained to tell the _Christian_ that I confessed myself on his side, because he had defended the truth; only that what he called _virtue_, I called _the action of the spirit of God in the heart of man_. With much animation, he clasped my hand in his, and cried, "That is the very thing,--that is just what I mean!" In the year 1856, he engaged in two religious visits at home, both of them in accordance with the kind of service which had been unfolded to him in the retirement of Neuveville, viz., mingled religious and social intercourse with his younger fellow-members. In reading the expression of his feelings in the prospect of the former of these engagements, it is instructive to remark, that the same sense of entire dependence which had bowed his spirit when required in early life to make the first offering of this kind, was present with him when now called upon to go forth in his Master's name for the twentieth time, and when age and experience had given him reverence among men. 1 _mo_. 8.--To-morrow is our Monthly Meeting, when I expect to propose to my Friends a visit to the meetings composing the Quarterly Meetings of Bristol and Somerset, and Gloucester and Wilts. Every time any fresh exercise turns up for me, it always feels as if it was the _first_ time of entering into the holy harness. If my friends permit me to proceed, I hope I shall be helped through it; but it looks formidable. 21_st_.--Bristol is like a great mountain looking me in the face, and weighing heavily upon my heart. The following short memoranda of the way in which he was engaged at Bristol are taken from his letters; the Diary, during his later years, supplies few notes, either of his labors or his experience:-- 3 _mo_.--I met at Richard Fry's house a large number of young men and women teachers of the First-day School; forty-eight were present. An opportunity was offered for my receiving and also communicating information respecting schools and education. What makes the subject more interesting in Bristol, is the attendance of more than one hundred of the school children at meeting on First-day mornings, which, I think, has been the practice for about ten years, and their behavior is orderly and good. 31_st_.--I am somewhat busily employed in this busy city in visiting the young men. I find very ready access to them, and my engagement has the hearty concurrence of all my friends. I am abundantly convinced that it would have been a great mistake to have ran away from the place without making the attempt at the performance of the present service. The usual meetings for worship have been seasons of divine favor, some of them, I think, extraordinarily so, which I consider a great mercy in my Heavenly Father, when I consider the weakness of the poor instrument. It has been announced for me to give a lecture this evening in the large meeting-house, on my travels in Europe, a _sound_ which almost frightens me. Friends really do not know what a poor thing I am. By the kindness of a friend, we have been supplied with a pleasing personal reminiscence of John Yeardley's visit to Bristol, which will help to represent him as he was in later years. Bristol, 6 mo. 8, 1859. Since thou informed me of thy intention to compile a memoir of our late dear friend John Yeardley, I have endeavored to recall the circumstances of his visit to this city in the spring of the year 1856. My impression is, that the most striking feature in his character was his childlike simplicity, both in word and conduct. This very characteristic, whilst it really increased his influence for good, especially with the young, rendered it perhaps more difficult to trace, and now to describe, the precise manner in which it was exercised. I believe that his Christian labors here were very seasonable and very important, and that he was enabled to perform a service which scarcely any one else would have been equally qualified to render. There was in him, so far as my observation went, no approach towards an assumption of spiritual dignity; nor was there, on the other hand, that which is perhaps a more frequent defect, anything of _feigned_ humility. His whole character seemed to me perfectly unaffected. To whatever extent, therefore, his natural disposition may have fitted him for profitable intercourse with the young, I think that the qualities which I have attempted to describe rendered him peculiarly acceptable to them. Many times, whilst he was amongst us, he alluded--I believe even in his public ministry--to his delight in their society, somewhat in this manner: "I love the company of those who tread the earth with an elastic step." This prominent trait in his character was a striking illustration of what may be termed _the corrective tendency_ of true religion, by which in advanced life he was enabled to place himself, under the precious influence of the love of Christ, in thorough sympathy with those whose circumstances, in many respects, were so different from, his own. But my object was to describe John Yeardley's meetings in Bristol. The truth is, however, that in describing the man, one seems most truly to describe his service. In addition to his family visits, he met a large company of our members in our meeting-house, and gave an interesting narrative of his journeys in Southern Russia and Greece. He afterwards invited many of our young friends, especially those who were engaged as teachers in our First-day Schools, to spend an evening with him. Meeting at the house of a kind friend, we had an opportunity of hearing from his own lips some interesting details of his labors, chiefly, I think, in reference to the schools in Greece. With characteristic simplicity, he made various inquiries respecting our own First-day Schools, in which he felt a deep interest. The occasion was of a very sociable and easy character, and well calculated to promote in his young friends the _healthy tone_ of religious feeling which seemed so peculiarly to belong to himself. After Martha Yeardley's decease, and as years rolled on, his mind dwelt still more habitually and more confidingly than ever on the approaching end of the race. 4 _mo._ 24.--I cannot say my spirits are always high. There is an individuality in the allotment of each of us which we must seek for grace and aid to endure to the end. The road may be now and then a little rough, but it cannot be very long, at least to some of us; and when the eye closes under the last gleam of earthly light, and then opens in the full brightness of eternal glory, to enjoy the fulness of a Saviour's love, it will be bliss indeed. Thinking his state of health unequal to the attendance of the Yearly Meeting, he left London and again, resorted for a while to the baths near Minden, where he passed two months in tranquil retirement. He had in former visits been deeply interested in the sufferings of a Prussian soldier who refused conscientiously to bear arms. The late Samuel Gurney wrote to the King of Prussia, on behalf of the young man, who was in consequence liberated from military service, but was sentenced to two years' imprisonment. The term was not nearly expired; but John Yeardley, whilst at Minden, heard that he had been released from prison by immediate command of the King. J.Y. had "spent a First-day with him within the gloomy walls in Duisburg," and was consequently the more ready to rejoice in his liberation. On his return to England, John Yeardley proceeded to Birmingham. His service in this and the neighboring towns was similar to that which he had had to perform at Bristol. He says: By day I called on the sick and such as were confined at home. In the evenings I met companies of young men and women. They were invited to the Friends' houses where tea was first served, and then a religious occasion of silence and exhortation, with supplication when felt to be under right pointing. The remainder of the evening was spent in social converse. I am very favorable to the mixing of social intercourse with gospel labor. All seemed pleased, and I trust we were mutually edified. I was often requested to give some account of my late journey and the state of religion in the various countries where I had travelled; and the conversation often, turned on points connected with our religious principles. Joseph Sturge, he continues, was from home. At the request of his wife I dined at their house with twenty-five young culprits, whom J.S. has in his Reformatory at Stoke, near Bromsgrove. They came in a van with horses to spend the day. They are all such as have been once or twice in prison, mostly for theft. I addressed them after dinner, and at tea-time I questioned them as to Jesus Christ our Redeemer, on God, Heaven and Hell, how to gain Heaven and avoid misery. I left them with a more favorable impression than I otherwise should have had. Severe measures had failed to improve them, but they seemed susceptible of kind treatment, and some of them gave hopes of amendment. 9 _mo_. 21.--Visited the Boys' and Girls' First-day Schools. Breakfasted with thirty teachers (young men) at the schools. About 370 boys present in two rooms. None are taken under fourteen years of age. Also a large class of adults. I addressed the two companies: then went to the girls; heard them read, and addressed them. There are about twenty young women teachers, and perhaps 270 to 300 girls. The morning meeting was large. I was much pressed in spirit to speak on the nature of the fall of man, and on the necessity of having clear views of gospel truth. I was told afterwards that there was a Unitarian present. He attended the Quarterly Meeting at Leicester on the 24th, and the two following days met companies of young persons, who were, he says, "much tendered in spirit." After some similar service at Stourbridge and Coventry, he returned on the 27th to Stamford Hill. He remarks in his Diary: "I believe the service of the young Friends in the First-day Schools has been a blessing to themselves as well as to their pupils." The next month John Yeardley made a religious visit to Hertfordshire, and had two social-religious meetings with the younger Friends at Hitchin; after which he remained at home until the beginning of the Twelfth Month, when he left England for Nismes. One object in this journey was to revisit the school which had been established by himself and Martha Yeardley in 1842: another was the renewal of his declining health. Susan Howland and Lydia Congdon, from the United States, who were then on a visit to Europe, were bound for the same destination, and John Yeardley gave them his company. 12 _mo_. 6.--On entering France, he says, we found a sprinkling of snow and frost, but on leaving Lyons we left all the wintry weather behind, and travelled on under a hot sun, and bright, cloudless sky, which seemed to impart to us all fresh vigor and spirits. S. Howland remarked, In such an atmosphere she felt another being. At Nismes, the party found Eliza P. Gurney, and Robert and Christine Alsop, on their way home from the valleys of Piedmont. John Yeardley lodged at the school, spent much of his time with the children, and with the other English and the American Friends gave his aid in some plans for their recreation. 12 _mo_. 25.--The evening of this day was a lively and pleasant scene. The girls' countenances were brightened and their hearts cheered by the presents made to them by the English Friends present. The "tree" was new to them; it was beautifully lighted with tapers, and bore a variety of fruit both for mind and body. 1857. 3 _mo_. 2.--My dear friend ----- proposed my giving the school girls a treat before I left Nismes. We contrived a visit to the sea, distant from Nismes about twenty miles. We procured two omnibuses with six horses, and started at 5 o'clock in the morning. Long before the time appointed, the little maidens were in the entrance-hall with their satchels in their hand, containing each her dinner; twenty-seven in all. The pleasure on the road was novel and great; but when they arrived at the sea-shore their delight was complete; with light hearts and quick heels, running and picking up shells, meeting the waves as they advanced and receded. On our return we visited the ancient town of Aigues-Mortes, near the sea, famous for having been the place where the Protestant women were confined and punished even to death. We entered most of the strong and gloomy cells, and saw the instrument of torture. The tower and fortress are a perfect model of a feudal castle. On his return to England, John Yeardley was taken ill with bronchitis, which produced great bodily weakness, and caused him "many wearisome" nights and days; but, he says, "my Saviour was near to console and sustain me." He went for change to Bath, and afterwards to Brighton with Margaret Pope:-- We made, he says, speaking of this visit many calls, and my hospitable hostess had many of the Friends to tea and dinner visits. Our social readings in the evening were often instructive in the conversation upon what we read, particularly over Hippolytus, who lived and wrote in the first half of the second century. The Chevalier Bunsen did good service to the Christian Church in bringing the life and some of the writings of this good man to light. On his return home we find him still solicitous, as he had been in former years, for the intellectual improvement of his young friends. 11 _mo_.--During my stay at home I have renewed my German class for a few of my young friends. We have also commenced a soiree for German and French conversation. I love the society of my young friends, and am always, anxious to promote their learning to speak German and French. The Diary for 1858, the last year of his life, commences with, a New Year's dedication of himself afresh to the service of his faithful Creator, and a prayer for a fresh anointing in the exercise of his ministry. 1858. 1 _mo_. 4.--How many and various are the thoughts which crowd on the mind on the commencement of a new year; perhaps none more important than to think I am one year nearer to eternity. A desire does live in my heart (cherish it, O, my God) to live more to thy glory on earth. How I long to be favored with strength to do something for the cause of truth and righteousness, so long as I may be permitted to remain on the Lord's earth. I think with gratitude that he has blessed me with a little more faith of late in my ministry, and my very soul prays that in these requirings he may be pleased to put the unction of his Spirit into my heart, and his words into my mouth, and that under a right pointing, they may go forth with power. Grant me, Lord, more devotedness of life, and a right and sure preparation for a peaceful death and a blissful eternity. For some years before his decease, John Yeardley's thoughts were frequently occupied with the subject of the Millennium. Like some other good men, he thought he saw in the events which were taking place, the impending accomplishment of those predictions, whose fulfilment was to precede the "great and terrible day of the Lord." On one occasion, after mentioning a number of these "signs of the times," he winds up the enumeration and the thoughts to which it gave rise, with the following reflection:-- Happy is the Christian who, in this time of conflict, can look beyond the passing events of time to the Great First Cause, and behold, as with the eye of faith, the providence of his God watching over all things, waiting to bring good out of evil, and causing all things to work to the one great point, when he will cause the wrath of man to praise him, and the remainder of wrath will he restrain. "Come, my people, enter thou into thy chambers and shut thy doors about thee; hide thyself, as it were for a little moment, until the indignation be overpast. For behold the Lord cometh out of his place to punish the inhabitants of the earth for their iniquity." (Isaiah xxvi. 20, 21) In the Second Month he spent a week at Chelmsford with Susanna Corder. His visit was prefaced by the following letter:-- Stamford Hill, 1 mo. 13, 1858. MY DEAR FRIEND, It would seem to me as if there were only left here and there a link of the chain of my original connexion on this earth. The best end of this chain is attached to those loved ones in heaven who are drawing me every day nearer to their happy and blissful abode, through the love of our glorified Redeemer. It is now many years since thou received her once so dear to me as a bosom friend, to partake of thy wise counsels, and in her troubles especially to enjoy the sympathy of thy warm and affectionate heart. I am now left alone for a short time; my young companion is at Norwich. If thou wert at home, pretty well in health, and withal not so much occupied as sometimes, it would be a great pleasure and gratification to me to pay thee a short visit; but, as an absolute condition, I must request thee to say, in perfect freedom, if it would be quite convenient. I want to ask thee _many, many_ things. Thy friend, affectionately and very sincerely, JOHN YEARDLEY. After his return home, having also visited Saffron Walden, he writes:-- 1 _mo_. 25.--Just returned from a visit to Essex. I lodged a week at my dear friend S.C.'s, and was edified and comforted in her company. It has been a promised pleasure of some years' standing. The morning meeting on First-day, as well as the one on Fourth-day, was a season of spiritual refreshment, for which I was truly thankful. The Friends testified their unity and comfort: I called on most of them. On the Seventh-day, C.M. conveyed me across the country to Saffron Walden. On the way we paid a sweet visit to the afflicted family of ----. At Walden I was affectionately cared for, and was much interested in the Friends there, whom I had not seen for eighteen years. CHAPTER XXI. LAST JOURNEY AND DEATH, 1858.--CONCLUDING REMARKS. We are now arrived at the closing scene of John Yeardley's labors. The impression which he had received, during his visit to Turkey in 1853, of the opening for the work of the Gospel in the Eastern countries, had never been obliterated; it had rather grown deeper with time, although his ability to accomplish such an undertaking had proportionately diminished. This consideration, however, could not satisfy his awakened sympathies, and, according to his apprehension, no other course remained for him but to prepare for a visit to the missionary stations in Asia Minor and the countries beyond, in order to deliver to the inquiring inhabitants amongst whom those stations are planted, the message of Christ's love to their souls with which he believed himself to be charged. And when he communicated to his friends the apprehension that this journey was required of him as the last offering of thanksgiving before his day closed, they were satisfied to "lay their hands upon him" for the work, thinking, perhaps, that the veteran soldier could not better end his campaign than with his arms in his hands, actively contending for the faith. That such might not improbably be the issue of the enterprise, John Yeardley himself believed; but it is doubtful if he correctly estimated the arduous nature of the journey. It would have been a bold undertaking in the vigor of his days: at his time of life, and with his declining strength, it was, humanly speaking, impossible that he should accomplish nearly all he had in view. His Diary unfolds his spiritual exercises and his natural feelings in the prospect before him. 3 _mo_. 17.--The last two months have been to me an awful time of deep conflict of spirit, arising out of a prospect of a religious visit to some places in Asiatic Turkey, and parts adjacent. I do not know when I have had more conflict to arrive at a clear pointing. I prayed earnestly and waited long for that clear pointing of Divine Wisdom, without which I can never move in concerns of this importance. In the end, I am thankful to say, the cloud was removed and the sun stone with brightness, and no longer was my poor tried mind left in doubt as to the line of religions duty; and before mentioning it to any one, I communicated it to the Monthly Meeting in the Second Month. Much unity and sympathy were expressed, and the certificate ordered. It is now signed, and is a sweet document, short and explicit. I see and deeply feel the perils and sufferings which await me, in venturing on untrodden ground, as it regards any minister of our Society, and to such a distance, and among, for the most part, an unbelieving people. But I can and do look forward in calm confidence, trusting, as I have ever done, in the aid and protecting care of my Heavenly Father, whose cause I desire to serve, and whose will I wish above all other things to do. My earthly career can never end better than in the work of my Divine Master; and should it be his will to terminate my life in the Arab tent, I shall have more consolation there than in an English home under the stinging sense of a dereliction of my religious duty. I am giving all my leisure hours to learn something of the Turkish language, for travelling purposes, and for a little social intercourse. Ever since this concern fastened on my mind, it has been connected with having the company of my young friend from the South of France, Jules Paradon. May the Lord grant me resignation, faith, grace, and strength to do his holy will; and then, whether it end in life or death, his great name shall be praised. This testimony I record in gratitude and love to the mercy of my God. Amen. Before leaving England, he paid a visit to Staines. 4 _mo._ 20.--I went down to Staines, and spent two weeks with Margaret Pope, which sojourn proved a strength and comfort to me. This dear friend is a succorer of many, and, I can truly say, of me in particular. We had several pleasant drives, and made friendly visits to the neighboring meetings and Friends. I also applied pretty diligently to the Turkish language. Amply provided, by the kindness of many friends, with whatever could administer to his wants or ease the roughness of Eastern travel, John Yeardley left his home on the 15th of the Sixth Month. He arrived at Nismes on the 17th, and was joined there by Jules Paradon. His Diary supplies some notes of the voyage to Constantinople. 23_rd_.--Malta. Here we arrived at 4 o'clock this morning, after a favorable passage; thanks to the Preserver of our lives; great is his mercy and his love. My heart is filled with deep thoughtfulness, and I am very anxious to procure an interpreter, either at Smyrna or Constantinople. My faith is weak, but I trust the Lord will provide. On descending the lower deck adjoining: the large saloon, I found my faithful companion in calm but very earnest conversation with the commissary of the ship and a passenger of respectability, the Spanish consul of Smyrna. They had sifted from Jules the object of our journey, and when they found it connected with a religious mission, they both attacked him earnestly and showed themselves really opposed to the truth. But my young friend stood his ground well, and maintained the Christian religion. The opponents were both Romanists. They quieted down before the close, and treated us respectfully the remainder of the journey; we parted with them at Smyrna. I am thankful to have in my companion such a defender of the faith. 27_th_.--We arrived at Smyrna this morning, and in order to meet some of our Christian friends to whom we had letters of recommendation, we met them after their worship. Edward Van Lennep, the Dutch consul, and his brother Charles, the Swedish consul, received us with great kindness and cordiality through the letters from one of our Members of Parliament. It was very sweet to find these two brothers so imbued with religious feeling; they gave their hearts to help us in our prospect. On the 30th John Yeardley and his companion landed at Constantinople; they found the heat and noise of the city very oppressive. The people in the streets, says John Yeardley, are numerous beyond all description; thousands, and tens of thousands, standing, sitting, running, following, or pushing one against the other, talking and shouting in the ceaseless noise of the Armenian, Turkish, Greek, Syriac, Italian, French and English languages. The services of my dear Jules are most valuable: he makes his way with every one through his earnest kindness to serve the good cause. When passing through the islands, he adds, the prospect was extremely beautiful; but my mind was always anxious in the prospect of the long journey before us; but the mercy of my God is great, and deeply humbles me in thankfulness for his goodness.--(_Letter of_ 7 _mo_. 4.) Very soon after their arrival, walking several hours in the heat of the day, John Yeardley had a slight attack of sun-stroke. The effect appeared quickly to pass off, and he was able to perform such religious duty as opened before him in the city and its immediate neighborhood. _Diary_. 7 _mo_. 4.--We made a call at Bebek: Dr. Hamlin had gone to the city, but Dr. Dwight received us kindly. These two dear Christian, friends called on us yesterday. This morning we attended the meeting in the Armenian chapel, and at half-past 1 we had a full company in the same meeting-house. They received in a free and brotherly disposition what I was favored to express in gospel freedom; I concluded in supplication. A kind and Christian man interpreted with simplicity into the Turkish language. The morning service was in the Armenian. We have already had many calls from these loving Christian friends in our hotel. What a mercy, and how encouraging, to be thus received in gospel by strangers! Respecting this meeting Jules Paradon says:-- About thirty-five or forty were present. Our dear friend's communication was short and simple; it breathed love to all. In fact, what he seemed to have most on his mind in all his public communications was, to show his hearers how much God loved them in even giving his own Son for them, and the high privilege we can enjoy in loving him. They went also to Has-Keui, where J.Y. desired to have a meeting with the girls of the school; but many had left for the vacation, and he was obliged to give up his intention. On the 10th they went to Brusa, in Asia Minor, six hours by steam-vessel across the Sea of Marmora to Moudania, and six on horseback from Moudania to Brusa. The land journey was oppressive. A narrow path winds through a very rugged country; and there is only one halting-place, a guard hut, where they took a cup of coffee, the only refreshment the inmates had to offer. John Yeardley suffered much in this day's journey. He had two meetings in the Protestant meeting-house at Brusa:-- Both, says Jules Paradon, took place after the usual service, which was expressly made short. The hearers, to the number of about 120, were impressed and interested to hear and see our dear friend come from so far to visit them in the love of the gospel. Twelve or fourteen men came two evenings to see us at our lodgings; and on both occasions our dear friend addressed them very sweetly. The heat tried him very much, but he felt pleased and happy to be helped to sympathize with so many simple, kind-hearted people. At Demirdash (six miles from Brusa), he had a short religious opportunity with a few persons. On their return to Constantinople, finding that a box of luggage he expected from London, containing a tent and other equipments, had not arrived, without which he could not pursue his journey into the interior, he employed the interval in visiting Isnik, (the ancient Nicomedia,) and Bargheghik, two places in Asia Minor, not far from the coast. Accordingly they started early the next day, and reached Isnik late in the evening, weary and exhausted, having been able to procure very little refreshment on the way. They proceeded to Bargheghik the day following; John Yeardley walking about four miles in the middle of the day, with which he was extremely fatigued. He had a meeting, continues Jules Paradon, late in the evening, which proved highly interesting. About thirty men and one woman attended. Our dear friend encouraged and consoled the weak and the afflicted. The next day we returned to Isnik, having to bear the heat of the sun from half-past eight till three in the afternoon. We had a meeting the same afternoon at half-past four, towards the close of which he felt weak, and seemed to end his address rather abruptly. The fact was, that paralysis had supervened; and on his return the next day to Constantinople, his bodily and mental strength were seen to be rapidly diminishing. He still clung, however, to the desire of accomplishing the object which lay so near his heart, and could not be satisfied without going to Bebek to consult his missionary friends about his journey into the interior. Probably they perceived that he was totally unequal to the effort, and advised him to relinquish it; for on his return to the city he was induced to abandon the thought of proceeding farther, and to turn his mind towards home. On the 23rd he said, If after what had been done he was permitted to go home, it would be a satisfaction.[14] On the 26th they embarked for Marseilles. John Yeardley bore the voyage well, walking on deck every day, but becoming continually weaker. They arrived at Marseilles on the 4th of the Eighth Month, and passed through France as rapidly as his state would allow. On the evening of Second-day, the 9th, he was favored to reach Stamford Hill; and though unable to speak, he recognized several of his near relatives, and signified his pleasure in being once more at home. He continued to sink until Fifth-day, the 11th, when he quietly breathed his last, an expression of peace resting on his venerable face. We may say, with one of his most intimate friends on the Continent, when he heard of his decease:--"So our beloved friend has been called to enter into his Lord's joy. Now he will see God, to whom he often used to pray. 'With thee is the fountain of life; in thy light shall we see light.'" His remains were interred at Stoke Newington, on the 18th of the Eighth Month. * * * * * Of the fruits which John Yeardley has bequeathed to us in the history of his life and Christian experience, none perhaps are of higher value than his diligent improvement of the talents he possessed and his steady and persevering pursuit of what he had in view. It is not so much what abilities a man has that determines his place in society, and the amount of his influence, as the use which he makes of them. Of this truth John Yeardley was a striking example. We have heard him say, in one of his early diaries: "I have clearly seen, for what service I am designed in the church militant here on earth; therefore, through the assistance of divine grace, I hope to pursue nothing but in subordination to this main design." The service to which he was called was the Christian ministry; and, laying aside every meaner ambition, and indeed every other object, he addressed himself to preparation for this service as the labor of his life. He cultivated those habits of mind and body, and confined himself to the acquisition of those branches of knowledge, which, while they left his heavenly gift free and unsullied, would best subserve the exercise of it. His industry and perseverance were remarkable. In none of his pursuits were these qualities more conspicuous than in his study of languages. It cost him, especially, an almost incredible amount of labor to master French. The slight elementary knowledge of this language which he acquired at Bentham cannot have given him so much as an insight into it; his acquaintance with it may be said to date from his visit to Congenies, when he had reached his fortieth year. Yet, by indefatigable exertion, maintained during many years, he became able to write and speak it fluently, though, not correctly, and even to preach without an interpreter. The difficulty which he encountered in the acquisition of languages, from the late period of life at which he commenced, was enhanced by his ignorance of Latin, that best trainer of the youthful faculties, and by a natural inaptitude for the memory of words. A proof of the latter occurred when, with his quick-witted wife, he was occupied in conning over the Italian and Modern Greek Grammars, in preparation for their journey to the Ionian Islands. The difference in their natural capacities in this respect is shown in her playful expression; "I got my lesson in half an hour; while John has been three or four hours over his, and does not know it yet." But although slow in study, he was quick and shrewd in the observation of actual life. This was apparent in his daily converse; and it may also be continually traced in his Diary, where, describing those with whom he became acquainted in his numerous travels, he seizes, on the prominent feature of their mind or manners, and with a word affixes to each his own particular mark. Of the hundreds of individuals who rise into view one after another in the course of these journeys, scarcely two are alike; a result which is, perhaps, due as much to the pen of the writer, as to the inherent diversities of the human character. To this shrewdness of observation, he added a racy humor which those who knew him in his hours of relaxation and familiarity will not easily forget. His mind was stored with quaint and pithy phrases, and apt illustrations, which he not unfrequently seasoned with his native idiom, the broad Barnsley dialect. His north-country pronunciation, indeed, never entirely forsook him; and the singular graft of German which he made upon it during his residence abroad, caused it to be commonly supposed, by those who were strangers to his history, that he was a native of Germany. The same moral constitution that enabled John Yeardley to pursue his objects with indomitable perseverance, sometimes betrayed him, as may easily be imagined, into a tenacity of purpose, bordering upon obstinacy. To the same strength of will also, acting on the defects incident to a neglected education in early life, must be attributed those strong prejudices which were at times to be remarked in him, and of which he found it extremely difficult to divest himself. But it was the triumph of grace, that whilst these faults of character and disposition remained for the most part only as a hidden thorn, the messenger of Satan to buffet him, the virtues to which they were allied, and all the faculties of his mind, were consecrated to the service of God and of his fellow-man, and his whole nature was enlarged, refined and elevated, by the all-powerful energy of the gospel. "Very sweet and instructive are our recollections of the humility of his walk amongst us, and of the liveliness of his ministry, marked as it was by much simplicity, love and earnestness." To this testimony of his Monthly Meeting, all who were accustomed to hear him will readily subscribe. We are able to append some notes of a few of his public testimonies, which we give as likely to be at once gratifying and instructive to the reader. The friend to whom we are indebted for them informs us that "the notes were written immediately after meeting, and are as nearly the words used as his memory would furnish." He adds, "They bring before the mind's eye and ear the face and voice of a dear departed friend, and, I believe, a true and enlightened servant of the Lord." * * * * * (8 _mo_, 1850.) _Keep thy heart, with all diligence, for out of it are the issues of life_.--(Proverbs iv. 23.) We often are made to feel the force of this truth, when we have been unwatchful, and some cross occurrence has tried our tempers. How often we are made to see, and to show before others, what manner of spirit is in as..... Sometimes we are favored with such clear convictions of the worthlessness of mere worldly possessions and pursuits, and such delightful realizations of the happiness of seeking to do the Lord's work, that we are ready to express our astonishment that any human beings can be found so foolish as to devote their energies to the pursuit of things which never can give satisfaction, and which must needs perish. And then, perhaps, we are brought into a state of darkness and despondency, to show us our utter helplessness and unworthiness, and the need there is for every one of us to "keep the heart with all diligence, for out of it are the issues of life.".... Every individual, no doubt, has his own particular path of duty, which is designed to promote his own best happiness and the well-being of all mankind. How important for each to follow that path in watchfulness and obedience, that the work may not be marred! How important to keep the heart with all diligence, that the issues of life may be in accordance with divine will! * * * * * (9 _mo_. 1, 1850.) _Since the people began to bring the offerings into the house of the Lord, we have had enough to eat, and have left plenty_.--(2 Chronicles xxxi. 10.) These words have been impressed upon my mind this morning, and I have thought they were instructive, in a spiritual sense. I believe, if we were more earnest in bringing offerings into the house of the Lord--if each one of us was more diligent in contributing his share, and doing his part of the Lord's business,--we should have less anxiety about worldly things; we should have faith in the Lord's providence, and, not only spiritually, but naturally also, we should have "enough to eat and plenty left." * * * * * (11 _mo_. 24, 1850.) In looking at the world around, we may be apt to think that the day is very far off when the Lord's kingdom, shall be established in peace: but to those who, through the regenerating power of Christ, have become subjects of the Prince of Peace, that day has commenced already; and whatever storms may rage without, they will experience peace within. For "he will keep them in perfect peace whose minds are staid on him, because they trust in him." * * * * * (9 _mo_. 19, 1852.) John Yeardley addressed the children with much feeling, telling them to rely on the Lord Jesus Christ in all their ways--to let him carry them in his bosom, and to run to him in danger or trouble, as they would to their tender mothers. * * * * * You sometimes are restless in these meetings, not knowing how to keep your thoughts fixed on heavenly things, and perplexed for want of some visible means of instruction. I believe your tender Saviour may often feed you, even while in this state, with food convenient for you. But remember, dear children, that he is always calling to every one of you, Come unto Me. Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not. O! come to him, my precious lambs, and he will feed you, and "lead you beside the still waters, and make you lie down in green pastures." * * * * * (12 _mo_. 8, 1854 At a Funeral.) _And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads: they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away._--(Isa. xxxv. 10.) In the pain of parting with the beloved object of our heart's affection, we forget the rejoicing which welcomes the ransomed spirit to its everlasting rest. But when the time is come for the Lord to pour in the healing balm into the sorrowing soul, then we find a little comfort. .... "Watchman! what of the night? Watchman! what of the night? The watchman said, The morning cometh, and also the night: if ye will inquire, inquire ye: return; come." There are many in this company in the morning of life, enjoying the prospect of many days, and forming many plans for the future, with all the ardor of their youthful minds. May the present occasion prove the morning of their spiritual day; and may they remember that the _night cometh as well as the morning_. How thin is the partition which separates the present state from that of eternity! We mourn over those who are taken away from us, and we fancy we are left alone. But we are called to be _one in Christ_. I have great faith in the communion of saints, in the union of saints on earth with saints in heaven. And we are all called to be saints by walking in faith, by leading a life of holiness in the fear of the Lord. We say our beloved friends who have gone before us are dead. _They are not dead: they have but just entered into life._ Let us not mourn, then, as those who have no hope. Let us rather rejoice with them and for them, and so live that we may be among the ransomed of the Lord, who shall return and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away. THE END. [Footnote 1: The memorandum here referred to is in the Diary, under date of the 18th of the Sixth Month.] [Footnote 2: Life of B. Grubb, 2nd ed., p. 219.] [Footnote 3: The introduction was made by Thomas Shillitoe, at the time of the Yearly Meeting. He said to M.S., "Let me introduce thy brother to thee." "_Brother_!" she exclaimed, with surprise. "Yes," answered the good old man; "all who have been on the Continent are brothers and sisters."] [Footnote 4: Pastor Fliedner has since become more extensively known by the institution for Deaconesses which he has founded at Kaiserswerth, where, with many other useful and exemplary women, Florence Nightingale was trained. Kaiserwerth has become the parent of several other kindred institutions.] [Footnote 5: This is one of the earliest burial-grounds which belonged to Friends. Over the gateway was a curious inscription on brass, now removed to Barnsley. It is as follows: "Anno Domini 1657. Though superstitious minds doe judge amisse of this buriall plane, yet lett them know hereby that the Scripture saith, The earth, it is the Lord's. And I say soe is this, therefore seeing we, and by his people also sett apart for the churches use, or a buriall place, it is holy, or convenient and good for that use and service, as every other earth is. And it is not without Scripture warrant or example of the holy men of God to burie in snoh a place; for Joshua, a servant of the Lord and commander in chiefe or leader and ruler of the people of God when he died was neither buried in a steeple-house now called a parish church, nor in a steeple-house-yeard, but he was buried in the border of his inheritance, and on the north side of Mount Gaash, as you may read; see Joshua, the 24th chapter, and the 29th and 30th verses. And Eleazer, Aaron's son, who was called of the Lord, when he died, (they buried him not in a parish house, nor a steeple-house yeard, but) they buried him in the hill of Phinehas, his son, which was given him in Mount Ephraim, as you may read, Joshua, the 24th, the 33rd v. And these were noe superstitious persons, but beloved, of the Lord, and were well buried. And soe were they In Abraham's bought field, Genesis, the 23rd chapter, the 17, 18, 19, and 20 verses: though superstitious minds now are unwilling unto the truth to bow, who are offended at such as burie in their inheritance or bought field, appointed for that use."] [Footnote 6: This young person, under the name of Amanda, is the subject of No. 7 of a series of small tracts published by John Yeardley in the latter years of his life.] [Footnote 7: She brought an affectionate epistle from M.A. Calame. The felicity of style and beauty of penmanship which distinguished the letters of this extraordinary woman agreed with the rest of her character. We have the epistle in question now before us, exquisitely written. It ends with these words;-- "Il nous eût étè bien doux de prononger les moments de la voir encore, mais la sagesse demande que tout se fasse avec ordre; voilà pourquoi notre chère enfant vous est confiée plus tôt; que le seigneur l'accompagne et vous aussi, precieux amis; nous vous confions tous trois à la garde divine, et nous vous assurons encore ici de l'affection Chrétienne qui unit nos ames aux vôtres en Celui qui est le lieu indissoluble. M. A. Calame." Locle, 24 du 9 mois, '33.] [Footnote 8: We believe Joseph John Gurney is here referred to.] [Footnote 9: See _The Widow's Mite_, No. 5 of J.Y.'s Series of Tracts.] [Footnote 10: The visits of J. and M.Y. to Kreuznach, in this journey, form the subject of No. 8 of John Yeardley's Series of Tracts, _The German Farmer become Preacher._ We extract from it the following more particular description of their visit to the three villages mentioned in the text:-- "We started on a bright, hot sunny morning; and a pleasant drive, through the vines and under the agreeable shade of double rows of fruit trees, brought us to the place of destination. At the first farmhouse where we alighted the people were busy at their out-door work, which, however, on hearing of the arrival of strangers, they soon left, and came to welcome the travellers with outstretched hand and smiling countenances. They soon gave proof of their hospitality, by ordering us to be served with fruit, milk, and butter-bread, nor were we allowed to depart before partaking of a cup of coffee. The master of the house was an intelligent, pious man, and gave us much information as to the state of religion among the people. After wending our way from village to village and from house to house, we returned to our lodgings, favorably impressed with the piety and apparent sincerity of this simplehearted people."] [Footnote 11: The history of this worthy man is given in the Tract mentioned in the last note, _The German Farmer_, &c.] [Footnote 12: See John Yeardley's Tract, No. 5, _The Widow's Mite cast into the Heavenly Treasury._] [Footnote 13: or a fuller description of this visit, see J.Y.'s Tract, _The German Farmer_, &c.] [Footnote 14: After his return, a letter was received from one of the missionaries at Constantinople, expressive of the pleasure which his visit had given there, the regret of the writer that age and fatigue prevented him from pursuing his journey to the more remote stations, and the cordial welcome which "such Christian friends of any denomination" might always reckon upon from the missionary brethren.] 
50374	----	THE LIFE AND LABORS OF ELIAS HICKS BY Henry W. Wilbur Introduction by ELIZABETH POWELL BOND PHILADELPHIA Published by Friends' General Conference Advancement Committee 1910 COPYRIGHTED 1910 BY HENRY W. WILBUR CONTENTS. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 5 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 7 INTRODUCTION 11 CHAPTER I, Ancestry and Boyhood 17 CHAPTER II, His Young Manhood 22 CHAPTER III, First Appearance in the Ministry 28 CHAPTER IV, Early Labors in the Ministry 32 CHAPTER V, Later Ministerial Labors 38 CHAPTER VI, Religious Journeys in 1828 46 CHAPTER VII, Ideas About the Ministry 57 CHAPTER VIII, The Home at Jericho 66 CHAPTER IX, The Hicks Family 71 CHAPTER X, Letters to His Wife 76 CHAPTER XI, The Slavery Question 84 CHAPTER XII, Various Opinions 95 CHAPTER XIII, Some Points of Doctrine 107 CHAPTER XIV, Before the Division 121 CHAPTER XV, First Trouble in Philadelphia 126 CHAPTER XVI, The Time of Unsettlement 139 CHAPTER XVII, Three Sermons Reviewed 152 CHAPTER XVIII, The Braithwaite Controversy 161 CHAPTER XIX, Ann Jones in Dutchess County 171 CHAPTER XX, The Experience with T. Shillitoe 181 CHAPTER XXI, Disownment and Doctrine 188 CHAPTER XXII, After the "Separation" 195 CHAPTER XXIII, Friendly and Unfriendly Critics 202 CHAPTER XXIV, Recollections, Reminiscences and Testimonies 211 CHAPTER XXV, Putting off the Harness 218 APPENDIX 226 TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. ELIAS HICKS (from bust, by Partridge) Frontispiece HICKS HOUSE AND JERICHO MEETING HOUSE, facing 57 CHILDREN OF ELIAS HICKS, facing 97 FACSIMILE OF LETTER, facing 105 ELIAS HICKS (from painting, by Ketcham), facing 121 SURVEYOR'S PLOTTING, BY ELIAS HICKS, facing 144 BURYING GROUND AT JERICHO, facing 216 AUTHOR'S PREFACE. Elias Hicks was a much misunderstood man in his own time, and the lapse of eighty years since his death has done but little to make him known to the passing generations. His warm personal friends, and of them there were many, considered him little less than a saint; his enemies, some of whom were intensely bitter in their personal feeling, whatever may have been the basis of their judgment, believed him to be a man whose influence was malevolent and mischievous. It is no part of the purpose of this book to attempt to reconcile the conflicting estimates touching the life and character of this remarkable man. On the contrary, our hope is to present him as he was, in his own environment, and not at all as he might have been had he lived in our time, or as his admirers would have him, to make him conform to their own estimate. In this biographical task, Elias Hicks becomes largely his own interpreter. As he measured himself in private correspondence and in public utterance, so this book will endeavor to measure him. We believe that it is not too much to say that he carried the fundamental idea of the Society of Friends, as delivered by George Fox, to its logical conclusion, as applied to thought and life, more clearly and forcibly than any of his predecessors or contemporaries. Not a few of those who violently opposed him, discounted the position of Fox and Barclay touching the Inner Light, and gave exaggerated importance to the claims of evangelical theology. Whatever others may have thought, Elias Hicks believed that he preached Christianity of the pure apostolic type, and Quakerism as it was delivered by the founders. It should be remembered that the conformist and non-conformist disputants of the seventeenth century talked as savagely about Fox as the early nineteenth century critics did about Hicks. In fact, to accept the theory of Fox about the nature and office of the indwelling spirit, necessarily develops either indifference or opposition to the plans and theories of what was in the time of Elias Hicks, if it is not now, the popularly accepted theology. No attempt has been made to write a comprehensive and detailed history of the so-called "separation." So far, however, as the trouble related to Elias Hicks, it has been considered, and as much light as possible has been thrown on the case. Necessarily this does not admit of very much reference to the setting up of separate meetings, which followed the open rupture of 1827-28, or the contests over property which occurred after the death of Elias Hicks. Even the causes of the trouble in the Society only appear as they seem necessary to make plain the feeling of Elias Hicks in the case, and the attitude of his opponents toward him. In dealing with the doctrines of Elias Hicks, or his views about various subjects, we have endeavored to avoid the one-sided policy, and to discriminate between the matters which would be accepted by the majority of those Friends to-day who are erroneously made to bear the name of Elias Hicks, and the theories which they now repudiate. On the other hand, his most conservative and peculiar ideas are given equal prominence with those which more nearly conform to present-day thought. In stating cases of antagonism, especially where it appeared in public meetings, we have endeavored rather to give samples, than to repeat and amplify occurrences where the same purpose and spirit were exhibited. The citations in the book should, therefore, be taken as types, and not as mere isolated or extraordinary occurrences. References to the descendants of Elias Hicks, and other matters relating to his life, which do not seem to naturally belong in the coherent and detailed story, will be found in the appendix. This is also true of the usual acknowledgment of assistance, and the reference to the published sources of information consulted by the author in writing the book. INTRODUCTION. Now and again a human life is lived in such obedience to the "heavenly vision" that it becomes an authority in other lives. The unswerving rectitude; whence is its divine directness? the world has to ask. Its clear-sightedness; how comes it that the eye is single to the true course? Its strength to endure; from what fountain flows unfailing strength? Its quickening sympathy; what is the sweet secret? The thought of the world fixes itself into stereotyped and imprisoning forms from which only the white heat of the impassioned seer and prophet can slowly liberate it. At last the world ceases to persecute or to crucify its liberator, and lo! an acknowledged revelation of God! This came to pass in the seventeenth century, when it was given George Fox to see and to proclaim that "there was an anointing within man to teach him, and that the Lord would teach him, himself." The eighteenth century developed another teacher in the religious society of Friends, whose message has been a distinctly leavening influence in the thought of the world. It is not easy to account for Elias Hicks. He was not the "son of a prophet." Nor was he a gift from the _schools_ of the time in which he lived. In the "Journal of His Life and Religious Labours," published in 1832 by Isaac T. Hopper, there is no reference to school days. There is one clue to this man that may explain much to us. Of his ancestry he says in the restrained language characteristic of his writings, "My parents were descended from reputable families, and sustained a good character among their friends and those who knew them." Here, then, is the rock-foundation upon which he builded, the factor which could not be spared from the life which he lived--that in his veins was the blood of those who had "sustained a good character among those who knew them." Some of the leisure of his youth had been given to fishing and fowling, which he looked back to as wholesome recreation, since he mostly preferred going alone. While he waited in stillness for the coming of the fowl, 'his mind was at times so taken up in divine meditations, that the opportunities were seasons of instruction and comfort to him.' Out of these meditations grew the conviction in his tendered soul that it was wanton diversion for himself and his companions to destroy the small birds that could be of no use to them. Recalling his youth, he writes: "Some of my leisure hours were occupied in reading the Scriptures, in which I took considerable delight, and it tended to my real profit and religious improvement." It may be that this great classic in English, as well as library of ancient history, and book of spiritual revelation, was not only the food that stimulated his spiritual growth, but also took the place to him, in some measure, of the schools as a means of culture. It is plain to see that he had what is the first requisite for a student--a hungering mind. The alphabet opened to him the ways and means, which he used as far as he could, for the satisfying of this divine hunger. A new book possessed for him such charm, it is said, that his friends who invited him for a social visit, knowing this, were careful to put the new books out of sight, lest he should become absorbed in them, and they lose his ever-welcome and very entertaining conversation. He even had experience as a teacher; and the testimony is given by an aged Friend, once his pupil: "The manners of Elias Hicks were so mild, his deportment so dignified, and his conversation so instructive, that it left an impression for good on many of his pupils' minds that time never effaced." That he had not the teaching of the schools narrowed his own resources, and, doubtless, restricted his field of vision. But such a life as his, that garnered wisdom more than knowledge of books, is a great encouragement to those who have not had the opportunities of the schools. We might not know without being told that he had missed from his equipment a college degree; but we do know that his endowment of sound mind was supplemented with incorruptible character; we do know that his life was founded upon belief in everlasting truth and an unchanging integrity. The record of his unfolding spiritual life shows that "So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man, When Duty whispers low, 'Thou must,' The youth replies, 'I can.'" There is evidence that Elias Hicks had not only a hungering mind, but that he had in marked degree the open mind, and that he accorded to others liberty of opinion. It is said that he was unwilling that his discourses be printed, lest they become a bondage to other minds. He wrote to his friend, William Poole: "Therefore every generation must have more light than the preceding one; otherwise, they must sit down in ease in the labour and works of their predecessors." And he left a word of caution to approaching age, when he said in a meeting in New York: "The old folks think they have got far enough, they are settling on the lees, they are blocking up the way." It does not disturb my thought of him that my own mother remembered a mild rebuke from him for the modest flower-bed that brightened the door-yard of her country home. For I discover in him rudiments of the love for beauty. A minister among Friends was once his guest during the harvest season on Long Island, and recalled long after that, when the hour arrived for the mid-week meeting, he came in from the harvest field, and not only exchanged his working for his meeting garments, but added his gloves, although it was hot, midsummer weather. There was certainly the rudimentary love for beauty in this scrupulous regard for the proprieties; but it was kept in such severe check that he could not justify the spending of time upon a flower-border. The poet had not then expressed for us the sweet garden prayer that might have brought to his sensitive mind a new view of the purpose and value of the flower-border: "That we were earthlings and of earth must live, Thou knowest, Allah, and did'st give us bread; Yea, and remembering of our souls, didst give Us food of flowers; thy name be hallowed!" From the days in which he preferred his hours of solitude in fishing as opportunities for "divine meditations" we can trace his steady spiritual growth. While his business life was henceforth subordinated to his labors among men to promote the life of the spirit, he was never indifferent to the exact discharge of his own financial obligations; nor was he indifferent to the needs of others. One incident surely marks him as belonging to the School of Christ: "Once when harvests were light and provisions scarce and high, his own wheat fields yielded abundantly. Foreseeing the scarcity and consequent rise in prices, speculators sought early to buy his wheat. He declined to sell. They offered him large prices, and renewed their visits repeatedly, increasing the price each time. Still he refused to sell, even for the unprecedented sum of three dollars a bushel. But by and by, when his poorer neighbors, whose crops were light, began to need, he invited them to come and get as much wheat as they required for use, at the usual price of one dollar a bushel." He entered into the life of his community and of his times, anticipating by nearly a century the work of Friends' Philanthropic Committees of the present day. It is related that he was much opposed to an attempt to establish a liquor-selling tavern in the Jericho neighborhood--that when he saw strangers approaching he would invite them to accept his own hospitality, thus making unnecessary the tavern-keeping business in the sparsely settled country town. We would expect that, with his sense of justice and his appreciation of values, Elias Hicks would place men and women side by side, not only in the home, but also in the larger household of faith, and in the affairs of the world. It is remembered that his face was set in this direction--that, strict Society-disciplinarian as he was, he advocated a change in the Discipline to allow women a consulting voice in making and amending the Discipline. It must be borne in mind that he lived through the Revolutionary period of 1776, and through the War of 1812. So true was he to his convictions against war that he would not allow himself to benefit by the advanced prices in foodstuffs; and we are told that the records of his monthly meeting show that he sacrificed much of his property by adherence to his peace principles. Neither can we forget the testing that came to him in the institution of slavery. For, according to the custom of the times, his own father was the owner of slaves. His open mind responded to the labors of a committee of the New York Yearly Meeting; and upon the freeing of his father's slaves, he ever after considered their welfare, making such restitution as he could for past injustice. To his daughter, Martha Hicks, he wrote: "My dear love to thee, to thy dear mother, who next to the Divine Blesser has been the joy of my youth, and who, I trust and hope, will be the comfort of my declining years. O dear child, cherish and help her, for she hath done abundance for thee." These fruits of the religious faith of Elias Hicks are offered as the test given us by the Great Teacher himself, by which to know the life of a man. They mark a life rooted in the life of God. Imperishable as the root whence they grew, may they feed the souls of men from generation to generation, satisfying the hungry, strengthening the weak, and making all glad in the joy of each! Thus it is permitted to be "still praising Him." ELIZABETH POWELL BOND. CHAPTER I. Ancestry and Boyhood. The Hicks family is English in its origin, authentic history tracing it clearly back to the fourteenth century. By a sort of genealogical paradox, a far-away ancestor of the apostle of peace in the eighteenth century was a man of war, for we are told that Sir Ellis Hicks was knighted on the battlefield of Poitiers in 1356, nearly four hundred years before the birth of his distinguished descendant on Long Island, in America. From the best available data, it is believed that the progenitor of the Hicks family on Long Island arrived in America in 1638, and came over from the New England mainland about 1645, settling in the town of Hempstead. A relative, Robert by name, came over with the body of Pilgrims arriving in Massachusetts in 1621. John Hicks, the pioneer, was undoubtedly a man of affairs, with that strong character which qualifies men for leadership. In the concerns of the new community he was often drafted for important public service. In Seventh month, 1647, it became necessary to reach a final settlement with the Indians for land purchased from them by the colonists the year before. The adjustment of this transaction was committed to John Hicks by his neighbors. When, in 1663, the English towns on the island and the New York mainland created a council whose aim it was to secure aid from the General Court at Hartford against the Dutch, John Hicks was made a delegate from Long Island. In 1665 Governor Nicoll, of New York, called a convention to be composed of two delegates from each town in Westchester County and on Long Island, "to make additions and alterations to existing laws." John Hicks was chosen delegate from the town of Hempstead. Thomas, the great grandfather of Elias, was in 1691 appointed the first judge of Queens County, by Governor Andross, which office he held for a number of years, with credit to himself and satisfaction to his constituents. The town of Hempstead is on the north side of Long Island, and borders on the Sound. There Elias Hicks, the fifth in line of descent from the pioneer John, was born on the 19th of Third month, 1748. He was the fourth child of John and Martha Smith Hicks. Of the ancestry of the mother of Elias little is known. There is no evidence that the ancestors of Elias on either side were members of the Society of Friends, still they seem to have had much in common with Friends, and, at any rate, were willing to assist the peculiar people when the heavy hand of persecution fell upon them. In this connection we may quote the words of Elias himself. He says: "My father was a grandson of Thomas Hicks, of whom our worthy friend Samuel Bownas[1] makes honorable mention in his Journal, and by whom he was much comforted and strengthened when imprisoned through the envy of George Keith,[2] at Jamaica, on Long Island."[3] [1] Samuel Bownas was a minister among Friends, and was born in Westmoreland, England, about 1667. He secured a minute to make a religious visit to America the latter part of 1701. Ninth month 30, 1702, he was bound over to the Queens County Grand Jury, the charge against him being that in a sermon he had spoken disparagingly of the Church of England. The jury really failed to indict him, which greatly exasperated the presiding judge, who threatened to deport him to London chained to the man-of-war's deck. It was at this point that Thomas Hicks, whom Bownas erroneously concluded was Chief Justice of the Province, appeared to comfort and assure him that he could not thus be deported to England. Bownas continued in jail for about a year, during which time he learned the shoemaker's trade. He was finally liberated by proclamation. [2] George Keith, born near Aberdeen, 1639, became connected with the Society of Friends about 1662. He came to America in 1684, but finally separated from Friends, and endeavored to organize a new sect to be called Christian, or Baptist Quakers. This effort failed, and about 1700 he entered the Church of England. After this he violently criticised Friends, and repeatedly sought controversy with them. He had quite an experience of this sort with Samuel Bownas, and was considered the real instigator of the complaint on which Bownas was lodged in jail. Keith looms up large in all that body of history and biography unfriendly to the Society of Friends. [3] Journal of Elias Hicks, p. 7. We are told in the Journal, "Neither of my parents were members in strict fellowship with any religious society, until some little time before my birth."[4] It is certain that the father of Elias was a member among Friends at the time of his birth, and his mother must also have enjoyed such membership. Elias must have been a birthright member, as he nowhere mentions having been received into the Society by convincement. It is evident that his older brothers and sisters were not connected with Friends. [4] Journal of Elias Hicks, p. 7. When Elias was eight years of age his father removed from Hempstead to the south shore of Long Island, the new home being near the seashore. Both before and after that time he bewails the fact that his associates were not Friends, and what he confessed was worse--they were persons with no religious inclinations or connections whatever. The new home afforded added opportunities for pleasure. Game was plentiful in the wild fowl that mated in the marshes and meadows, while the bays and inlets abounded in fish. Hunting and fishing, therefore, became his principal diversion. While he severely condemned this form of amusement in later life, he brought to the whole matter a rational philosophy. He considered that at the time hunting and fishing were profitable to him, because in his exposed condition "they had a tendency to keep me more at and about home, and often prevented my joining with loose company, which I had frequent opportunities of doing without my father's knowledge." Three years after moving to the new home, when Elias was eleven years of age, his mother was removed by death. The father, thus left with six children, two younger than Elias, finally found it necessary to divide the family. Two years after the death of his mother he went to reside with one of his elder brothers who was married, and lived some distance from his father's. It is probable that this brother's house was his home most of the time until he was seventeen. Much regret is expressed by him that he was thus removed from parental restraint. The Journal makes possibly unnecessarily sad confession of what he considered waywardness during this period. He says that he wandered far from "the salutary path of true religion, learning to sing vain songs, and to take delight in running horses."[5] Just what the songs were, and the exact character of the horse racing must be mainly a matter of conjecture. Manifestly "running horses" did not mean at all the type of racetrack gambling with which twentieth-century Long Island is familiar. [5] Journal of Elias Hicks, p. 8. In the midst of self-accusation, he declares that he did not "give way to anything which was commonly accounted disreputable, having always a regard to strict honesty, and to such a line of conduct as comported with politeness and good breeding."[6] One can scarcely think of Elias Hicks as a juvenile Chesterfield. From the most unfavorable things he says about himself, the conclusion is easily reached that he was really a serious-minded youth, and what has always been considered a "good boy." It must be remembered, however, that he set for himself a high standard, which was often violated, as he became what he called "hardened in vanity." Speaking of his youthful sports, and possible waywardness, his maturer judgment confessed, that but "for the providential care of my Heavenly Father, my life would have fallen a sacrifice to my folly and indiscretion."[7] [6] Journal, p. 8. [7] Journal of Elias Hicks, p. 9. There is practically no reference to the matter of schools or schooling in the Journal. There is every reason for the belief that he was self-educated. He may have had a brief experience at schools of a rather primary character. At all events he must have had a considerable acquaintance with mathematics, and evidently he at an early age contracted the reading habit. Books were few, and of periodical literature there was none. Friendly literature itself was confined to Sewell's History, probably Ellwood's edition of George Fox's Journal, while he may have had access to some of the controversial pamphlets of the seventeenth century period. The Journals of various "ancient" Friends were to be had, but how rich the mine of this literature which he explored we shall never know. Evidently from his youth he was a careful and intelligent reader of the Bible, and regarding its passages, its ethics and its theology, he became his own interpreter. CHAPTER II. His Young Manhood. At the age of seventeen Elias became an apprentice, and set about learning the carpenter's trade. His mechanical experience during this period receives practically no attention in the Journal. We know, however, that in those days none of the trades were divided into sectional parts as now. In short, he learned a whole trade, and not part of one. It was the day of hand-made doors, and not a few carpenters took the timber standing in the forest, and superintended or personally carried on all of the processes of transforming it into lumber and from it producing the finished product. The carpenter of a century and a half ago had to be able to wield the broad-ax, and literally know how to "hew to the line." It is not known exactly how long this apprenticeship lasted, but probably about four years. As a matter of course, there was much moving from neighborhood to neighborhood, as the building necessities demanded the presence of the carpenters. The life was more or less irregular, and Elias says that he received neither serious advice nor restraint at the hands of his "master." He was brought in contact with frivolously minded young people, and was unduly carried away with the love of amusement. During this period he learned to dance, and enjoyed the experience. But he considered dancing a most mischievous pastime, and evil to a marked degree. For this indulgence he repeatedly upbraided himself in the Journal. In his opinion, dancing was "an unnatural and unchristian practice," never receiving the approval "of the divine light in the secret of the heart." He passed through various experiences in the endeavor to break away from the dancing habit, with many backslidings, overthrowing what he considered his good resolutions. But finally he separated from all those companions of his youth who beset him with temptation. He says: "I was deeply tried, but the Lord was graciously near; and as my cry was secretly to him for strength, he enabled me to covenant with him, that if he would be pleased in mercy to empower me, I would forever cease from this vain and sinful amusement."[8] [8] Journal of Elias Hicks, p. 10. His first intimation touching the eternally lost condition of the wicked is in connection with his experience at this time. We cannot do better than to quote his own words: "In looking back to this season of deep probation, my soul has been deeply humbled; for I had cause to believe that if I had withstood at this time the merciful interposition of divine love, and had rebelled against this clear manifestation of the Lord's will, he would have withdrawn his light from me, and my portion would have been among the wicked, cast out forever from the favorable presence of my judge. I should also forever have been obliged to acknowledge his mercy and justice, and acquit the Lord, my redeemer, who had done so much for me; for with long-suffering and much abused mercy he had waited patiently for my return, and would have gathered me before that time, as I well knew, as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, but I would not."[9] [9] Journal, p. 11. His second diversion, and probably practiced after he had given up dancing, was hunting. While not considered in itself reprehensible, when the sport led to wantonness, and the taking of life of bird or beast simply for amusement, it was vigorously condemned. He says that he was finally "led to consider conduct like this to be a great breach of trust, and an infringement of the divine prerogative." "It therefore became a settled principle with me not to take the life of any creature, unless it was really useful and necessary when dead, or very noxious and hurtful when living."[10] [10] Journal, p. 13. When the settled conviction came to him touching the dance and the sportsman's practice, he was probably not out of his teens. This conviction resulted in victory over the propensity, probably before he reached his majority. The whole experience was an early illustration of the strength of will and purpose which was characteristic of this remarkable man throughout his entire life. Marriage is always a turning-point in a man's life. In the case of Elias Hicks, it was so in a marked degree. Having become adept in his trade, at the age of twenty-two, he was married to Jemima Seaman. This important event cannot be better stated than in the simple, quaint language of the bridegroom himself. He says: "My affection being drawn toward her in that relation, I communicated my views to her, and received from her a corresponding expression; and having the full unity and concurrence of our parents and friends, we, after some time, accomplished our marriage at a solemn meeting of Friends, at Westbury, on the 2d of First month, 1771. On this important occasion we felt the clear and consoling evidence of divine truth, and it remained with us as a seal upon our spirits, strengthening us mutually to bear, with becoming fortitude, the vicissitudes and trials which fell to our lot, and of which we had a large share while passing through this probationary state."[11] [11] Journal, p. 13. The records of Westbury Monthly Meeting contain the official evidence of this marriage, which was evidently conducted strictly in accordance with discipline. From the minutes of that meeting we extract the following: "At a monthly meeting held in the meeting house, ye 29th day of ye Eleventh month, 1770. "Elias Hicks son of John Hicks, of Rockaway, and Jemima Seaman, daughter of Jonathan Seaman, of Jericho, presented themselves and declared their intentions of marriage with each, and this meeting appoints John Mott and Micajah Mott to make enquiry into Elias Hicks, his clearness in relation of marriage with other women, and to make report at the next monthly meeting. "At a monthly meeting in the meeting house at Westbury ye 26th day of ye Twelfth month, 1770, Elias Hicks and Jemima Seaman appeared the second time, and Elias Hicks signified they continued their intentions of marriage and desired an answer to their former proposals of marriage, and the Friends who were appointed to make enquiry into Elias' clearness reported that they had made enquiry, and find nothing but that he is clear of marriage engagements to other women, and they having consent of parents and nothing appearing to obstruct their proceedings in marriage, this meeting leaves them to solemnize their marriage according to the good order used amongst Friends, and appoints Robert Seaman and John Mott to attend their said marriage, and to make report to the next monthly meeting it was consumated. "On ye 30th day of ye First month, 1771, Robert Seaman reported that they had attended the marriage of Elias Hicks and Jemima Seaman, and was with them both at Jericho and at Rockaway, and John Mott also reported that he accompanied them at Rockaway and that the marriage was consummated orderly." In more ways than one the marriage of Elias was the important event of his life. Jemima Seaman was an only child, and naturally her parents desired that she should be near them. A few months after their marriage Elias and Jemima were urged to take up their residence at the Seaman homestead, Elias to manage the farm of his father-in-law. The result was that the farm in Jericho became the home of Elias Hicks the remainder of his life. Here he lived and labored for nearly sixty years. The Seamans were concerned Friends, and the farm was near the Friends' meeting house in Jericho. From this dates his constant attendance at the meetings for worship and discipline of the Society. Besides the family influence, some of his neighbors, strong men and women, and deeply attached to the principles and testimonies of Friends, made for the young people an ideal and inspiring environment. The Friends at Jericho could not have been unmindful of the native ability and taking qualities of this young man, whose fortunes were to be linked with their own, and whose future labors were to be so singularly devoted to their religious Society. Jemima, the wife of Elias Hicks, was the daughter of Jonathan and Elizabeth Seaman. The father of Jemima was the fifth generation from Captain John Seaman, who came to Long Island from the Connecticut mainland about 1660. For his time, he seems to have been a man of affairs, and is recorded as one of the patentees of the town of Hempstead, on the Sound side of the island. There was a John Seaman who came to Massachusetts in the Winthrop fleet of ten vessels and 900 immigrants in 1630. That form of biography which shades into tradition is not agreed as to whether Captain John, of Hempstead, was the Puritan John or his son. Running the family history back to England, we find Lazarus Seaman, known as a Puritan divine, a native of Leicester. He died in 1667. He is described as a learned theologian, versed in the art of controversy, and stout in defense of his position in religious matters. The history of heraldry, and the story of the efforts to capture the holy sepulcher, tell us that John de Seaman was one of the first crusaders. To this line the Seaman lineage in America is believed to be attached. At some time, whether in his early manhood is not known, Elias Hicks took up surveying. How steadily or extensively he followed that business it is impossible to say. It is not hard, however, to find samples of his surveying and plotting among the papers of Long Island conveyancers.[12] His compass, and the home-made pine case in which he kept the instrument and the tripod, are in existence.[13] The compass is a simple affair, without a telescope, of course. It folds into a flat shape, the box not being more than two inches thick, over all. [12] See cut facing page 145. [13] They are in possession of the great-grandson of Elias Hicks, William Seaman, of Glen Cove, L. I. CHAPTER III. First Appearance in the Ministry. There are many evidences in the Journal that Elias Hicks appreciated the moral and spiritual advantages of his environment after he took up his residence at Jericho. He confesses, however, that as he had entered quite extensively into business, he was much diverted from spiritual things for a number of years after his marriage. During this period he says: "I was again brought, by the operative influence of divine grace, under deep concern of mind; and was led, through adorable mercy, to see that although I had ceased from many sins and vanities of my youth, yet there were many remaining that I was still guilty of, which were not yet atoned for, and for which I now felt the judgments of God to rest upon me. This caused me to cry earnestly to the Most High for pardon and redemption, and he graciously condescended to hear my cry, and to open a way before me, wherein I must walk, in order to experience reconciliation with him; and as I abode in watchfulness and deep humiliation before him, light broke forth out of obscurity, and my darkness became as the noonday. I had many deep openings in the visions of light, greatly strengthening and establishing to my exercised mind. My spirit was brought under a close and weighty labour in meetings for discipline, and my understanding much enlarged therein; and I felt a concern to speak to some of the subjects engaging the meeting's attention, which often brought unspeakable comfort to my mind. About this time I began to have openings leading to the ministry, which brought me under close exercise and deep travail of spirit; for although I had for some time spoken on subjects of business in monthly and preparative meetings, yet the prospect of opening my mouth in public meetings was a close trial; but I endeavored to keep my mind quiet and resigned to the heavenly call, if it should be made clear to me to be my duty. Nevertheless, as I was, soon after, sitting in a meeting, in much weightiness of spirit, a secret, though clear, intimation accompanied me to speak a few words, which were then given to me to utter, yet fear so prevailed that I did not yield to the intimation. For this omission I felt close rebuke, and judgment seemed, for some time, to cover my mind; but as I humbled myself under the Lord's mighty hand, he again lifted up the light of his countenance upon me, and enabled me to renew covenant with him, that if he would pass by this offense, I would, in the future, be faithful, if he should again require such a service of me. And it was not long before I felt an impressive concern to utter a few words, which I yielded to in great fear and dread; but oh, the joy and sweet consolation that my soul experienced, as a reward for this act of faithfulness; and as I continued persevering in duty and watchfulness, I witnessed an increase in divine knowledge, and an enlargement of my gift. I was also deeply engaged for the right administration of discipline and order in the church, and that all might be kept sweet and clean, consistent with the nature and purity of the holy profession we were making; so that all stumbling-blocks might be removed out of the way of honest inquirers, and that truth's testimony might be exalted, and the Lord's name magnified, 'who is over all, God blessed forever.'"[14] [14] Journal, p. 15. Still it appears that his concern for the maintenance of the discipline was more than a slavish allegiance to the letter of the law. More than once he spoke a warning word as to the danger of allowing the administration of the written rule to lead to mere formalism. Once begun, his development in public service was rapid, and his recognition by Friends cordial and appreciative to a marked degree. Just how long Elias Hicks spoke in the meetings for worship, before his "acknowledgment," is not known. The records of Westbury Monthly Meeting, however, give detailed information as to this event. From them we make the following extract: "At a monthly meeting held at Westbury ye 29th of Fourth month, 1778, William Seaman and William Valentine report that they have made inquiry concerning Elias Hicks, and find nothing to hinder his being recommended to the meeting of Ministers and Elders, whom this meeting recommends to that meeting as a minister, and directs the clerk to forward a copy of this minute to said meeting." The acknowledgment of the ministry of Elias Hicks took place a little over seven years after his marriage. From various references in the Journal the inference is warranted that he did not begin to speak in the meeting for worship until a considerable time after this event. It is, therefore, probable that his service in this line had not been going on, at the most, more than three or four years when his acknowledgment took place. He had only been a recorded minister something over a year when his first considerable visit was undertaken. Unfortunately, the preserved personal correspondence of Elias Hicks does not cover this period in his life, so that we are confined to what he chose to put in his Journal, as the only self-interpretation of this interesting period. It appears that the New York Yearly Meeting was held at the regularly appointed times all through the period of the Revolutionary War. Previous to 1777 the meeting met annually at Flushing, but in that year the sessions were removed to Westbury. In 1793 it was concluded to hold future meetings in New York. During the war the British controlled Long Island, and for some time the meeting house in Flushing was occupied as a barracks by the king's troops, which probably accounts for moving the yearly meeting further out on the island to Westbury. In attending the yearly meeting, and in performing religious visits to the particular meetings, passing the lines of both armies was a frequent necessity. This privilege was freely granted Friends. Touching this matter, Elias makes this reference: "This was a favor which the parties would not grant to their best friends, who were of a warlike disposition; which shows what great advantages would redound to mankind were they all of this pacific spirit. I passed myself through the lines of both armies six times during the war without molestation, both parties generally receiving me with openness and civility; and although I had to pass over a tract of country, between the two armies, sometimes more than thirty miles in extent, and which was much frequented by robbers, a set, in general, of cruel, unprincipled banditti, issuing out from both parties, yet, excepting once, I met with no interruption even from them. But although Friends in general experienced many favors and deliverances, yet those scenes of war and confusion occasioned many trials and provings in various ways to the faithful."[15] [15] Journal, p. 15. CHAPTER IV. Early Labors in the Ministry. Probably the first official public service to which Elias Hicks was ever assigned by the Society related to a matter growing out of the Revolutionary War. Under the new meeting-house in New York was a large room, usually rented for commercial purposes. During the British occupation this room was appropriated as a storehouse for military goods. The rent was finally tendered by the military commissioner to some representative Friends, and by them accepted. This caused great concern to many members of the meeting, who felt that the Society of Friends could not consistently be the recipient of money from such a source. The matter came before the Yearly Meeting in 1779. The peace party felt that the rent money was blood money, and should be returned, but a vigorous minority sustained the recipients of this warlike revenue. It was finally decided to refer the matter to the Yearly Meeting of Pennsylvania for determination. A committee to carry the matter to Philadelphia was appointed, of which Elias Hicks, then a young man of thirty-one, was a member. He made this service the occasion for some religious visits, which he, in company with his friend, John Willis, proceeded to make _en route_. The two Friends left home Ninth month 9, 1779, but took a roundabout route in order to visit the meetings involved in the concern of Elias. Instead of crossing over into New Jersey and going directly to Philadelphia, they went up the Hudson valley to a point above Newburgh, visiting meetings on both sides of the river. Their most northern point was the meeting at Marlborough, in Ulster County, New York. They then turned to the southwest, and visited the meetings at Hardwick[16] and Kingwood, arriving at Philadelphia, Ninth month 25th. Elias attended all the sittings of the yearly meeting until Fourth-day, when he was taken ill, and was not able to be in attendance after that time. He was not present when the matter which called the committee to Philadelphia was considered. The decision, however, was that the money received by the New York meeting for rent paid by the British army should be returned. This was done by direction of New York Yearly Meeting in 1780. It may be interesting to note that in 1779 the Yearly Meeting of Pennsylvania began with the Meeting of Ministers and Elders; Seventh-day, the 25th of Ninth month, and continued until Second-day, the 4th of Tenth month, having practically been in session a week and two days.[17] [16] Hardwick was in Sussex County, New Jersey. It was the home meeting of Benjamin Lundy, the abolitionist. [17] From 1755 to 1798, Philadelphia Yearly Meeting was held in Ninth month. Following the Yearly Meeting in Philadelphia, the meeting at Byberry was visited, as were those at Wrightstown, Plumstead and Buckingham, in Bucks County, Pa. On the return trip he was again at Hardwick, after which he passed to the eastern shore of the Hudson, and was at Nine Partners, Oswego and Oblong. Turning southward, the meetings at Peach Pond, Amawalk and Purchase were visited. From the latter point he journeyed homeward. This first religious journey of Elias Hicks lasted nine weeks, and in making it he traveled 860 miles. Forty years later, many of the places visited at this time became centers of the troublesome controversy which divided the Society in 1827 and 1828. Four years after the concern and service which took Elias Hicks to Philadelphia in 1779, he undertook his second recorded religious visit. It was a comparatively short one, and took him to the Nine Partners neighborhood. He was absent from home on this trip eleven days, and traveled 170 miles. In 1784 Elias had a concern to visit neighborhoods in Long Island not Friendly in their character. He made one trip, and not feeling free of the obligations resting upon him, he made a second tour. During the two visits he rode about 200 miles. He seems to have had a period of quiet home service for about six years, or until 1790, when two somewhat extended concerns were followed. The first took him to the meetings in the western part of Long Island, to New York City and Staten Island. This trip caused him to travel 150 miles. The next visiting tour covered a wide extent of territory, and took him to eastern New York and Vermont. On this trip he was gone from home about four weeks, and traveled 591 miles. The year 1791 was more than usually active. Besides another visit to those not Friends on Long Island, he made a general visit to Friends in New York Yearly Meeting. This visit took him to New Jersey, Connecticut, Massachusetts and up the Hudson valley as far as Easton and Saratoga. The Long Island visit consumed two weeks' time, and involved traveling 115 miles. On the general visit he was absent from home four months and eleven days, and traveled 1500 miles. In 1792 a committee, of which Elias was a member, was appointed by the Yearly Meeting of Ministers and Elders to visit subordinate meetings of that branch of the Society. In company with these Friends every meeting of Ministers and Elders was visited, and a number of meetings for worship were attended. On this trip he was at Claremont, in Massachusetts, and desired to have an appointed meeting. It seemed that the person, not a Friend, who was to arrange for this meeting did not advertise it, for fear it would turn out a silent meeting, and he would be laughed to scorn. The attendance was very small, but otherwise satisfactory, so that the fearful person was very penitent, and desired that another meeting might be held. Elias says: "But we let him know that we were not at our own disposal; and, as no way appeared open in our minds for such an appointment at present, we could not comply with his desire." An appointed meeting was also held near Dartmouth College, but the students were hilarious, and the occasion very much disturbed. Still, the visitor hoped "the season was profitable to some present." In the following year, 1793, he had a concern to visit Friends in New England, during which he attended meetings in Rhode Island, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Maine and the Massachusetts islands. On this trip he traveled by land or on water 2283 miles, and was absent about five months. It may be interesting to note that the traveling companion of Elias Hicks on the New England visit was James Mott, of Mamaroneck, N. Y., the maternal grandfather of James Mott,[18] the husband of Lucretia. [18] Adam Mott, the father of Lucretia's husband, married Anne, daughter of James Mott. The New England Yearly Meeting was attended at Newport. The meeting was pronounced a "dull time" by the visitor. This was occasioned in part, he thought, because a very small number took upon "them the whole management of the business, and thereby shutting up the way to others, and preventing the free circulation and spreading of the concern, in a proper manner, on the minds of Friends; which I have very often found to be a very hurtful tendency." It seems that in those days the Meeting of Ministers and Elders exercised the functions of a visiting committee. Accordingly, the Yearly Meeting of Ministers and Elders in 1795 appointed a committee to visit the quarterly and preparative meetings within the bounds of the Yearly Meeting. As a member of this committee, Elias performed his share of this round of service. On this visit a large number of families were visited. The visits were made seasons of counsel and advice, especially in the "select meetings." In these, he says, "My mind was led to communicate some things in a plain way, with a view of stirring them up to more diligence and circumspection in their families, the better ordering and disciplining of their children and household, and keeping things sweet and clean, agreeably to the simplicity of our holy profession; and I had peace in my labor."[19] [19] Journal, p. 57. Possibly his most extended visit up to that time was made in 1798. The trip was really begun Twelfth month 12, 1797. It included meeting's in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland and Virginia. On this trip he was from home five and one-half months, traveled 1600 miles, and attended 143 meetings, nearly an average of one meeting a day. It was on this journey that he seriously began his public opposition to the institution of slavery. On the 12th of Third month, at a meeting at Elk Ridge, Md., he says: "Truth rose into dominion, and some present who were slaveholders were made sensible of their condition, and were much affected. I felt a hope to arise that the opportunity would prove profitable to some, and I left them with peace of mind. Since then I have been informed that a woman present at that session, who possessed a number of slaves, was so fully convinced, as to set them free, and not long afterwards joined in membership with Friends; which is indeed cause of gratitude and thankfulness of heart, to the great and blessed Author of every mercy vouchsafed to the children of men."[20] [20] Journal, p. 67. His personal correspondence on this trip yields some interesting description of experiences, from which we make the following extract, from a letter written to his wife from "Near Easton, Talbot County, Maryland, Second month 12, 1798": "Mary Berry, an ancient ministering Friend, that Job Scott makes mention of, was with us at the meeting. On Seventh-day we attended a meeting with the black people at Easton, which we had appointed some days before. There was a pretty large number attended, and the opportunity favoured. Mary Berry observed she thought it was the most so, of any that had ever been with them. They were generally very solid, and many of them very tender. The white people complained much of some of them for their bad conduct, but according to my feeling, many of them appeared much higher in the kingdom than a great many of the whites. "Some days past we were with the people called Nicolites. They dress very plain, many of them mostly in white. The women wore white bonnets as large as thine, and in form like thy old-fashioned bonnet, straight and smooth on the top. In some of their meetings three or four of the foremost seats would be filled with those who mostly had on these white bonnets. They have no backs to their seats, nor no rising seats in their meeting-houses. All sat on a level. They appear like a pretty honest, simple people. Profess our principles, and most of them, by their request, have of late been joined to Friends, and I think many of them are likely to become worthy members of Society, if the example of the backsliders among us do not stumble or turn them out of the right way. There was about 100 received by Friends here at their last monthly meeting, and are like for the first time to attend here next Fifth-day, which made it the more pressing on my mind to tarry over that day." CHAPTER V. Later Ministerial Labors. In the fall of 1799 a concern to visit meetings in Connecticut was followed. The trip also took in most of the meetings on the east bank of the Hudson as far north as Dutchess County. He was absent six weeks, and attended thirty meetings. Fourth month 11, 1801, Elias and his traveling companion, Edmund Willis, started, on a visit to "Friends in some parts of Jersey, Pennsylvania, and some places adjacent thereto." A number of meetings in New Jersey were visited on the way, the travelers arriving in Philadelphia in time for the Yearly Meeting of Ministers and Elders. All of the sessions of the yearly meeting were also attended. It does not appear that Elias Hicks had attended this yearly meeting since 1779. Practically all of the meetings in New Jersey and Pennsylvania were visited on this trip. It lasted three months and eighteen days, during which time the visitors traveled 1630 miles. The personal correspondence of Elias Hicks yields one interesting letter written on this trip. It was written to his wife, and was dated "Exeter, 4th of Seventh month, 1801." We quote as follows: "We did not get to Lampeter so soon as I expected, as mentioned in my last, for when we left Yorktown last Fourth-day evening, being late before we set out, detained in part by a shower of rain. It was night by the time we got over the river. We landed in a little town called Columbia, where dwelt a few friends. Although being anxious to get forward, I had previous to coming there intended to pass them without a meeting, but found when there I could not safely do it. Therefore we appointed a meeting there the next day, after which we rode to Lampeter, to William Brinton's, of whom, when I went westward, I got a fresh horse, and I left mine in his care. I have now my own again, but she has a very bad sore on her withers, somewhat like is called a 'thistlelon,' but is better than she has been. It is now just six weeks and four days since we went from this place, which is about 48 miles from Philadelphia, since which time we have rode 813 miles and attended 35 meetings. Much of the way in this tour has been rugged, mountainous and rocky, and had it not been for the best attendant companion, peace of mind flowing from a compliance with and performance of manifested duty, the journey would have been tedious and irksome. But we passed pretty cheerfully on, viewing with an attentive eye the wonderful works of that boundless wisdom and power (by which the worlds were framed) and which are only circumscribed within the limits of their own innate excellency. Here we beheld all nature almost with its varied and almost endless diversifications. "Tremendous precipices, rocks and mountains, creeks and rivers, intersecting each other, all clothed in their natural productions; the tall pines and sturdy oaks towering their exalted heads above the clouds, interspersed with beautiful lawns and glades; together with the almost innumerable vegetable inhabitants, all blooming forth the beauties of the spring; the fields arable, clothed in rich pastures of varied kinds, wafted over the highways their balmy sweets, and the fallow grounds overspread with rich grain, mostly in golden wheat, to a profusion beyond anything of the kind my eyes ever before beheld, insomuch that the sensible traveler, look which way he would, could scarcely help feeling his mind continually inflamed and inspired with humble gratitude and reverent thankfulness to the great and bountiful author of all those multiplied blessings." This letter constitutes one of the few instances where Elias Hicks referred to experiences on the road, not directly connected with his ministerial duty. The reference to Columbia, and his original intention to pass by without a meeting, with its statement he "could not safely do it," is characteristic. Manifestly, he uses the word "safely" in a spiritual sense. The call to minister there was too certain to be put aside for mere personal inclination and comfort. The reference to his horse contains more than a passing interest. Probably many other cases occurred during his visits when "borrowing" a horse was necessary, while his own was recuperating. It was a slow way to travel, from our standpoint, yet it had its advantages. New acquaintances, if not friendships, were made as the travelers journeyed and were entertained on the road. On the 20th of Ninth month, 1803, Elias Hicks, with Daniel Titus as a traveling companion, started on a visit to Friends in Upper Canada, and those resident in the part of the New York Yearly Meeting located in the Hudson and Mohawk valleys. When the travelers had been from home a little less than a month, Elias wrote to his wife, from Kingston, a letter of more than ordinary interest, because of its descriptive quality. It describes some of the difficulties, not to say dangers, of the traveling Friend before the days of railroads. We quote the bulk of the letter, which was dated Tenth month, 16, 1803: "We arrived here the 3d instant at the house of Joseph Ferris about 3 o'clock at night, having rode the preceding day from Samuel Brown's at Black River, where I dated my last. We traveled by land and water in this day's journey about forty-five miles. Very bad traveling over logs and mudholes, crossing two ferries on our way, each four or five miles wide, with an island between called Long Island. About six miles across we were in the middle thereof, the darkest time in the night, when we were under the necessity of getting off our horses several times to feel for the horses' tracks in order to know whether we were in the path or not, as we were not able to see the path, nor one another at times, if more than five or six feet apart. Some of our company began to fear we should be under the necessity of lying in the woods all night. However, we were favored to get well through, and crossed the last ferry about midnight and after. Landed safely on Kingston shore about 2 o'clock, all well. Since which we have attended ten meetings, three of them preparative meetings, the rest mostly among other people. We just now, this evening, returned from the last held at the house of John Everit, about four miles west of Kingston. We held one yesterday in the town of Kingston in their Court House. It was the first Friends' meeting ever held in that place. The principal inhabitants generally attended, and we have thankfully to acknowledge that the shepherd of Israel in whom was our trust, made bare his arm for our help, setting home the testimony he gave us to the states of the people, thereby manifesting that he had not left himself without a witness in their hearts, as all appeared to yield their assent to the truths delivered, which has generally been the case, in every place where our lots have been cast. "We expect to-morrow to return on our way to Adolphustown, taking some meetings in our way thither, among those not of our Society, but so as to be there ready to attend Friends' monthly that is held next Fifth-day, after which we have some prospect of being at liberty to return on our way back, into our own State. "Having thus given thee a short account of our journey, I may salute thee in the fresh feelings of endeared affection, and strength of gospel love, in which fervent desires are felt for thy preservation, and that of our dear children, and that you may all so act and so walk, as to be a comfort and strength to each other, and feel an evidence in yourselves that the Lord is your friend; for you are my friend (said the blessed redeemer) if you do whatever I command you." For the three following years there is no record of special activity, but in 1806 a somewhat extended visit was made to Friends in the State of New York. He was absent from home nearly two months, traveled over 1000 miles, attended three quarterly, seventeen monthly, sixteen preparative, and forty meetings for worship. The years following, including 1812, were spent either at home or in short, semi-occasional visits, mostly within the bounds of his own yearly meeting. During this period a visit to Canada Half-Yearly Meeting was made. The first half of 1813 he was busy in his business and domestic concerns, really preparing for a religious journey, which he began on the 8th of Fifth month. He passed through New Jersey on the way, attending meetings in that State, either regular or by appointment, arriving in Philadelphia in about two weeks. Several meetings in the vicinity of that city were attended, whence he passed into Delaware and Maryland. His steps were retraced through New Jersey, when he was homeward bound. From 1813 to 1816 we find the gospel labors of Elias Hicks almost entirely confined to his own yearly meeting. This round of service did not take him farther from home than Dutchess County. During this period we find him repeatedly confessing indisposition and bodily ailment, which may have accounted for the fewness and moderateness of his religious visits. In First month, 1816, we find him under a concern to visit Friends in New England. He had as his traveling companion on this journey his friend and kinsman, Isaac Hicks, of Westbury. During this trip practically all of the meetings in New England were visited. It kept him from home about three months, and caused him to travel upward of 1000 miles. He attended fifty-nine particular, three monthly and two quarterly meetings. During the balance of 1816 and part of the year 1817, service was principally confined to the limits of Westbury Quarterly Meeting. But it was in no sense a period of idleness. Many visits were made to meetings. In Eighth month of the latter year, in company with his son-in-law, Valentine Hicks, a visit was made to some of the meetings attached to Philadelphia and Baltimore Yearly Meetings. Many meetings in New Jersey and Pennsylvania received a visit at this time. He went as far south as Loudon County, Va., taking meetings _en route_, both going and coming. He must have traveled not less than 1000 miles on this trip. Visits near at home, and one to some parts of New York Yearly Meeting, occupied all his time during the year 1818. In 1819 a general visit to Friends in his own yearly meeting engaged his attention. He went to the Canadian border. This trip was a season of extended service and deep exercise. On this journey he traveled 1084 miles, was absent from home fourteen weeks, and attended seventy-three meetings for worship, three quarterly meetings and four monthly meetings. The years from 1819 to 1823, inclusive, were particularly active. Elias Hicks was seventy-one in the former year. The real stormy period of his life was approaching in the shape of the unfortunate misunderstanding and bitterness which divided the Society. It scarcely demands more than passing mention here, as later on we shall give deserved prominence to the "separation" period. He started on the Ohio trip Eighth month 17, 1819, taking northern and central Pennsylvania on his route. He arrived in Mt. Pleasant in time for Ohio Yearly Meeting, which seems to have been a most satisfactory occasion, with no signs of the storm that broke over the same meeting a few years later. Elias himself says: "It was thought, I believe, by Friends, to have been the most favored yearly meeting they had had since its institution, and was worthy of grateful remembrance."[21] During this visit many appointed meetings were held, besides regular meetings for worship. On the homeward journey, Friends in the Shenandoah Valley, in Virginia, and in parts of Maryland were visited. On this trip he journeyed 1200 miles, was from home three months, and attended eighty-seven meetings. [21] Journal, p. 377. In 1820 a visit was made to Farmington and Duanesburg Quarterly Meetings, and in the summer of 1822 he visited Friends in some parts of Philadelphia Yearly Meeting. On this trip the Baltimore Yearly Meeting was also visited, as were some of the particular meetings in Maryland. He did not reach Philadelphia on the return journey until the early part of Twelfth month. While his Journal is singularly silent about the matter, it must have been on this visit that he encountered his first public opposition as a minister. But, with few exceptions, the Journal ignores the whole unpleasantness. In 1824 he again attended Baltimore Yearly Meeting. The only comment on this trip is the following: "I think it was, in its several sittings, one of the most satisfactory yearly meetings I have ever attended, and the business was conducted in much harmony and brotherly love."[22] [22] Journal, p. 396. On the homeward trip he stopped in Philadelphia. Here he suffered a severe illness. Of this detention at that time he says: "I lodged at the house of my kind friend, Samuel R. Fisher, who, with his worthy children, extended to me the most affectionate care and attention; and I had also the kind sympathy of a large portion of Friends in that city."[23] The exception contained in this sentence is the only intimation that all was not unity and harmony among Friends in the "City of Brotherly Love." [23] Journal, p. 396. His visits in 1825 were confined to the meetings on Long Island and those in central New York. In the latter part of the following year he secured a minute to visit meetings composing Concord and Southern Quarterly Meetings, within the bounds of Philadelphia Yearly Meeting. In passing through Philadelphia he attended Green Street and Mulberry Street Meetings. This was within a few months of the division of 1827 in Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, but the matter is not mentioned in the Journal. CHAPTER VI. Religious Journeys in 1828. On the 20th of Third month, 1828, Elias Hicks laid before Jericho Monthly Meeting a concern he had to make "a religious visit in the love of the gospel, to Friends and others in some parts of our own yearly meeting, and in the compass of the Yearly Meetings of Philadelphia, Baltimore, Ohio, Indiana, and a few meetings in Virginia." A minute embodying this concern was granted him, the same receiving the indorsement of Westbury Quarterly Meeting, Fourth month 24th. Between this period and the middle of Sixth month he made a visit to Dutchess County, where the experience with Ann Jones and her husband took place, which will be dealt with in a separate chapter. He also attended New York Yearly Meeting, when he saw and was a part of the "separation" trouble which culminated at that time. The Journal, however, makes no reference either to the Dutchess County matter or to the division in the yearly meeting. These silences in the Journal are hard to understand. Undoubtedly, the troubles of the period were not pleasant matters of record, yet one wishes that a fuller and more detailed statement regarding the whole matter might be had from Elias Hicks than is contained in the meager references in his personal correspondence, or his published Journal. On the 14th of Sixth month he started on the western and southern journey, with his friend, Jesse Merritt, as his traveling companion. Elias was then a few months past eighty. The two Friends halted at points in New Jersey and Pennsylvania, holding meetings as the way opened. Service continued in Pennsylvania, considerably in the western part, passing from Pittsburg into Ohio. At Westland Monthly Meeting, in Pennsylvania, his first acknowledgment of opposition is observed. He says: "A Friend from abroad attended this meeting, and after I sat down he rose and made opposition, which greatly disturbed the meeting."[24] [24] Thomas Shillitoe. When he arrived at Brownsville, his fame had preceded him. He makes this reference to the experience there: "Here we put up again with our kind friends Jesse and Edith Townsend, where we had the company of many Friends, and many of the inhabitants of the town not members of our Society, also came in to see us; as the unfounded reports of those who style themselves Orthodox, having been generally spread over the country, it created such a great excitement in the minds of the people at large, that multitudes flocked to the meetings where we were, to hear for themselves; and many came to see us, and acknowledged their satisfaction. "At this place we again fell in with the Friend from abroad, who attended the meeting with us; he rose in the early part of the meeting, and continued his communication so long that a number left the meeting, by which it became very much unsettled: however, when he sat down I felt an opening to stand up; and the people returned and crowded into the house, and those that could not get in stood about the doors and windows, and a precious solemnity soon spread over the meeting, which has been the case in every meeting, where our opposers did not make disturbance by their disorderly conduct. The meeting closed in a quiet and orderly manner, and I was very thankful for the favour."[25] [25] Journal, p. 404. Following his experience at Brownsville, Elias returned to Westland, attending the meeting of ministers and elders, and the meeting for worship. The person before mentioned, who may be called the "disturbing Friend," was again in evidence, this time reinforced by a "companion." At the instigation of Friends, the elders and overseers had "an opportunity" with the disturbers, but with small success. The same trouble was repeated on First-day. On this occasion the opposition was vigorous and virulent. In the midst of the second opportunity of the opposing Friend the audience melted away, leaving him literally without hearers. From Westland the journey was continued to Pittsburg, where an appointed meeting was held. Salem, Ohio, was the next point visited, where the quarterly meeting was attended. On First-day a large company, estimated at two thousand, gathered. The occasion was in every way satisfactory. Visits to different meetings continued. There was manifest opposition at New Garden, Springfield, Goshen and Marlborough. At Smithfield the venerable preacher was quite indisposed. The meeting-house was closed against him, by "those called Orthodox," as Elias defined them. One of the objective points on this trip was Mt. Pleasant, Ohio, where the yearly meeting of 1828 was held. He arrived in time to attend the mid-week meeting at that place, a week preceding the yearly meeting. A large attendance was reported, many being present who were not members of the Society. The signs of trouble had preceded the distinguished visitor, the "world's people" having a phenomenal curiosity regarding a possible war among the peaceable Quakers. There was pronounced antagonism manifested in this mid-week meeting, described as "a long, tedious communication from a minister among those called Orthodox, who, after I sat down, publicly opposed and endeavored to lay waste what I had said."[26] [26] Journal, p. 411. During the following days meetings were attended at Short Creek, Harrisville, West Grove, Concord, St. Clairsville, Plainfield, Wrightstown and Stillwater. There was no recorded disturbance until he returned to Mt. Pleasant the 6th of Ninth month, the date of the gathering of the Yearly Meeting of Ministers and Elders. When the meeting-house was reached the gate to the yard was guarded, "by a number of men of the opposing party," who refused entrance to those who were in sympathy with Elias Hicks. They proceeded to hold their meeting in the open air. Subsequent meetings were held in a school-house and in a private house, the home of Israel French. First-day, Ninth month 7th, Mt. Pleasant Meeting was attended in the forenoon, and Short Creek Meeting in the afternoon. The meeting at Mt. Pleasant was what might be called stormy. Elisha Bates and Ann Braithwaite spoke in opposition, after Elias Hicks had spoken. In a letter dated Ninth month 10th, written to his son-in-law, Valentine Hicks, Elias says that these Friends "detained the meeting two hours or more, opposing and railing against what I had said, until the people were wearied and much disgusted." No trouble was experienced at Short Creek, although experiences similar to those of the morning occurred at Mt. Pleasant in the afternoon. Amos Peaslee, of Woodbury, N. J., was the center of opposition at that time. He was opposed while on his feet addressing the multitude. In connection with this yearly meeting a number of Friends were arrested on charges of trespass and inducing a riot, and taken to court. All were members of Ohio Yearly Meeting, except Halliday Jackson,[27] of Darby, Pa. For some reason Elias escaped arrest, although in the letter referred to he said: "I have been expecting for several days past to have a writ of trespass served against me by the sheriff, for going on their meeting-house grounds, by which I may be taken twenty miles or more to appear before the judge, as a number of Friends already have been, although my mind is quiet regarding the event." [27] Halliday Jackson was father of John Jackson, the well-known educator, principal of Sharon Hill School. Halliday was with the Seneca Indians in New York State for two years, as a teacher under the care of Philadelphia Yearly Meeting. While at Mt. Pleasant the small monthly meeting of Orthodox Friends at his home sent a letter "officially" commanding Elias to cease his religious visits. In regard to this matter, and the general situation in Ohio, Elias wrote to Valentine Hicks: "The Orthodox in this yearly meeting are, if possible, tenfold more violent than in any other part of the Society. Gideon Seaman, and his associates in the little upstart Monthly Meeting of Westbury and Jericho,[28] have sent a very peremptory order for me to return immediately home, and not proceed any further on my religious visit, by which they trample the authority of our quarterly and monthly meeting under foot." [28] The Monthly Meeting of Westbury and Jericho was made up of a small number of Orthodox Friends, representing only a small minority of the meeting of which Elias Hicks was a member. Following the Ohio Yearly Meeting, Flushing,[29] in that State, was visited, and the First-day meeting attended. Elias was met before he reached the meeting-house by Orthodox Friends, who insisted that he should not interrupt the meeting. He entered the house, but before the meeting was fairly settled, Charles Osborn, an Orthodox Friend, appeared in prayer, and continued for an hour; and then preached for another hour. Elias thus refers to this occurrence: [29] Flushing is about 18 miles from Mt. Pleasant. A Wilburite meeting is the only Friendly gathering now in the place. "However, when he sat down, although the meeting was much wearied with his long and tedious communications, I felt the necessity of standing up and addressing the people, which brought a precious solemnity over the meeting; but as soon as I sat down, he rose again to contradict, and tried to lay waste my communication, by asserting that I had not the unity of my friends at home; which being untrue, I therefore informed the meeting that I had certificates with me to prove the incorrectness of his assertions, which I then produced, but he and his party would not stay to hear them, but in a disorderly manner arose and left the meeting; but the people generally stayed and heard them read, to their general satisfaction."[30] [30] Journal, p. 414. Meetings were subsequently attended at different points in Ohio, generally without disturbance, until Springfield was reached the 22d of Ninth month. Here the Orthodox shut the meeting-house and guarded the doors. Elias held his meeting under some trees nearby. He says: "It was a precious season, wherein the Lord's power and love were exalted over all opposition."[31] [31] Journal, p. 416. Preceding Indiana Yearly Meeting, he was twice at Wilmington, Ohio, and attended monthly meeting at Center, the first held since the "separation." The attendance was large, many more than the house would accommodate. Elias says: "The Lord, our never-failing helper, manifested his presence, solemnizing the assembly and opening the minds of the people to receive the word preached; breaking down all opposition, and humbling and contriting the assembly in a very general manner."[32] [32] Journal, p. 415. Ninth month 27th, Indiana Yearly Meeting convened at Waynesville, Ohio. It should be noted that the "separation" in most of the meetings comprising this yearly meeting had been accomplished in 1827, so that the gathering in 1828 was in substantial unity with the Friends in sympathy with Elias Hicks. A letter written to Valentine and Abigail Hicks, dated Waynesville, Tenth month 3, 1828, contains some interesting information concerning the experience of the venerable preacher. He says: "The Yearly Meeting here would have been very large, had there not been a failure of the information of the conclusion for holding it here, reaching divers of the Quarterly Meetings, by which they were prevented from attending. The meeting was very orderly conducted, and the business managed in much harmony and condescension. The public meetings have been very large, favoured seasons, and all the meetings we have attended in our passing along have been generally very large. Seldom any houses were found large enough to contain the people. Often hundreds were under the necessity of standing out doors. Many of the people without came a great way to be at our meeting. Some ten, some twenty, and some thirty miles, and I have been informed since I have been here that the people in a town 120 miles below Cincinnati have given it in charge to Friends of that place to inform them when we came there, as a steam boat plies between the two places. The excitement is so great among the people by the false rumors circulated by the Orthodox, that they spare no pains to get an opportunity to be with us, and those who have attended from distant parts, informing the people the satisfaction they have had in being with us, in which they have found that the reports spread among them were generally false, it has increased the excitement in others to see for themselves." The yearly meeting over, Elias attended meetings _en route_ to Richmond, Ind., and was at the mid-week meeting in that place, Tenth month 8th. Several other meetings were attended, the only disturbance reported being at Orange, where the Orthodox "hurt the meeting very considerably." On the 19th he was in Cincinnati, and attended the regular meeting in the morning, and a large appointed meeting in the court-house in the afternoon. Both were pronounced "highly favored seasons." First-day, the 26th, he was at Fairfield, where the Orthodox revived the story that he was traveling without a minute. While Elias was speaking, the Orthodox left the meeting in a body. He remarks: "But Friends and others kept their seats, and we had a very solemn close, and great brokenness and contrition were manifest among the people; and to do away with the false report spread by the Orthodox, I had my certificates read, which gave full satisfaction to the assembly."[33] [33] Journal, p. 419. Elias then journeyed to Wheeling, his face being turned homeward. He held an appointed meeting in that city. It is suggestive that, notwithstanding the theological odium under which he was supposed to rest, the meeting was held in the Methodist church, which had been kindly offered for the purpose. This would seem to indicate that the Methodists had not yet taken any sides in the quarrel which had divided the Society of Friends. After visiting Redstone Quarterly Meeting, in western Pennsylvania, he visited the meetings in the Shenandoah and Loudon valleys, in Virginia. He was at Alexandria and Washington, and on First-day, Eleventh month 16th, was at Sandy Spring, Md. The meetings about Baltimore and in Harford and Cecil counties were visited. He reached West Grove in Pennsylvania, Twelfth month 1st, and encountered some trouble, as he found that the meeting-house had been closed against him. A large crowd assembled, better councils prevailed, and the house was opened. The audience was beyond the capacity of the house, and the meeting in every way satisfactory. Upon his arrival at West Grove, Twelfth month 1st, he sent a letter to his son-in-law and daughter, Royal and Martha Aldrich. In this letter he gives a brief account of his experiences in Maryland and Lancaster County. He says: "The aforesaid meetings were very large and highly favored, generally made up of every description of people, high and low, rich and poor, Romanists, and generally some of every profession of Protestants known in our country. Generally all went away fully satisfied as to those evil reports that have been spread over the country concerning me, and many announced the abhorrence they had of those false and slanderous reports." It appears from this letter that the traveling companion of Elias, Jesse Merritt, was homesick, and hoped that some other Friend would come from Long Island to take his place for the rest of the trip. In case such a shift was made, Elias requested that whoever came "might bring with him my best winter tight-bodied coat, and two thicker neck-cloths, as those I have are rather thin. I got a new great-coat in Alexandria, and shall not need any other." From a letter written to his wife from West Chester, Twelfth month 7th, we learn that John Hicks had arrived to take the place of Jesse Merritt, and he seized that opportunity to send a letter home. As the two Friends had been away from home nearly six months, it is not strange that the companion on this journey desired to return. He could scarcely have been under the deep and absorbing religious concern which was felt by his elder brother in the truth. The nature of this obligation is revealed in the letter last noted. In this epistle to his wife, Elias says: "Abigail's letter informs of the infirm state of V. and Caroline, which excites near-feeling and sympathy with them, and which would induce me to return home immediately if I was set at liberty from my religious obligations, but as that is not the case, I can only recommend them to the preserving care and compassionate regard of our Heavenly Father, whose mercy is over all his works and does not suffer a sparrow to fall without his notice. And as we become resigned to his heavenly disposals, he will cause all things to work together for good, to his truly devoted children. Therefore, let all trust in him, for in the Lord Jehovah is everlasting strength." The meetings in Delaware, eastern Pennsylvania and New Jersey were pretty generally attended, and with no reported disturbance. First-day, the 21st of Twelfth month, Elias attended the meeting at Cherry Street in the morning and Green Street in the afternoon, and on the 28th he repeated that experience. On both occasions "hundreds more assembled than the houses could contain."[34] In the suburban meetings in Delaware and Bucks Counties, "the houses were generally too small to contain the people; many had to stand out-of-doors for want of room; nevertheless, the people behaved orderly and the Lord was felt to preside, solemnizing those crowded assemblies, in all of which my mind was opened, and ability afforded, to preach the gospel to the people in the demonstration of the spirit and with power, and many hearts were broken and contrited and went away rejoicing, under thankful sense of the unmerited favor."[35] [34] Journal, p. 423. [35] Journal, p. 423. The great crowds which flocked to hear Elias Hicks after the "separation" were probably called together partly because of curiosity on their part, and to a considerable extent because of his continued popularity as a minister, in spite of the trouble which had come to the Society. That he was appreciative of what we would now call the advertising quality of those who antagonized him, and became his theological and personal enemies, is well attested. In summing up his conclusions regarding the long religious visit now under review, he said: "My opposing brethren had, by their public opposition and erroneous reports, created such excitement in the minds of the people generally of every profession, that it induced multitudes to assemble to hear for themselves, and they generally went away satisfied and comforted."[36] Undoubtedly, the multitudes who heard Elias Hicks preach in 1828 went away wondering what all the trouble was about. [36] Journal, p. 423. Elias and his traveling companion reached home about the middle of First month, 1829. This was one of the longest and most extended religious journeys ever made by him, and was completed within two months of his eighty-first year. On the journey he traveled nearly 2400 miles, and was absent seven months and ten days. Going carefully over the various journeys of this well-known minister, a conservative estimate will show that he traveled in the aggregate not less than forty thousand miles during his long life of public service. He was probably the best-known minister in the Society of Friends in his time. His circle of personal friends was large, and extended over all the yearly meetings. It is necessary to keep these facts in mind, in order to understand how the major portion of Friends at that time made his cause their own when the rupture came. The majority of Friends at that time were content as to preaching, with words that seemed to be full of spirit and life, and this undoubtedly was characteristic of the preaching of Elias Hicks. To attempt to destroy the standing in the Society of a man of such character and equipment was certain to break something other than the man attacked. This will become more apparent as we consider more closely the relation of Elias Hicks to the controversy with which his name and person were linked, and with the trouble in the Society of Friends, for which, either justly or otherwise, he was made the scapegoat. CHAPTER VII. Ideas About the Ministry. To construct from the published deliverances, and personal correspondence of Elias Hicks, a statement of his theory and practice touching the ministry is desirable if not easy. That he considered public religious exercise an exalted function, if of the right sort, and emanating from the Divine source, is abundantly evidenced in all he said and wrote. The call to particular and general service, whether in his home meeting for worship, or in connection with his extended religious journeys, he believed came directly from the Divine Spirit. One instance is related, which possibly as clearly as anything, illustrates his feeling regarding the ministry, and the relationship of the Infinite to the minister. In the fall of 1781, when his service in the ministry had been acknowledged about three years, he was very ill with a fever, which lasted for several months. In the most severe period of this indisposition he tells us that "a prospect opened to my mind to pay a religious visit to some parts of our island where no Friends lived, and among a people, who, from acquaintance I had with them, were more likely to mock than receive me." He opposed the call, and argued against it, only to see the disease daily reducing his bodily and mental strength. He became convinced that in yielding to this call lay his only hope of recovery, and had he not done so his life would have gone out. Having fully recovered, the intimated service was performed the following summer. He seemed to treat his ministry as something in a measure apart from his personality. He repeatedly referred to his own ministerial labors in a way not unlike that indulged in by his most ardent admirers. Yet this was always accompanied with acknowledgment of the Divine enlightening and assistance. On the 22d of Tenth month, 1779, he held an appointed meeting in Hartford, Conn., a thousand persons being present. Of this meeting he said: "The Lord, in whom we trust, was graciously near, and furnished us with ability to conduct the meeting to the satisfaction and peace of our own minds; and to the edification of many present, and general satisfaction to the assembly."[37] [37] Journal, p. 85. Speaking of a meeting at Market Street, Philadelphia, in Fourth month, 1801, he remarked: "My spirit was set at liberty, and ability afforded to divide the word among them, according to their varied conditions, in a large, searching and effectual testimony; whereby a holy solemnity was witnessed to spread over the meeting, to the great rejoicing of the honest-hearted."[38] [38] Journal, p. 89. At a meeting at Goose Creek, Virginia, the 22d of Third month, 1797, he tells us: "After a considerable time of silent labor, in deep baptism with the suffering seed, my mouth was opened in a clear, full testimony, directed to the states of those present. And many were brought under the influence of that power which 'cut Rahab, and wounded the dragon.'"[39] [39] Journal, p. 69. In the acknowledgment of the Divine influence and favor, Elias Hicks had a collection of phrases which he repeatedly used. "It was the Lord's doings, and marvelous in our eyes," was a common expression. He repeatedly said: "Our sufficiency was not of ourselves, but of God; and that the Lord was our strength from day to day, who is over all blessed forever." One of his favorite expressions was: "To the Lord be all the praise, nothing due to man." Trite and pointed Scripture quotations were always at command, and they were effectively employed, both in speaking and writing. It will be noted by the reader that not a few of the expressions used by Elias Hicks sound like the phrases coined by George Fox. That Elias Hicks believed in the plenary inspiration of the preacher is well attested. His testimony was constantly against the "letter," with little recognition that the letter could ever contain the spirit. Here is a sample exhortation to ministers: "And it is a great thing when ministers keep in remembrance that necessary caution of the divine Master, not to premediate what they shall say; but carefully to wait in the nothingness and emptiness of self, that what they speak may be only what the Holy Spirit speaketh in them; then will they not only speak the truth, but the truth, accompanied with power, and thereby profit the hearers."[40] [40] Journal, p. 296. He admonished Friends in meeting, and especially ministers, to "get inward, and wait in their proper gifts." The evident theory was that by waiting, and possibly wrestling with the manifestation it was possible to tell whether it was from below or above. Still, there was not an entire absence of the human and even the rational in Elias Hicks' theory of the ministry as it worked out in practice. He had evidently discovered the psychological side of public speaking to the extent of recognizing that even the preacher was influenced by his audience. When he was in Philadelphia in 1816, before the troubled times had arrived, he tells us that "it proved a hard trying season: one of them [ministers] was exercised in public testimony, and although she appeared to labor fervently, yet but little life was felt to arise during the meeting. This makes the work hard for the poor exercised ministers, who feel the necessity publicly to advocate the cause of truth and righteousness, and yet obtain but little relief, by reason of the deadness and indifference of those to whom they are constrained to minister. I found it my place to sit silent and suffer with the seed."[41] [41] Journal, p. 271. In a personal letter, while on one of his visits, Elias Hicks gave the following impression of the meeting and the ministry: "To-day was the quarterly meeting of discipline. It was large, and I think in the main a favored instructive season, although considerably hurt by a pretty long, tedious communication, not sufficiently clothed with life to make it either comfortable or useful. So it is, the Society is in such a mixed and unstable state, and many who presume to be teachers in it, are so far from keeping on the original foundation, the light and spirit of truth, and so built up in mere tradition, that I fear a very great portion of the ministry among us, is doing more harm than good, and leading back to the weak and beggarly elements, to which they seem desirous to be again in bondage."[42] [42] Letter to his wife, dated Purchase, N. Y., Tenth month 29, 1823. This is not the only case of his measuring the general effect of the ministry. In Seventh month, 1815, he attended Westbury Quarterly Meeting, and of its experiences he wrote as follows: "Was the parting meeting held for public worship. It was a large crowded meeting, but was somewhat hurt in the forepart, by the appearance of one young in the ministry standing too long, and manifesting too much animation: Yet, I believed, he was under the preparing hand, fitting for service in the Church, if he only keeps low and humble, and does not aspire above his gift, into the animation of the creature. For there is great danger, if such are not deeply watchful, of the transformer getting in and raising the mind into too much creaturely zeal, and warmth of the animal spirit, whereby they may be deceived, and attribute that to the divine power, which only arises from a heated imagination, and the natural warmth of their own spirits; and so mar the work of the divine spirit on their minds, run before their gift and lose it, or have it taken away from them. They thereby fall into the condition of some formerly, as mentioned by the prophet, who, in their creaturely zeal, kindle a fire of their own, and walk in the light thereof; but these, in the end, have to lie down in sorrow."[43] [43] Journal, p. 234. Of the same quarterly meeting, held in Fourth month in the following year, in New York, Elias wrote: "It was for the most part a favored season, but would have been more so, had not some in the ministry quite exceeded the mark by unnecessary communication. For very great care ought to rest on the minds of ministers, lest they become burthensome, and take away the life from the meeting, and bring over it a gloom of death and darkness, that may be sensibly felt."[44] [44] Journal, p. 268. His feeling regarding his own particular labor in the ministry is almost pathetically expressed as follows: "Meetings are generally large and well-attended, although in the midst of harvest. I have continual cause for deep humility and thankfulness of heart under a daily sense of the continued mercy of the Shepherd of Israel, who when he puts his servants forth, goes before them, and points out the way, when to them all seems shut up in darkness. This has been abundantly my lot from day to day, insomuch that the saying of the prophet has been verified in my experience, that none are so blind as the Lord's servants, nor deaf as his messengers. As generally when I first enter meetings I feel like one, both dumb and deaf, and see nothing but my own impotence. Nevertheless as my whole trust and confidence is in the never-failing arm of divine sufficiency, although I am thus emptied, I am not cast down, neither has a murmuring thought been permitted to enter, but in faith and patience, have had to inherit the promise, as made to Israel formerly by the prophet. 'I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.' This my dear, I trust will be the happy lot of all those who sincerely trust in the Lord, and do not cast away their confidence, nor lean to their own understanding."[45] [45] Letter to his wife, written from East Caln, Pa., Seventh month 22, 1813. Occasionally in his ministry Elias Hicks did what in our time would be called sensational things. In this matter he shall be his own witness. Fourth-day, the 6th of Twelfth month, 1815, at Pearl Street meeting in New York, there was a marriage during the meeting, on which account the attendance was large. After remarking that his mind was "exercised in an unusual manner," he says: "For the subject which first presented, after my mind had become silenced, was the remembrance of the manner in which the temporal courts among men are called to order; and it became so impressive, as to apprehend it right to make use of it as a simile, much in the way the prophet was led to make use of some of the Rechabites, to convict Israel of their disobedience and want of attention to their law and law-giver. I accordingly was led to cry audibly three times, 'O yes! O yes! O yes! silence all persons, under the pain and penalty of the displeasure of the court.' This unusual address had a powerful tendency to arrest the attention of all present, and from which I took occasion, as truth opened the way, to reason with the assembly, that if such a confused mass of people as are generally collected together on such occasions, and from very different motives, and many from mere curiosity to hear and see the transactions of the court, should all in an instant so honor and respect the court, as immediately to be still and silent at the simple call of the crier: How much more reasonable is it, for a collection of people, promiscuously gathered to the place appointed in a religious way, to wait upon, and worship the Judge of heaven and earth, to be still, and strive to silence every selfish and creaturely thought and cogitation of the mind. For such thoughts and cogitations would as certainly prevent our hearing the inward divine voice of the King of heaven, and as effectually hinder our worshipping him in spirit and in truth, as the talking of the multitude at a court of moral law, would interrupt the business thereof. As I proceeded with this simile, the subject enlarged and spread, accompanied with gospel power and the evident demonstration of the spirit, whereby truth was raised into victory, and ran as oil over all. The meeting closed with solemn supplication and thanksgiving to the Lord our gracious Helper, to whom all the honor and glory belong, both now and forever."[46] [46] Journal, p. 248. Whatever may have been the opinion of Elias Hicks as to the inspiration of the minister, he evidently did not consider that it was so impersonal and accidental, or so entirely outside the preacher, as to demand no care on his own part. The following advisory statement almost provides for what might be called "preparation:" "In those large meetings, where Friends are collected from various parts, the weak and the strong together, and especially in those for worship, it is essentially necessary that Friends get inward, and wait in their proper gifts, keeping in view their standing and place in society, especially those in the ministry. For otherwise there is danger even from a desire to do good, of being caught with the enemies' transformations, particularly with those that are young, and inexperienced; for we seldom sit in meetings but some prospect presents, which has a likeness, in its first impression, to the right thing; and as these feel naturally fearful of speaking in large meetings, and in the presence of their elderly friends, and apprehending they are likely to have something to offer, they are suddenly struck with the fear of man, and thereby prevented from centering down to their gifts, so as to discover whether it is a right motion or not; and the accuser of the brethren, who is always ready with his transformations to deceive, charges with unfaithfulness and disobedience, by which they are driven to act without any clear prospect, and find little to say, except making an apology for them thus standing; by which they often disturb the meeting, and prevent others, who are rightly called to the work, and thereby wound the minds of the living baptized members."[47] [47] Journal, p. 230. The responsibility which Elias Hicks felt for the meeting of which he was a member, and in which he felt called to minister, is well illustrated in the following quotation: "I was under considerable bodily indisposition most of this week. On Fifth-day, so much so, as almost to give up the prospect of getting to meeting; but I put on my usual resolution and went, and was glad in so doing, as there I met with that peace of God that passeth all understanding, which is only known by being felt. I had to declare to my friends how good it is to trust in the Lord with all the heart, and lean not to our own understandings, lest they fail us."[48] [48] Journal, p. 230. This records no uncommon occurrence. He was often indisposed, but the illness had to be severe if it kept him away from meeting. During his later life he was frequently indisposed, and sometimes under such bodily pain when speaking that he was forced to stop in the midst of a discourse. This happened in Green Street Meeting House, Philadelphia, Eleventh month 12, 1826. On this occasion the stenographer says that after "leaving his place for a few minutes, he resumed." During this particular sermon Elias sat down twice, beside the time mentioned, evidently to recover physical strength. Elias Hicks was not one of those ministers who always spoke if he attended meeting. Many times he was silent; this being especially true when in his home meeting. When on a religious visit he generally spoke, but not always. That his willingness to "famish the people from words," tended to his local popularity, is quite certain. The printed sermons of Elias Hicks would indicate that at times he was quite lengthy, and seldom preached what is known now as a short, ten-minute sermon. Estimating a number of sermons, we find that they averaged about 6500 words, so that his sermons must have generally occupied from thirty to forty-five minutes in delivery. Occasionally a sermon contained over 8000 words, while sometimes less than 4000 words. CHAPTER VIII. The Home at Jericho. The village of Jericho, Long Island, is about 25 miles east of New York City, in the town of Oyster Bay. It has had no considerable growth since the days of Elias Hicks, and now contains only about a score and a half of houses. Hicksville, less than two miles away, the railroad station for the older hamlet, contains a population of a couple of thousand. It was named for Valentine Hicks, the son-in-law of Elias. Running through Jericho is the main-traveled road from the eastern part of Long Island to New York, called Jericho Pike. In our time it is a famous thoroughfare for automobiles, is thoroughly modern, and as smooth and hard as a barn floor. In former days it was a toll-road, and over it Elias Hicks often traveled. A cross-country road runs through Jericho nearly north and south, leading to Oyster Bay. On this road, a few rods to the north from the turn in the Jericho Pike stands the house which was originally the Seaman homestead, where Elias Hicks lived from soon after his marriage till his death. The house was large and commodious for its time, but has been remodeled, so that only part of the building now standing is as it was eighty years ago. The house ends to the road, with entrance from the south side. It was of the popular Long Island and New England construction, shingled from cellar wall to ridge-pole. Four rooms on the east end of the house, two upstairs and two down, are practically as they were in the days of Elias Hicks. In one of these he had his paralytic stroke, and in another he passed away. The comparatively wide hall which runs across the house, with the exception of the stairway, is as it was in the time of its distinguished occupant. A new stairway of modern construction now occupies the opposite side of the hall from the one of the older time. This hall-way, it is said, Elias Hicks loved to promenade, sometimes with his visitors, and here with characteristic warmth of feeling he sped his parting guests, when the time for their departure came. Like the most of his neighbors, Elias Hicks was a farmer. The home place probably contained about seventy-five acres, but he possessed detached pieces of land, part of it in timber. Several years before his death he sold forty acres of the farm to his son-in-law, Valentine Hicks, thus considerably reducing the care which advancing years and increased religious labor made advisable. Jericho still retains its agricultural character more than some of the other sections of neighboring Long Island. The multi-millionaire and the real estate exploiter have absorbed many of the old Friendly homes toward the Westbury neighborhood, and are pushing their ambitious intent at land-grabbing down the Jericho road. If Elias were to return and make a visit from Jericho to the meeting at Westbury, as he often did in his time, three or four miles away, he would pass more whizzing automobiles en route than he would teams, and would see the landscape beautifully adorned with lawns and walks, with parks and drives on the hillsides, not to mention the costly Roman garden of one of Pittsburg's captains of industry. Should he so elect, he could be whirled in a gasoline car in a few minutes over a distance which it probably took him the better part of an hour to make in his day. As he went along he could muse over snatches of Goldsmiths' "Deserted Village," like the following, which would be approximately, if not literally, true: "Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains: this wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products just the same. And so the loss: the man of wealth and pride Takes up the place that many poor supplied; Space for his lake, his parks extending bounds, Space for his horses, equipage and hounds, The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their growth." But there are some compensations in the modern scene, and however emotionally sad the change, the helpfully suggestive side is not in lamentation over the inevitable, but in considering the growing demands which the situation makes upon the practical spiritual religion which Elias Hicks preached, and in which his successors still profess to believe. A hundred years ago, wheat was a regular and staple farm product on Long Island, especially in and around Jericho, and on the Hicks farm. But no wheat is raised in this section now. The farmer finds it more profitable to raise the more perishable vegetables to feed the hungry hordes of the great city, which has crowded itself nearer and nearer to the farmers' domain. Less than a quarter of a mile up the road from the Hicks home is the Friends' Meeting House, which Elias Hicks helped to build, if he did not design it. The timbers and rafters, which were large, and are still sound to the core, were hewed by hand of course. Like most of the neighboring buildings, its sides were shingled, and probably the original shingles have not been replaced since the house was built, a hundred and twenty-two years ago. The "public gallery" contained benches sloping steeply one above the other, making the view of the preacher's gallery easy from these elevated positions. Over the preacher's gallery, and facing the one just described, is room for a row of seats behind a railing. Whether this was a sort of a "watch-tower" from which the elders might observe the deportment of the young people in the seats opposite, or whether it was simply used for overflow purposes, tradition does not tell us. The fact probably is that what is known as the Hicks property at Jericho came to Elias by his wife Jemima. There is every reason to believe that at the time of his marriage he was a poor man, and as the young folks took up their residence at the Seaman home soon after their marriage, there was no time for an accumulation of property on the part of the head of the new family. The economic situation involved in the matter under consideration had a most important bearing on the religious service of Elias Hicks. Taking the Seaman farm brought him economic certainty, if not independence. It is hardly conceivable that he could have given the large attention to the "free gospel ministry" which he did, had there been a struggle with debt and difficulty which was so incidental in laying the foundations of even a moderate success a century and a quarter ago. It is by no means to be inferred, however, that Elias Hicks was ever a wealthy man, or possessed the means of luxury, for which of course he had no desire, and against which he bore a life-long testimony. The real point to be gratefully remembered is that he was not overburdened with the care and worry which a less desirable economic condition would have enforced. In the main, Elias Hicks saw his married children settle around him. Royal Aldrich, who married his oldest daughter, had a tannery, and lived on the opposite side of the road not far away. Valentine Hicks, who married another daughter, had a somewhat pretentious house for the time, at the foot of the little hill approaching the meeting house, and just beyond the house of Elias, Robert Seaman, who married the youngest daughter, lived only a few steps away. Joshua Willets, who married the third daughter, resided on the south side of the island, some miles distant. The time of scattering families, lured by business outlook and economic advantage, had not yet arrived. CHAPTER IX. The Hicks Family. In the home at Jericho the children of Elias Hicks were born. Touching his family we have this bit of interesting information from Elias Hicks himself: "My wife, although not of a very strong constitution, lived to be the mother of eleven children, four sons and seven daughters. Our second daughter, a very lovely promising child, died when young with the small pox, and the youngest was not living at its birth. The rest all arrived to years of discretion, and afforded us considerable comfort, as they proved to be in a good degree dutiful children. All our sons, however, were of weak constitutions, and were not able to take care of themselves, being so enfeebled as not to be able to walk after the ninth year of their age. The two eldest died in the fifteenth year of their age, the third in his seventeenth year, and the youngest was nearly nineteen when he died. But, although thus helpless, the innocency of their lives, and the resigned cheerfulness of their dispositions to their allotments, made the labour and toil of taking care of them agreeable and pleasant; and I trust we were preserved from murmuring or repining, believing the dispensation to be in wisdom, and according to the will and gracious disposing of an all-wise providence, for purposes best known to himself. And when I have observed the great anxiety and affliction, which many parents have with undutiful children who are favoured with health, especially their sons, I could perceive very few whose troubles and exercises, on that account, did not far exceed ours. The weakness and bodily infirmity of our sons tended to keep them much out of the way of the troubles and temptations of the world; and we believed that in their death they were happy, and admitted into the realms of peace and joy; a reflection, the most comfortable and joyous that parents can have in regard to their tender offspring."[49] [49] Journal, p. 14. The children thus referred to by their father were the following: Martha, born in 1771. She married Royal Aldrich, and died in 1862, at the advanced age of ninety-one. She was a widow for about twenty years. David was born in 1773, and died in 1787. Elias, the second son, was born in 1774, and died the same year as his brother David. Elizabeth was born in 1777, and died in 1779. This is the daughter who had the small pox. There are no records telling whether the other members of the family had the disease, or how this child of two years became a victim of the contagion. Phebe, the third daughter, was born in 1779. She married Joshua Willets, as noted in the last chapter. Abigail, who married Valentine Hicks, a nephew of Elias, was born in 1782. She died Second month 26, 1850, while her husband passed away the 5th of Third month of the same year, just one week after the death of his wife. Jonathan, the third son, was born in 1784, and passed away in 1802. His brother, John, was born in 1789, and died in 1805. Elizabeth, evidently named for her little sister, was born in 1791, and lived to a good old age. She passed away in 1871. She was never married, and occasionally accompanied her father on his religious visits. She was known in the neighborhood, in her later years at least, as "Aunt Elizabeth," and is the best-remembered of any of the children of Elias Hicks. As the Friends remember her she was a spare woman, never weighing over ninety pounds. The youngest child of the family, Sarah, was born in 1793. She married Robert Seaman, her kinsman, and died in 1835. Robert, her husband, died in 1860. It will be seen that the home at Jericho was a house acquainted with grief. Of the ten children, Martha, David, Elias and little Elizabeth made up the juvenile members of the household, up to the time of the death of the latter. Phebe came the same year, while Abigail was born three years later, so that there were at least four or five children always gathered around the family board. Before the passing away of Elias and David, the family had been increased by the birth of Jonathan, making the children living at one time six. After the death of the three older boys, and the birth of Elizabeth and Sarah, until the death of John in 1805, living children were still six in number. The five daughters, Martha, Phebe, Abigail, Elizabeth and Sarah all outlived their parents. Elias Hicks was undoubtedly a most affectionate father, as the letters to his wife and children show. How much this was diluted by the apparent sternness of his religious concerns is a matter for the imagination to determine. What were the amusements of this large family is an interesting question in this "age of the child," with its surfeit of toys and games. What were the tasks of the girls it is not so hard to answer. Of course they worked "samplers," pieced quilts, learned to spin and knit, and possibly to weave, and to prepare the wool or flax for the loom. If we read between the lines in the description of their father, we can easily infer that the physically afflicted sons were nevertheless not without the joys of boyhood. At all events, if it was an afflicted family, it was also a united one. It was a home where the parents were reverenced by the children, and where there was a feeling of love, and a sense of loyalty. This feeling is still characteristic of the descendants of Elias Hicks. It is a sample of the persistence of the qualities of a strong man, in the generations that come after him. Of the four daughters of Elias Hicks who were married, but two had children, so that the lineal descendants of the celebrated Jericho preacher are either descendants of Martha Hicks, wife of Valentine, or of Sarah Hicks Seaman. These two branches of the family are quite numerous.[50] [50] The descendants referred to will be given in their proper place in the Appendix. Of Jemima, the wife of Elias Hicks, little is known apart from the correspondence of her husband, and that is considerable. That he considered her his real help-meet, and had for her a lover's affection to the end is abundantly attested by all of the facts. Dame Rumor, in the region of Jericho, claims that she was her husband's intellectual inferior, but that is an indefinite comparison worth very little. That she was at some points his superior is undoubtedly true, and it must be remembered that Elias himself, with all of his great natural ability, lacked intellectual culture and literary training. Jemima was evidently a good housekeeper, and manager of affairs. Before she had sons-in-law with whom to advise, and even after that, the business side of the family was a considerable part of the time in her hands. It is no small matter to throw upon a woman, never robust, the responsibility of both the mother and father of a family during the prolonged absence of the husband. The first long religious visit of Elias Hicks lasted ten weeks. At that time there were four little people in the Hicks home, from eight-year-old Martha to two-year-old Elizabeth, who died that year, while Phebe was born after the return of her father from his Philadelphia trip. Several of the other extended journeys were made while the children of the family were of an age requiring care. Of course this laid labor and responsibility on the wife and mother. These she bore without complaining and, we may be sure, with executive ability of no mean order. It was a time when women were not expected to be either the intellectual peers or companions of their husbands, and we cannot justly apply the measurements and standards of to-day, to the women of a century ago. Men of the Elias Hicks type, meeting their fellows in public assemblies and ministering to them, traveling widely and forming many friendships, whether in the Society of Friends or out of it, are likely to be praised, if not petted, while their wives, less known, labor on unappreciated. Such a woman was Jemima Hicks. To her, and all like her, the lasting gratitude of the sons of men is due. CHAPTER X. Letters to his Wife. In the long absences from home, which the religious visits of Elias Hicks involved, as a matter of course many of the domestic burdens fell heavily upon his wife. In so far as he could atone for his absence by sending epistles home he did so. In fact, for the times, he was a voluminous letter writer. It was not a time of rapid transit. Distances now spanned in a few hours demanded days and weeks when Elias Hicks was active in the ministry. At the best, but a few letters could reach home from the traveler absent for several months. In the main the letters which Elias sent to his beloved Jemima were of the ardent lover-like sort. It seemed impossible, however, for him to avoid the preacherly function in even his most tender and domestic missives. Exhortations to practical righteousness, and to the maintenance of what he considered the Friendly fundamentals, were plentifully mixed with his most private and personal concerns. In going over this correspondence one wishes for more description, relating to the human side of the traveler's experiences. A man who several times traversed what was really the width of habitable America, and mostly either in a wagon or on horseback, must have seen much that was interesting, and many times humorous and even pathetic. But few of these things moved Elias Hicks, or diverted him from what he considered the purely gospel character of his mission. Still there is much worth while in this domestic correspondence. From it we compile and annotate such extracts as seem to help reveal the character of the man who wrote them. On the 13th of Eighth month, 1788, Elias was at Creek, now Clinton Corners, in Dutchess county, New York. From a letter written to his wife that day, we quote: "My heart glows at this time with much love and affection for thee and our dear children, with breathing desires for your preservation, and that thou, my dear, may be kept in a state of due watchfulness over thyself, and those dear lambs under thy care, that nothing may interrupt the current of pure love among you in my absence." A letter dated "Lynn, Massachusetts, ye 24th of Eighth month, 1793," and written to his wife, is of peculiar interest. We quote the first sentences: "I received last evening, at my return to this place from the East, thy very acceptable letter of the 16th instant.... The contents, except the account of the pain in thy side, were truly comfortable. That part wherein thou expresseth a resignation to the Divine Will, was particularly satisfactory, for in this, my dear, consists our chiefest happiness and consolation." He sometimes expressed a sense of loneliness in his travels, but was certain of the nearness of the Divine Spirit. In the letter mentioned above he said: "Thou hast cause to believe with me, my dear, that it was He that first united our hearts together in the bonds of an endeared love and affection. So it is He that has kept and preserved us all our life long, and hath caused us to witness an increase of that unfading love, which as thou expresseth is ever new." Evidently his beloved Jemima, like Martha of old, was unduly troubled about many things, for we find Elias in his letter indulging in the following warning: "And let me again hint to thee a care over thyself, for I fear thou wilt expose thyself by too much bodily exercise in the care of thy business." It is seldom that we find even a tinge of complaining in any of his letters. It seems, however, that his women folks were not industrious correspondents. In closing the letter noted he thus expressed himself: "My companion receives his packet of letters, frequently four, five or six at a time, which makes me feel as if I was forgotten by my friends, having received but two small letters from home since I left you. And thou writest, my dear, as if paper was scarce, on very small pieces." On the 3d of Ninth month, of the same year, a letter was written to his wife, much like the foregoing. It is interesting to note that Elias was at this time the guest of Moses Brown (in Providence), the founder of the Moses Brown School. The small pieces of paper mentioned are hints of a wifely economy, not altogether approved by her very economical husband. There is a gentle tinge of rebuke in the following, written from Nine Partners, Eleventh month 19, 1818. The temptation is strong to read into these lines, a grain of humor touching the much-talked-of persistence of a woman's will: "Inasmuch as I have often felt concerned when thus absent, least thou should worry thyself, with too much care and labor in regard to our temporal concerns, and have often desired thee to be careful in that respect, but mostly without effect, by reason that thou art so choice of thy own free agency as to be afraid to take the advice of thy best friend, lest it might mar that great privilege; I therefore now propose to leave thee at full liberty to use it in thine own pleasure with the addition of this desire, that thou use it in that way as will produce to thee the most true comfort and joy, and then I trust I shall be comforted, my dear, in thy comfort, and joyful in thy joy." A letter dated West Jersey, near Salem, the 6th of First month, 1798, mentions a singular concern about apparel. He exhorts his wife to guard the tender minds of their children from "foolish and worldly vanities," and then drops into a personal and general statement regarding what he considered simplicity and plainness as follows: "Great is the apparent departure from primitive purity and plainness among many professors of the truth, where our lots have been cast. Foreseeing that I may often be led in a line of close doctrine to such it has brought me under close self-examination, knowing for certain that those who have to deal out to others ought to look well to their own going. In this time of scrutiny nothing turned up as bringing reproof to my mind concerning our children, but the manner of wearing their gown sleeves long and pinned at the wrist. This I found to strike at the pure life, and wounded my mind. I clearly saw my deficiency that I had not more endeavored to have it done away with before I left home, for I felt it as a burden then. But seeing our dear daughters had manifested so much condescension in other things, and this being like one of the least, I endeavored to be easy under it. But feeling it with assurance not to be a plant of our Heavenly Father's right-hand planting, think it ought to be plucked up. Let our dear daughters read these lines, and tell them their dear father prays they may wisely consider the matter, and if they can be willing so far to condescend to my desire while absent as to have these things removed, it will be as balsam to my wounded spirit, and they will not go without their reward. But their father's God will bless them and become their God, as they are faithful to his reproofs in their hearts, and walk fearfully before Him. He will redeem them, out of all adversity to the praise and glory of His grace, who is over all, God, blessed forever." During a visit to Nine Partners, Twelfth month 15, 1803, Elias wrote to Jemima. Evidently she had repelled the inference, if not the implication, that she had been negligent in her correspondence, for we find the letter in question beginning in this fashion: "Although I wrote thee pretty fully last evening, yet having since that received a precious, refreshing letter from thee, by Isaac Frost (it being the first I have received from thee since I left home), but finding from thy last that thou hast written several. It affords a singular satisfaction in finding thou hast been mindful of me. But I have not complained, my dear, nor let in, nor indulged a thought that thou hadst forgotten me, nor do I believe thou couldst. There is nothing while we continue in our right minds that can dissolve that firm and precious bond of love and endeared affection, which from our first acquaintance united us together, and in which, while writing these lines my spirit greets thee with endeared embraces." It surely seems strange that a man who was the father of eleven children, that his only source of personal "reproof" concerning them, was this little matter of the sleeves and the pins. This probably is a fair illustration of what may be called the conservatism of Elias Hicks touching all of the peculiarities of the Society of Friends. The postscript to a letter written to Jemima from Shrewsbury, New Jersey, Twelfth month 17, 1797, reads as follows: "As thou writes but poorly, if thou should get Hallet or Royal to write superscriptions on the letters, it would make them more plain for conveyance." It was only seldom that business affairs at home were referred to in his epistles to his wife. But occasionally a departure was made from this practice. Where these lapses do occur, it would seem that they should be noted. In the fall of 1822 Elias was in the vicinity of Philadelphia, and was stopping with his friend and kinsman, Edward Hicks, at Newtown, in Bucks county. In this letter he says: "My health is much the same as when I left home. I was disappointed in not meeting any letters here, as I feel very anxious how you all do." We copy the balance of the letter, with its tender admonition to Jemima: "I will just remind thee that before I left home I put two old ewes in the green rye on the plains. If they should improve as to be fit to kill, I should be willing thou would let Josiah have one of them, as he agreed to split up some of the timber that was blown down in the woods by him, into rails and board himself. The other thou might sell or otherwise at thy pleasure. "Now, my dear, let me remind thee of thy increasing bodily infirmities, and the necessity it lays thee under to spare thyself of the burthen and care of much bodily and mental labour and exercise, by which thou will experience more quiet rest, both to body and mind, and that it may be, my dear, our united care to endeavor that our last days may be our best days, that so we may witness a state and qualification to pass gently and quietly out of time, into the mansions of eternal blessedness, where all sighing and sorrow, will be at an end." While in Pennsylvania, and at what is now York, Fourth month 3, 1798, he sent a tender missive home. Part of it referred to business matters. He gave directions for preparing the ground, and planting potatoes, and also for oats and flax, the latter being a crop practically unknown to present-day Long Island. He then gives the following direction regarding a financial obligation: "And as James Carhartt has a bond of sixty pounds against me, of money belonging to a Dutchman, should be glad if thou hast not money enough by thee to pay the interest thereof, thou would call upon Royal or brother Joseph and get some, and pay it the first of Fifth month." While at Rahway, New Jersey, Eleventh month 6, 1801, on his visit to Friends in New Jersey and Pennsylvania, he wrote one of his most expressive letters to Jemima. A postscript was attached directed to his daughters. To his oldest daughter, Martha, he sent an exhortation in which he said: "My desires for thee, my dear, are that thou may be preserved innocent and chaste to the Lord, for I can have no greater joy than to find my children walking in the truth." That a large part of his concern was for the comfort of his wife in the long absences from home is abundantly shown in his entire correspondence. The last postscript to the Rahway letter is as follows: "And, dear Phebe and Abigail, remember your Creator, who made you not to spend your time in play and vanity, but to be sober and to live in his fear, that he may bless you. Be obedient to your dear mother, it is my charge to you. Love and help her whatever you can; it will comfort your dear father." The 2d of Eleventh month, 1820, Elias arrived at Hudson, and learning that the steamboat to New York was to pass that day, he prepared and sent a letter to his wife. In this letter he says: "It may be that some of my friends may think me so far worth noticing, as to meet me with a line or two at Nine Partners, as I have often felt very desirous of hearing how you fare at home, but this desire hath mostly failed of being gratified. I suppose the many things so absorb the minds of my friends at home, that they have no time to think of so poor a thing as I am. But never mind it, as all things, it is said, will work together for good to those that love and fear [God]." While at Saratoga, in 1793, Elias wrote to Jemima, Tenth month 15th. This is one of his most ardent epistles. "Oh, my dear," he says, "may we ever keep in remembrance the day of our espousal and gladness of our hearts, as I believe it was a measure of the Divine Image that united our hearts together in the beginning. It is the same that I believe has, and still doth strengthen the sweet, influential and reciprocal bond, that nothing, I trust, as we dwell under a sense of Divine love and in the pure fear, will ever be able to obliterate or deface." Third month 15, 1798, a letter was written from Alexandria, Va., from which we make this extract: "We came here this morning from Sandy Spring, which is upwards of twenty miles distant. Got in timely so as to attend their meeting which began at the tenth hour. Crossed the river Potomac on our way. We got on horseback about break of day, and not being very well I thought I felt the most fatigued before I got in, I was ever sensible of before. When I came to the meeting, a poor little one it was, and wherein I had to suffer silence through the meeting for worship, but in their Preparative which followed, I found my way open in a measure to ease my mind." CHAPTER XI. The Slavery Question. John Woolman was the mouth-piece of the best Quaker conscience of the eighteenth century on the slavery question. For twenty-five years before his death, in 1772, he was pleading with the tenderness of a woman that his beloved religious society should clear itself from complicity with the system which held human beings in bondage. His mantel apparently fell on Warner Mifflin, a young man residing in Kent county, Delaware, near the little hamlet of Camden. In 1775 Mifflin manumitted his slaves, and was followed by like conduct on the part of his father, Daniel Mifflin, a resident of Accomac County, in Virginia. Warner Mifflin is said to have been the first man in America to voluntarily give freedom to his bondmen, and to make restitution to such of them as were past twenty-one, for the unrequited service which they had rendered him. Be that as it may, from 1775, until his death in 1799, Warner Mifflin, with tireless zeal labored with Friends personally, and with meetings in their official capacity, to drive the last remnant of slavery from the Quaker fold. His efforts appeared in various monthly meeting minutes throughout Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, and he was not backward in laying his concern before the Yearly Meeting itself. In 1783, on the initiative of Mifflin, the Yearly Meeting for Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Delaware and the Western Parts of Maryland and Virginia, memorialized the infant United States Congress in regard to slavery. The document was a striking one for the time, was signed in person by 535 Friends, and was presented to the Congress by a strong committee headed by Warner Mifflin. These efforts at internal deliverance from connection and complicity with slavery produced speedy results, and before the close of the century not a Quaker slave holder remained in the Society, unless in some obscure cases that continued "under care." Having cleared its own skirts of slavery, the members of the Society became divided into two classes--the one anxious that the Quaker conscience should make its appeal to the general conscience for the entire abolition of the "great iniquity." The other class, satisfied with their own sinlessness in this particular, wished the Society to remain passive, and in no way mix with a public agitation of the mooted question. These two opposing views distracted the Society down to the very verge of the final issue in the slaveholders' rebellion. Elias Hicks was three years Warner Mifflin's junior. He probably saw the Delaware abolitionist during his visits to Philadelphia Yearly Meeting before the death of Mifflin. Whether either ever saw or heard John Woolman cannot be positively stated. Mifflin was twenty-seven when the great New Jersey preacher and reformer passed away, and must have fallen under the spell of Woolman's inspiring leadership. Elias Hicks could hardly have escaped being influenced by this "elder brother," although he may never have seen him. The subject of this biography was among those who believed that the Society of Friends had a message to the world along the line of its internal testimony against slavery, and he did not hesitate to deliver the message, though it disturbed the superficial ease in Zion. Still he had no definite plan apart from the appeal to conscience for settling the problem. It must be remembered, however, that Elias Hicks passed away before the real abolition movement, as represented by Garrison and Phillips and their compeers, had begun its vigorous agitation, or organized its widely applied propaganda. What the attitude of Elias would have been toward Friends becoming members of the abolition societies, which after his death played such an important part, and touching which many Friends were either in doubt or in opposition we cannot even surmise. Benjamin Lundy[51] commenced his literary warfare against slavery, with the ponderously named "Genius of Universal Emancipation," in 1821. Elias Hicks was one of Lundy's most concerned and faithful patrons, in some of his undertakings,[52] as appears in his personal correspondence. [51] Benjamin Lundy was born of Quaker parents, First month 4, 1789, in Sussex County, New Jersey. He learned the trade of harness maker and saddler, and went to Ohio, where he became very much interested in the slavery question. In 1816 he issued an "Address" touching the evils of slavery. Of this Address, Horace Greeley says, it contained the germ of the whole anti-slavery movement. In First month, 1821, he issued the first number of _The Genius of Universal Emancipation_. Lundy was interested in various schemes for colonization, and assisted many emancipated negroes to go to Hayti, and contemplated the establishment of a colony of colored people in Mexico. He died at Lowell, Illinois, Eighth month 22, 1839, and was buried in the Friends' burying ground at Clear Creek. [52] Please inform Benjamin Lundy that I have procured fifty-two subscribers, or subscribers for fifty-two books, entitled, "Letters," etc.--Extract from letter to his son-in-law, Valentine Hicks, dated Jericho, Eleventh month 6, 1827. The state of New York provided for the gradual emancipation of its slaves in 1799, so that Elias Hicks had to go away from home after that period to get into real slave territory. As has been seen he began bearing his testimony in meetings for worship against the institution in Maryland, where slave holding was the law of the land until the end. There are statements more or less legendary to the effect that Elias was the owner of one slave, but of that there is no authentic evidence, while the probabilities are all against it. If he ever held a slave or slaves, he undoubtedly manumitted them. An act of such importance would hardly have escaped record in the Journal, and no reference to it exists. The controversies and disownments in the Society of Friends on account of the slavery question really came after the death of Elias. The trouble in New York resulting in the disownment of Isaac T. Hopper, James S. Gibbons and Charles Marriott came on more than a decade after his death. This entire controversy has been wrongly estimated by most of the biographers and historians, representing the pronounced abolitionists of the period. It was not simply a contest between anti-slavery Friends and pro-slavery Friends. In fact the moving spirits against Isaac T. Hopper were not advocates or defenders of slavery as an institution. George F. White, who was probably the head and front of the movement to disown Isaac T. Hopper, was not in favor of slavery. After his death his monthly meeting memorialized him, and among other things stated that he had for years refrained from using commodities made by slave labor. The conservative wing of the Society was opposed to Friends becoming identified with any organization for any purpose outside of the Society. George F. White attacked temperance organizations, as he did abolition societies. It was a common inference, if not a claim, of the Garrisonian abolitionists, that there were no real anti-slavery men outside of their organization. In Fifth month, 1840, there was a debate involving the abolition attitude of the Society of Friends in the town of Lynn, Massachusetts. In this debate William Lloyd Garrison said of the Society: "If it were an abolition society, its efforts would be identified with ours."[53] [53] The "Liberator," May 1, 1841, p. 3. In the same debate Oliver Johnson disputed the abolition claims of the Society of Friends, saying: "They have asserted for themselves the claim of being an abolition society. But we never could get into their meeting house."[54] Thus was the test of abolitionism made to hinge upon housing the Abolition Society. [54] The "Liberator," May 1, 1841, p. 3. That the attitude of the conservatives was ill-advised and reprehensible may be true. It is also true that this body of Friends were not in favor of any effort to overthrow slavery by popular agitation. They held that all other Christians should do what Friends had done, cease to hold slaves, and that would settle the whole question. However shortsighted this attitude may have been, very few, if any, of the Friends holding it, believed in holding black men in bondage. In fact it is pretty safe to assert that at no time after the Society had freed itself from direct complicity with slavery was there any considerable number of strictly pro-slavery Friends in this country. In the disownments in the Society growing out of the slavery controversy there was never a direct charge of abolitionism brought against the accused. In Kennett Monthly Meeting in Chester County, Pa., where in about seven years thirty-four Friends were disowned, the charge was that the persons had "associated with others in forming, sustaining and supporting a professedly religious organization[55] distinct from and not owned by Friends, and have wholly declined attending our religious meetings."[56] [55] The "Progressive Friends." [56] Records of Kennett Monthly Meeting, First month 6, 1857. Of course, it is true that the Friends who took part in the Progressive Friends' movement were probably led to do so because the way did not open for them to be aggressively anti-slavery in the parent meeting. The colonization scheme, that is a plan to colonize emancipated negroes either in Africa, or in Hayti, or elsewhere, was prominently urged during the time of Elias Hicks. Benjamin Lundy had a plan of this character which he attempted to make practical. Evan Lewis,[57] of New York, in 1820, was interested in an effort of this sort, and sought the advice of Elias Hicks in the matter. [57] Evan Lewis, a New York Friend and business man. He corresponded with King Henry, of San Domingo. Was a warm friend of Elias Hicks, and after the "separation" wrote a pamphlet in defense of Elias. We have not been able to find any reply to this particular letter, and are thus not warranted in saying whether Elias Hicks sympathized with such a scheme or not. The attitude of Elias Hicks on the slavery question is only minutely referred to in his Journal. His private correspondence gives his feeling and conduct in the case, in not a few instances. From his general disposition one would expect to find his objections to slavery based entirely on moral and religious grounds. Still, evidence abounds that he had also considered the economic phases of the question, as note the following: "I may further add that from forty years of observation that in all cases where opportunity has opened the way fairly to contrast the subject, it has afforded indubitable evidence to my mind, that free labor is cheaper and more profitable than that done by slaves."[58] [58] From letter written to James Cropper, of England, dated Baltimore, Eleventh month 2, 1822. It seems to have been laid upon him to present the claims of the truth as he saw it, in slave-holding communities. He makes the following statement touching service of this kind in Virginia: "I have passed through some proving seasons since I left Baltimore, in meetings where many negro masters attended, some of whom held fifty, some an hundred, and some it was thought one hundred and fifty of these poor people in slavery. Was led to treat on the subject in divers meetings, in such a manner and so fully to expose the iniquity and unrighteousness thereof, that some who had stouted[59] it out hitherto against all conviction, were much humbled and brought to a state of contrition, and not one individual had power to make any opposition. But truth reigned triumphantly over all, to the rejoicing of many hearts."[60] [59] "Stouted" seems to have been a favorite word with Elias. He habitually uses it as representing an aggravated resistance to the truth. [60] From letter written to his wife from Alexandria, Va., Third month 15, 1798. Elias Hicks wrote a number of articles on the slavery question, and some of them were printed and publicly circulated. A letter written at Manchester, England, Seventh month 5, 1812, by Martha Routh, and addressed to Elias Hicks, says: "I have not forgot that I am debtor to thee this way, for two very acceptable and instructive epistles, the latter with a pamphlet setting forth the deep exercise of thy mind, and endeavors for the more full relief of our fellow-brethren, the African race." This letter informs Elias that the author sent his pamphlet to Thomas Clarkson. Considerable was written by Elias Hicks on the slave trade, some of it existing as unpublished manuscript. An article, filling four closely written pages of foolscap, is among his literary effects. A very long letter was written to James Cropper, of England, on the same subject. Both of these documents were written while the slave-trade bill was pending in the British Parliament. Elias considered the measure entirely inadequate, holding that the domestic production of slaves was as inhuman and abhorrent, if not more so, as their importation from Africa. In the letter to Cropper this strong statement is found: "It ought ever to be remembered that it is one of the most necessary and essential duties both towards God and man, for individuals and nations to exert all the power and influence they are possessed of, in every righteous and consistent way, to put an entire stop to all oppression, robbery and murder without partiality, as it respects nations or individuals." Many times, in his published sermons, Elias Hicks dealt with the iniquity of slavery. Without doubt he expressed himself in like manner in sermons preached before interest in the man and his utterances caused his sermons to be stenographically reported and published. "Oh! that our eyes might be opened, to see more deeply into the mystery of iniquity and godliness; that we might become conversant in godliness and so reject iniquity. For all this wicked oppression of the African race is of the mystery of iniquity. The man of sin and son of perdition does these works, and nothing else does them. Justice is fallen in the streets, and in the councils of the nation. How much justice there is; for they have it in their power to do justice to these poor oppressed creatures, but they are waiting till all their selfish notions are gratified."[61] [61] From sermon preached at Newtown, Pa., Twelfth month 18, 1826. The "Quaker," Vol. 4, p. 183. Elias Hicks was as strongly opposed to the lines of interest and economic conduct which indirectly supported slavery as he was to the institution itself. We quote: "And for want of a sight of this oppression, how many there are who, though they seem not willing to put their hands upon a fellow creature to bind him in chains of bondage, yet they will do everything to help along by purchasing the labor of those poor creatures, which is like eating flesh and drinking blood of our poor fellow-creatures. Is it like coming home to justice? For the thief and oppressor are just alike; the one is as bad as the other."[62] [62] From sermon preached at Abington, Pa., Twelfth month 15, 1826. The "Quaker," Vol. 4, p. 155. In dealing with slavery and slaveholders, his language often bordered on what would now be called bitterness. Here is a case in point: "Can slaveholders, mercenaries and hirelings, who look for their gain from this quarter, can they promote the religion of Jesus Christ? No, they are the cause of its reproach, for they are the cause of making unbelievers."[63] [63] A series of extemporaneous discourses by Elias Hicks. Joseph and Edward Parker, p. 24. His concern touching slavery was largely based on considerations of justice, and regard for the opportunity which he believed ought to be the right of all men. In one of his sermons he said: "Thousands and tens of thousands have been forbidden the enjoyment of every good thing on earth, even of common school-learning; and must it still be so? God forbid it. But this would be a trifle, if they had the privilege of rational beings on the earth; that liberty which is the greatest of all blessings--the exercise of free agency. And here we are glutting ourselves with the toils of their labor!... But this noble testimony, of refusing to partake of the spoils of oppression, lies with the dearly beloved young people of this day. We can look for but little from the aged, who have been accustomed to these things."[64] [64] From sermon preached in Philadelphia, Twelfth month 1, 1824. Parker's "Discourses by Elias Hicks," p. 60-61. In the sermon "just referred to," we find the following: "We are on a level with all the rest of God's creatures. We are not better for being white than others for being black; and we have no more right to oppress the blacks because they are black than they have to oppress us because we are white. Therefore, every one who oppresses his colored brother or sister is a tyrant upon the earth; and every one who strengthens the hand of an oppressor is a tyrant upon earth. They have turned from God, and have not that powerful love, which does away all distinction and prejudice of education, and sets upon equal grounds all those that have equal rights."[65] [65] The same, p. 79. Of the "essays" on the slavery question written by Elias Hicks, one has survived, and is bound in the volume, "Letters of Elias Hicks." The pamphlet in question, though small, like many "ancient" productions, had a very large title, viz.: "Observations on the Slavery of the Africans and Their Descendants, and the Use of the Produce of Their Labor."[66] It was originally published in 1811, having been approved by the Meeting for Sufferings of New York Yearly Meeting. Nearly half of the "essay" is made up of a series of questions and answers. When printed it made six leaves the size of this page. On the subject of the product of slave labor, decided ground was taken, the claim being that all such produce was "prize goods." The reason for this claim was that the slaves originally were captives, practically the victims of a war of capture if not conquest. Among other things the essay argues the rightfulness and justice of any State to pass laws abolishing slavery within its borders. [66] "Letters of Elias Hicks," p. 9. While the arguments presented in this document are of general value, it is probable that the pamphlet was in the main intended for circulation among Friends, with a view to stimulating them to such action as would forward the cause of freedom. This essay by Elias Hicks antedated by five years the address by Benjamin Lundy, already referred to, and was probably one of the first publications in the nineteenth century actually advocating the abolition of slavery. In studying the slavery question it is necessary to remember that before the invention of the cotton gin, about 1793, a considerable but unorganized and ineffective anti-slavery sentiment existed in the country. But after that invention, which rendered slave labor very remunerative, sentiment of this sort subsided so that the Friends, who, like Elias Hicks, advocated abolition during the first quarter of the nineteenth century, were really pioneers in the attempt which resulted in the freedom of a race. At one time church organizations, even in the South, especially the Baptists, passed resolutions favorable to the abolition of slavery. Churches North and South in the decade between 1780 and 1790 were well abreast of Friends in this particular. Touching this matter Horace Greeley remarked: "But no similar declaration has been made by any Southern Baptist Convention since field-hands rose to $1,000 each, and black infants at birth were accounted worth $100."[67] [67] "The American Conflict," by Horace Greeley, Vol. I, p. 120. We could make copious extracts from the anti-slavery utterances of Elias Hicks, but our object is simply to give the scope of his thinking and purpose in regard to this matter. Few men at certain points were more altruistic than he, and as an altruist he could not do other than oppose the great social and economic iniquity of his time. From his standpoint slavery was utterly and irretrievably bad, and to bear testimony constant and consistent against it was part of the high calling of the Christian. CHAPTER XII. Various Opinions. Elias Hicks had very definite ideas on a great many subjects. While in many respects he was in advance of his time, at other points he was conservative. At any rate he was not in unity with some of the prevalent social and economic arrangements. On the question of property he entertained some startling convictions. Just how much public expression he gave to these views may not be positively determined. That he believed that there were grave spiritual dangers involved in getting and holding great wealth, is abundantly attested in his public utterances, but we must look to his private correspondence for some of his advanced views on the property question. In a letter addressed to "Dear Alsop," dated Jericho, Fifth month 14, 1826, he deals quite definitely with the matter of property. After claiming that the early Christians wandered from the pure gospel of Jesus after they ceased to rely on the inward teacher, he makes a declaration on the subject as follows: "But did we all as individuals take the spirit of truth, or light within, as our only rule and guide in all things, we should all then be willing, and thereby enabled, to do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God. Then we should hold all things in common, and call nothing our own, but consider all our blessings as only lent to us, to be used and distributed by us in such manner and way as his holy spirit, or this inward teacher, may from time to time direct. Hence we should be made all equal, accountable to none but God alone, for the right use or the abuse of his blessings. Then all mankind would be but one community, have but one head, but one father, and the saying of Jesus would be verified. We should no longer call any man master, for one only has a right to be our Master, even God, and all mankind become brethren. This is the kind of community that I have been labouring for more than forty years to introduce mankind into, that so we might all have but one head, and one instructor and he (God) come to rule whose only right it is, and which would always have been the case, had not man rebelled against his maker, and disobeyed his salutary instruction and commands." Touching the "cares and deceitfulness of riches," he had much to say. He tells us that on a certain day he attended the meeting of ministers and elders in Westbury, and sat through it "under great depression and poverty of spirit." There was evidently some confession and not a little complaining, as there is now, regarding the possession and exercise of spiritual gifts on the part of Friends. But Elias affirmed that the "cloud" over the meeting was not "in consequence of a deficiency of ministers, as it respects their ministerial gifts, nor from a want of care in elders in watching over them; but from a much more deep and melancholy cause, viz.: the love and cares of this world and the deceitfulness of riches; which, springing up and gaining the ascendency in the mind, choke the good seed like the briars and thorns, and render it fruitless; and produce such great dearth and barrenness in our meetings."[68] [68] Journal of Elias Hicks, p. 233. Elias Hicks apparently believed that labor had in itself a vital spiritual quality. In fact he held that the famous injunction in Genesis "In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread" "was not a penalty, but it was a divine counsel--a counsel of perfect wisdom and perfect love."[69] It was his opinion that all oppression, slavery and injustice, had their origin in the disposition of men to shirk the obligation to labor, thus placing burdens on their fellows, which they should bear themselves. [69] Sermon preached at Abington, Pa., Twelfth month 15, 1826. The "Quaker," p. 155. Every exhortation touching labor he religiously followed himself. He records that at the age of sixty he labored hard in his harvest field, and remarks with evident pride and satisfaction as follows: "I found I could wield the scythe nearly as in the days of my youth. It was a day of thankful and delightful contemplation. My heart was filled with thankfulness and gratitude to the blessed Author of my existence, in a consideration of his providential care over me, in preserving me in health, and in the possession of my bodily powers, the exercise of which were still affording me both profit and delight; and I was doubly thankful for the continued exercise of my mental faculties, not only in instructing me how to exert and rightly employ my bodily powers, in the most useful and advantageous manner, but also in contemplating the works of nature and Providence, in the blessings and beauties of the field--a volume containing more delightful and profitable instruction than all the volumes of mere learning and science in the world. "What a vast portion of the joys and comforts of life do the idle and slothful deprive themselves of, by running into cities and towns, to avoid labouring in the field; not considering that this is one of the principal sources that the gracious Creator of the universe has appointed to his creature, man, from whence he may derive great temporal happiness and delight. It also opens the largest and best field of exercise to the contemplative mind, by which it may be prepared to meet, when this mortal puts on immortality, those immortal joys that will ever be the lot of the faithful and industrious."[70] [70] Journal of Elias Hicks, p. 185. It will probably be disputed in our time, that those who labor and attempt to live in cities enjoy lives of greater ease than those who till the soil. While Elias recognized the obligation to labor, and believed it was a blessed privilege, he had learned in the school of experience that an over-worked body and an over-worried mind tended to spiritual poverty. We quote: "The rest of this week was spent in my ordinary vocations. My farming business was very pressing, and it being difficult to procure suitable assistance, my mind was overburdened with care, which seldom fails of producing leanness of spirit in a lesser or greater degree."[71] [71] Journal, p. 151. As offset to this we quote the following: "What a favor it is for such an active creature as man, possessed of such powers of body and mind, always to have some employment, and something for those powers to act upon; for otherwise they would be useless and dormant, and afford neither profit nor delight."[72] [72] Journal, p. 184. The building of railroads in this country had fairly begun when Elias Hicks passed away in 1830. Projects had been under way for some time, and certain Friends in Baltimore, then the center of railroad activity, had become interested in the enterprise. In a letter to Deborah and James P. Stabler,[73] written in New York, Sixth month 28, 1829, Elias expresses himself quite freely regarding the matter. He says: "It was a cause of sorrow rather than joy when last in Baltimore to find my dear friend P. E. Thomas[74] so fully engaged in that troublesome business of the railroad,[75] as I consider his calling to be of a more noble and exalted nature than to enlist in such low and groveling concerns. For it is a great truth that no man can serve two masters, for he will either love the one, and hate the other, or hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon. The railroad in this case I consider mammon." [73] Deborah Stabler was the widow of Dr. William Stabler, the latter being a brother of Edward Stabler, of Alexandria, the well-known preacher, and close friend of Elias Hicks. Deborah was a recorded minister. James P. was her son. He was chief engineer of the Baltimore and Susquehanna Railroad in its early construction, and was the first general superintendent and chief engineer of the Baltimore and Ohio, and built part of the line from Baltimore to Frederick. He was the author of a small pamphlet entitled, "The Certain Evidences of Practical Religion," published in 1884. He resided at Sandy Spring, Md. [74] Philip E. Thomas, for many years sat at the head of the Baltimore meeting. He was the son of Evan Thomas, of Sandy Spring, who was a recorded minister. Philip E. was an importing hardware merchant, a most successful business man, and the first president of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. In the construction and operation of that line of railroad, he was associated with the leading business men of Baltimore. He was for many years an elder of Baltimore meeting. [75] The railroad thus referred to by Elias Hicks was undoubtedly the section of the Baltimore and Ohio which ran from Baltimore to Ellicott's Mills, a distance of 15 miles. It was begun in 1828, and opened in Fifth month, 1830. Horses were at first used as motive power. This was the first railroad built in the United States. The following is an extract from the same letter: "It afforded me very pleasing sensations to be informed of dear James' improvement in health, but it excited some different feeling when informed that he had taken the place of Assistant Superintendent of the railroad company, a business I conceive that principally belongs to the men of this world, but not to the children of light, whose kingdom is not of this world; for when we consider that there are thousands and tens of thousands who are voluntarily enlisted in works that relate to the accommodation of flesh and blood which can never inherit the kingdom of heaven." The objection to railroads is one of those unaccountable but interesting contradictions which appear in the lives of some progressive men. By a sort of irony of fate, Valentine Hicks, the son-in-law of Elias, a few years after the death of the latter, became very much interested in the railroad business. The charter of the Long Island Railroad Company was granted Fourth month 24, 1834. In this document Valentine Hicks was named one of the commissioners to secure the capital stock, and appoint the first Board of Directors. While not the first president of that company, he was elected president Sixth month 7, 1837, and served in that capacity until Fifth month 21, 1838. Elias Hicks at points anticipated the present theory of suggestion touching bodily ailment, if he did not forestall some of the ideas regarding mental healing, and Christian Science. Writing to his son-in-law, Valentine Hicks, from Easton, Pa., Eighth month 15, 1819, he thus expressed himself: "And indeed, in a strict sense, the mind or immortal spirit of man cannot be affected with disease or sickness, being endued with immortal powers; therefore all its apparent weakness lies in mere imagination, giving the mind a wrong bias and a wrong direction, but it loses more of its real strength, as to acting and doing. For instance, if at any time it admits those false surmises and imaginations, and by them is led to believe that its outward tabernacle is out of health and drawing towards a dissolution, and not being ready and willing to part with it, although little or nothing may be the disorder of the body, yet so powerfully strong is the mind under the influence of these wrong surmises that there seems at times to be no power in heaven or earth sufficient to arrest its progress, or stop its career, until it brings on actual disease, and death to the body, which, however, had its beginning principally in mere imagination and surmise. Hence we see the absolute necessity of thinking less about our mere bodily health, and much more about the mind, for if the mind is kept in a line of right direction, as it is that in which all its right health and strength consisteth, we need not fear any suffering to the body. For, if while the mind is under right direction, the body is permitted to fall under or into a state of affliction or disease, and the mind is kept in a state of due arrangement, it will prove a blessing and be sanctified to us as such, and in which we shall learn by certain experience that all things work together for good to those whose minds are preserved under the regulating influence of the love of God, which love casteth out all fear." Elias Hicks was a firm opponent of the public school system, and especially the law which supported such schools by general taxation. His views regarding this matter are quite fully stated in a letter written Fifth month 24, 1820. It was written to Sylvanus Smith, and answered certain inquiries which had evidently been directed to Elias by this Friend. His objection to public schools, however, was partly based on what he considered moral and religious grounds. He said he had refrained from sending his children to any schools which were not under the immediate care of the Society of Friends. Observation, he said, led him to believe that his "children would receive more harm than good by attending schools taught by persons of no religious principles, and among children whose parents were of different sects, and many very loose and unconcerned and vulgar in their lives and conduct." He also assumed that in the public schools his children would be demoralized "by the vicious conduct of many of the children, and sometimes even the teachers, which would be very degrading to their morals, and wounding to their tender minds." From his standpoint Friends could not consistently "take any part in those district schools, nor receive any part of the bounty given by the legislature of the state for their use." Touching the question of parental authority and individual freedom, Elias Hicks also had opinions prejudicial to the public schools. In the letter under review he said: "Believing the law that has established them to be arbitrary and inconsistent with the liberty of conscience guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States, and derogatory to right parental authority; as no doubt it is the right and duty of every parent to bring up and educate his children in that way he thinks is right, independent of the control of any authority under heaven (so long as he keeps them within the bounds of civil order). As the bringing up and right education of our children is a religious duty, and for which we are accountable to none but God only, therefore for the magistrate to interfere therewith by coercive means is an infringement upon the divine prerogative." The observance of Thanksgiving Day, outside of New England, had not become a common thing in the time of Elias Hicks. Evidently about 1825, the Governor of New York issued a Thanksgiving Proclamation, which caused Elias to write an article. It was addressed to _The Christian Inquirer_,[76] and bore heavily against the whole thanksgiving scheme, especially when supported by the civil government. In his opinion wherever the magistrate recommended an observance of Thanksgiving Day, he was simply playing into the hands of the ecclesiastical power. We quote: [76] The _Christian Inquirer_ was a weekly newspaper in New York, started in 1824. It was of pronounced liberal tendencies. A good deal of its space was devoted to Friends, especially during the "separation" period. "Therefore the Governor's recommendation carries the same coercion and force in it, to every citizen, as the recommendation of the Episcopal Bishop would to the members of his own church. In this view we have the reason why the clergymen in our state call upon the civil magistrate to recommend one of their superstitious ceremonies. It is in order to coerce the citizens at large to a compliance with their dogmas, and little by little inure them to the yoke of ecclesiastical domination. I therefore conceive there is scarcely a subject that comes under our notice that lies more justly open to rebuke and ridicule than the thanksgiving days and fast days that are observed in our country, for there is nothing to be found in the writings of the New Testament to warrant such formality and superstition, and I fully believe in the way they are conducted they are altogether an abomination in the sight of the Lord, and tend more abundantly to bring a curse upon our nation than a blessing, as they too often end with many in festivity and drunkenness." In closing his communication Elias says that in issuing his proclamation the Governor was simply "doing a piece of drudgery" for the clergy. The following, being the last paragraph in the communication referred to, sounds very much like the statements put forward by the extreme secularists in our own time: "And has he not by recommending a religious act united the civil and ecclesiastical authorities, and broken the line of partition between them, so wisely established by our enlightened Constitution, which in the most positive terms forbids any alliance between church and state, and is the only barrier for the support of our liberty and independence. For if that is broken down all is lost, and we become the vassals of priestcraft, and designing men, who are reaching after power by every subtle contrivance to domineer over the consciences of their fellow citizens." It is not at all surprising that Elias Hicks was opposed to Free Masonry. On this subject he expressed himself vigorously. This opposition was based upon the secret character of the oath, and especially a solemn promise not to divulge the "secrets of Masonry, before he knows what the secrets are." The anti-masonic movement, being the outcome of the mysterious disappearance of William Morgan from Batavia, New York, was at its height during the last years of Elias Hicks. It was claimed that Morgan was probably murdered because of a book published by him in 1826, exposing the secrets of Masonry. Some of the rumors connected with this disappearance account for statements made by Elias Hicks in his criticism of the organization. Touching the matter of exclusiveness on the part of Friends, Elias Hicks was a conservative of the conservatives. To keep aloof from things not connected with the Society he considered a virtue in itself. In referring to a meeting he attended in Goshen, Pa., he said: "Had to caution Friends against mixing with the people in their human policies, and outward forms of government; showing that, in all ages, those who were called to be the Lord's people had been ruined, or suffered great loss, by such associations; and manifesting clearly by Scripture testimony, and other records, that our strength and preservation consisted in standing alone, and not to be counted among the people or nations, who were setting up party, and partial interest, one against another, which is the ground of war and bloodshed. These are actuated by the spirit of pride and wrath, which is always opposed to the true Christian spirit, which breathes 'peace on earth, and good will to all men.' Those, therefore, who are in the true Christian spirit cannot use any coercive force or compulsion by any means whatever; not being overcome with evil, but overcoming evil with good."[77] [77] Journal, p. 76-77. In the article in which he condemned Masonry, Elias Hicks spoke vigorously in criticism of the camp meetings held by some of the churches. He called them "night revels," and considered them "a very great nuisance to civil society." He thought they were promoters of "licentiousness, immorality and drunkenness," and were more or less reproachful to the Christian name, "giving much occasion for infidels to scoff." While at Elizabeth, in New Jersey, Elias wrote a letter[78] to a young man named Samuel Cox. It seems that this person contemplated studying for the ministry; that his grandmother was a Friend, and Elias labored with the grandson on her account. He said that "human study or human science" could not qualify a minister. In fact to suppose such a thing was to cast "the greatest possible indignity on the Divine Being, and on the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ." Of course it was asserted that ministry came only by the power of the Spirit, and much Scripture was quoted to prove it. There is little in the writings of Elias Hicks to show that he considered that equipping the natural powers was helpful in making the spiritual inspiration effective. [78] Letter was dated, Fifth month 12, 1813. It is evident, however, that Elias was not indifferent to his own intellectual equipment. He was fond of quoting from books the things which fortified his own position. The following shows how he stored his mind with facts, from which he drew certain conclusions: "Indisposition of body prevented my attending meeting. I therefore spent the day quietly at home, and in reading a portion of Mosheim's Ecclesiastical History of the Fifth Century, and which is indeed enough to astonish any sensible, considerate man, to think how the professors of that day could be hardy enough to call themselves Christians, while using every artifice that their human wisdom could invent to raise themselves to power and opulence, and endeavoring to crush down their opposers by almost every cruelty that power, envy and malice could inflict, to the entire scandal of the Christian name; and changing the pure, meek, merciful and undefiled religion of Jesus into an impure, unmerciful, cruel, bloody and persecuting religion. For each of those varied sects of professed Christians, in their turn, as they got the power of the civil magistrate on their side, would endeavor, by the sword, and severe edicts, followed by banishment, to reduce and destroy all those who dissented from them, although their opinions were not a whit more friendly to real, genuine Christianity than the tenets of their opposers; for all were, in great measure, if not entirely, adulterated and apostatized from the true spirit of Christianity, which breathes peace on earth, and good will to men."[79] [79] Journal, p. 224. Elias Hicks believed that there was a sure way of determining conduct, whether it was from "one's own will," or whether it proceeded from the divine leading. In regard to this matter, he said: "But the great error of the generality of professed Christians lies in not making a right distinction between the works that men do in their own will, and by the leadings of their own carnal wisdom, and those works that the true believer does, in the will and wisdom of God. For although the former, let them consist in what they will, whether in prayers, or preaching, or any other devotional exercises, are altogether evil; so on the contrary those of the latter, let them consist in what they may, whether in ploughing, in reaping, or in any handicraft labor, or in any other service, temporal or spiritual, as they will in all be accompanied with the peace and presence of their heavenly Father, so all they do will be righteous, and will be imputed to them as such."[80] [80] Journal, p. 218. His contention regarding this matter is possibly more clearly stated in the following paragraph: "The meeting was large, wherein I had to expose the danger of self-righteousness, or a trust in natural religion, or mere morality; showing that it was no more than the religion of Atheists, and was generally the product of pride and self-will; and, however good it may appear to the natural unregenerate man, is as offensive in the divine sight as those more open evils which appear so very reproachful to the eyes of men. I was favored by the spirit of truth, in a large, searching testimony, to the convicting and humbling many hearts, and comfort of the faithful."[81] [81] Meeting at Uwchlan, Pa., Tenth month 22, 1798. Journal, p. 76. This is not unlike statements often made in modern revivals, touching the absolute uselessness of good works, without the operation of divine grace, in bringing salvation. A broader view of goodness and its sources seems to have been taken by Clement, of Alexandria[82] who said: "For God is the cause of all good things; but of some primarily, as of the Old and New Testament; and of others by consequence, as philosophy. Perchance, too, philosophy was given to the Greeks directly and primarily, till the Lord should call the Greeks. For this was a schoolmaster to bring 'the Hellenic mind,' as the law, the Hebrews 'to Christ.'"[83] [82] Titus Flavius Clemens, called sometimes St. Clement, and Clement of Alexandria in Church history, was born either at Athens or Alexandria about A. D. 153, and died about A. D. 220. He early embraced Christianity, and was among the most learned and philosophical of the Christian fathers. [83] "Ante-Nicene Fathers," Vol. II, p. 305. CHAPTER XIII. Some Points of Doctrine. Elias Hicks had ideas of the future life, salvation, rewards and punishments, sometimes original, and in some respects borrowed or adapted from prevalent opinions. But in all conclusions reached he seems to have thought his own way out, and was probably unconscious of having been a borrower at all. He believed unfalteringly in the immortality of the soul, and held that the soul of man is immortal, because it had its origin in an immortal God. Every sin committed "is a transgression against his immutable and unchangeable law, and is an immortal sin, as it pollutes and brings death on the immortal soul of man, which nothing in heaven nor in the earth but God alone can extinguish or forgive, and this he will never do, but upon his own righteous and merciful conditions, which consist in nothing more nor less than sincere repentance and amendment of life."[84] [84] From letter addressed to "A Friend," name not given, written at Jericho, Second month 22, 1828. It will be noted that this statement was made near the close of his career, and has been purposely selected because it undoubtedly expressed his final judgment in the matter. In all probability the words used were not meant to be taken literally, such for instance as those referring to the "death" of the soul. There is little, if any reason to think that Elias Hicks believed in the annihilation of the sinner. Touching sin he further explained his position. Whatever God creates is "immutably good." "Therefore if there is any such thing as sin and iniquity in the world, then God has neither willed it nor ordained it."[85] His position regarding this point caused him to antagonize and repudiate the doctrine of foreordination. From his standpoint this involved the creation of evil by the Almighty, a thoroughly preposterous supposition. Again, he held that if God had, "previous to man's creation, willed and determined all of his actions, then certainly every man stands in the same state of acceptance with him, and a universal salvation must take place: which I conceive the favorers of foreordination would be as unwilling as myself to believe."[86] [85] Journal, p. 161. [86] From funeral sermon delivered in 1814. Journal, p. 161. Three years after the declaration quoted above, Elias Hicks wrote a letter[87] to a person known as "J. N.," who was a believer in universal salvation. In this letter he revives his idea that foreordination and universal salvation are twin heresies, both equally mischievous. This letter is very long, containing nearly 4,000 words. The bulk of it deals with the theory of predestination, while some of it relates to the matter of sin and penalty. At one point the letter is censorious, nearly borders on the dogmatic, and is scarcely kind. We quote: [87] Letter dated Baltimore, Tenth month, 1817. "Hadst thou, in thy researches after knowledge, been concerned to know the first step of wisdom--the right knowledge of thyself--such an humbling view of thy own insufficiency and entire ignorance of the Divine Being, and all his glorious attributes, would, I trust, have preserved thee from falling into thy present errors. Errors great indeed, and fatal in their consequences; for if men were capable of believing with confidence thy opinions, either as regards the doctrine of unconditional predestination and election, or the doctrine of universal salvation, both of which certainly and necessarily resolve in one, who could any longer call any thing he has his own? for all would fall a prey to the villains and sturdy rogues of this belief. And, indeed, a belief of these opinions would most assuredly make thousands more of that description than there already are; as every temptation to evil, to gratify the carnal desires, would be yielded to, as that which was ordained to be; and of course would be considered as something agreeable to God's good pleasure; and therefore not only our goods and chattels would become a prey to every ruffian of this belief, but even our wives and daughters would fall victims to the superior force of the abandoned and profligate, as believing they could do nothing but what God had ordained to be. But we are thankful in the sentiment that no rational, intelligent being can possibly embrace, in full faith, these inconsistent doctrines; as they are founded on nothing but supposition; and supposition can never produce real belief, or a faith that any rational creature can rely upon."[88] [88] "Letters of Elias Hicks," p. 28. We make no attempt to clear up the logical connection between the doctrine of foreordination and the theory of universal salvation, for it is by no means clear that the two necessarily belong together. From the reasoning of Elias Hicks it would seem that he considered salvation a transaction which made a fixed and final condition for the soul at death, whereas the Universalist theory simply provides for a future turning of all souls toward God. Surely the supposition that the holding of the views of "J. N." would bring the moral disorder and disaster outlined by his critic had not then been borne out by the facts, and has not since. Neither the believers in foreordination or universal salvation have been shown worse than other men, or more socially dangerous. "Sin," he says, "arises entirely out of the corrupt independent will of man; and which will is not of God's creating, but springs up and has its origin in man's disobedience and transgression, by making a wrong use of his liberty."[89] As the sin is of man's voluntary commission, the penalty is also to be charged to the sinner, and not to God. On this point Elias Hicks was clear in his reasoning and in his conclusions: [89] "Letters of Elias Hicks," p. 30. "Hence those who make their election to good, and choose to follow the teachings of the inward law of the spirit of God, are of course leavened into the true nature of God, and consequently into the happiness of God. For nothing but that which is of the nature of God can enjoy the happiness of God. But he who makes his election, or choice, to turn away from God's law and spirit, and govern himself or is governed by his own will and spirit, becomes a corrupt tree and although the same justice, wisdom, power, mercy and love are dispensed to this man as to the other, yet by his contrary nature, which has become fleshly, by following his fleshly inclinations, he brings forth corrupt fruit."[90] [90] "Letters of Elias Hicks," p. 33. Manifestly the idea that the Almighty punishes men for his own glory had no place in the thinking of the Jericho preacher. The theory of sin and penalty held by Elias Hicks necessarily led him to hold opinions regarding rewards and punishments, and the place and manner of their application, at variance with commonly accepted notions. In fact, the apparent irregularity of his thinking in this particular was one of the causes of concern on his behalf on the part of his captious critics and some of his friends. One of the latter had evidently written him regarding this matter, and his reply is before us.[91] From it we quote: [91] Letter dated Jericho, Third month 14, 1808. "As to the subject relative to heaven and hell, I suppose what gave rise to that part of my communication (although I have now forgotten the particulars) was a concern that at that time as well as many other times has sorrowfully impressed my mind, in observing the great ignorance and carnality that was not only prevailing among mankind at large, but more especially in finding it to be the case with many professing with us in relation to those things. An ignorance and carnality that, in my opinion, has been one great cause of the prevailing Atheism and Deism that now abounds among the children of men. For what reason or argument could a professed Christian bring forward to convince an Atheist or Deist that there is such a place as heaven as described and circumscribed in some certain limits and place in some distant and unknown region as is the carnal idea of too many professing Christianity, and even of many, I fear, of us? Or such a place as hell, or a gulf located in some interior part of this little terraqueous globe? But when the Christian brings forward to the Atheist or Deist reasons and arguments founded on indubitable certainty, things that he knows in his own experience every day through the powerful evidence of the divine law-giver in his own heart, he cannot fail of yielding his assent, for he feels as he goes on in unbelief and hardness of heart he is plunging himself every day deeper and deeper into that place of torment, and let him go whithersoever he will, his hell goes with him. He can no more be rid of it than he can be rid of himself. And although he flies to the rocks and mountains to fall on him, to deliver him from his tremendous condition, yet he finds all is in vain, for where God is, there hell is always to the sinner; according to that true saying of our dear Lord, 'this is the condemnation of the world that light is come into the world, but men love darkness rather than the light, because their deeds are evil.' Now God, or Christ (who are one in a spiritual sense), is this light that continually condemns the transgressor. Therefore, where God or Christ is, there is hell always to the sinner, and God, according to Scripture and the everyday experience of every rational creature, is everywhere present, for he fills all things, and by him all things consist. And as the sinner finds in himself and knows in his own experience that there is a hell, and one that he cannot possibly escape while he remains a sinner, so likewise the righteous know, and that by experience, that there is a heaven, but they know of none above the outward clouds and outward atmosphere. They have no experience of any such, but they know a heaven where God dwells, and know a sitting with him at seasons in heavenly places in Christ Jesus." It will be remembered that Elias based salvation on repentance and amendment of life, but the bulk of his expression would seem to indicate that he held to the idea that repentance must come during this life. In fact, an early remark of his gives clear warrant for this conclusion.[92] He does not seem to have ever adopted the theory that continuity of life carried with it continuation of opportunity touching repentance and restoration of the soul. [92] See page 23 of this book. From the twentieth century standpoint views like the foregoing would scarcely cause a ripple of protest in any well-informed religious circles. But eighty years ago the case was different. A material place for excessively material punishment of the soul, on account of moral sin and spiritual turpitude, was essential to orthodox standing in practically every branch of the Christian church, with possibly two or three exceptions. Elias Hicks practically admits that in the Society of Friends not a few persons held to the gross and materialistic conceptions which he criticised and repudiated. The question of personal immortality was more than once submitted to him for consideration. After certain Friends began to pick flaws with his ideas and theories, he was charged with being a doubter regarding nearly all the common Christian affirmations, immortality included. There was little reason for misunderstanding or misrepresenting him in this particular, for, however he failed to make himself understood touching other points of doctrine, he was perfectly clear on this point. In a letter to Charles Stokes, of Rancocas, N. J., written Fourth month 3, 1829, he said: "Can it be possibly necessary for me to add anything further, to manifest my full and entire belief of the immortality of the soul of man? Surely, what an ignorant creature must that man be that hath not come to the clear and full knowledge of that in himself. Does not every man feel a desire fixed in his very nature after happiness, that urges him on in a steady pursuit after something to satisfy this desire, and does he not find that all the riches and honor and glory of this world, together with every thing that is mortal, falls infinitely short of satisfying this desire? which proves it to be immortal; and can any thing, or being, that is not immortal in itself, receive the impress of an immortal desire upon it? Surely not. Therefore, this immortal desire of the soul of man never can be fully satisfied until it comes to be established in a state of immortality and eternal life, beyond the grave."[93] [93] "Letters of Elias Hicks," p. 218. There are not many direct references to immortality in the published sermons, although inferences in that direction are numerous. In a sermon at Darby, Pa., Twelfth month 7, 1826, he declared: "We see then that the great business of our lives is 'to lay up treasure in heaven.'"[94] In this case and others like it he evidently means treasure in the spiritual world. In his discourses he frequently referred to "our immortal souls" in a way to leave no doubt as to his belief in a continuity of life. His reference to the death of his young sons leave no room for doubt in the matter.[95] [94] "The Quaker," Vol. IV, p. 127. [95] See page 61 of this book. In speaking of the death of his wife, both in his Journal and in his private correspondence, his references all point to the future life. "Her precious spirit," he said, "I trust and believe has landed safely on the angelic shore." Again, "being preserved together fifty-eight years in one unbroken bond of endeared affection, which seemed if possible to increase with time to the last moment of her life; and which neither time nor distance can lessen or dissolve; but in the spiritual relation I trust it will endure forever."[96] [96] Journal, p. 425. During the last ten years of the life of Elias Hicks he was simply overburdened answering questions and explaining his position touching a multitude of views charged against him by his critics and defamers. Among the matters thus brought to his attention was the miraculous conception of Jesus, and the various beliefs growing out of that doctrine. In an undated manuscript found among his papers and letters, and manifestly not belonging to a date earlier than 1826 or 1827, he pretty clearly states his theory touching this delicate subject. In this document he is more definite than he is in some of his published statements relating to the same matter. He asserts that there is a difference between "begetting and creating." He scouts as revolting the conception that the Almighty begat Jesus, as is the case in the animal function of procreation. On the other hand, he said: "But, as in the beginning of creation, he spake the word and it was done, so by his almighty power he spake the word and by it created the seed of man in the fleshly womb of Mary." In other words, the miraculous conception was a creation and not the act of begetting. In his correspondence he repeatedly asserted that he had believed in the miraculous conception from his youth up. To Thomas Willis, who was one of his earliest accusers, he said that "although there appeared to me as much, or more, letter testimony in the account of the four Evangelists against as for the support of that miracle, yet it had not altered my belief therein."[97] It has to be admitted that the miraculous conception held by Elias Hicks was scarcely the doctrine of the creeds, or that held by evangelical Christians in the early part of the nineteenth century. His theory may be more rational than the popular conception and may be equally miraculous, but it was not the same proposition. [97] "Letters of Elias Hicks," p. 179. Whether Elias considered this a distinction without a difference we know not, but it is very certain that he did not consider the miracle or the dogma growing out of it a vital matter. He declared that a "belief therein was not an essential to salvation."[98] His reason for this opinion was that "whatever is essential to the salvation of the souls of men is dispensed by a common creator to every rational creature under heaven."[99] No hint of a miraculous conception, he held, had been revealed to the souls of men. [98] "Letters of Elias Hicks," p. 178. [99] "Letters of Elias Hicks," p. 178. It is possible that in the minds of the ultra Orthodox, to deny the saving value of a belief in the miraculous conception, although admitting it as a fact, or recasting it as a theory, was a more reprehensible act of heresy than denying the dogma entirely. Manifestly Elias Hicks was altogether too original in his thinking to secure his own peace and comfort in the world of nineteenth-century theology. When we consider the theory of the divinity of Christ, and the theory of the incarnation, we find Elias Hicks taking the affirmative side, but even here it is questionable if he was affirming the popular conception. Touching these matters he put himself definitely on record in 1827 in a letter written to an unnamed Friend. In this letter he says: "As to the divinity of Christ, the son of the virgin--when he had arrived to a full state of sonship in the spiritual generation, he was wholly swallowed up into the divinity of his heavenly Father, and was one with his Father, with only this difference: his Father's divinity was underived, being self-existent, but the son's divinity was altogether derived from the Father; for otherwise he could not be the son of God, as in the moral relation, to be a son of man, the son must be begotten by one father, and he must be in the same nature, spirit and likeness of his father, so as to say, I and my father are one in all those respects. But this was not the case with Jesus in the spiritual relation, until he had gone through the last institute of the law dispensation, viz., John's watery baptism, and had received additional power from on high, by the descending of the holy ghost upon him, as he came up out of the water. He then witnessed the fulness of the second birth, being now born into the nature, spirit and likeness of the heavenly Father, and God gave witness of it to John, saying, 'This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.' And this agrees with Paul's testimony, where he assures us that as many as are led by the spirit of God, they are the sons of God."[100] [100] "The Quaker," Vol. IV, p. 284. Just as he repudiated material localized places of reward and punishment, Elias Hicks disputed the presence in the world of a personal evil spirit, roaming around seeking whom he might ensnare and devour. In fact, in his theology there was no tinge of the Persian dualism. Satan, from his standpoint, had no existence outside man. He was simply a figure to illustrate the evil propensity in men. In the estimation of the ultra Orthodox to claim that there was no personal devil, who tempted our first parents in Eden, was second only in point of heresy to denying the existence of God himself--the two persons both being essential parts in the theological system to which they tenaciously held. Touching this matter he thus expressed himself: "And as to what is called a devil or satan, it is something within us, that tempts us to go counter to the commands of God, and our duty to him and our fellow creatures; and the Scriptures tell us there are many of them, and that Jesus cast seven out of one woman."[101] [101] From letter to Charles Stokes, Fourth month 3, 1829. "Letters of Elias Hicks," p. 217. He was charged with being a Deist, and an infidel of the Thomas Paine stripe, yet from his own standpoint there was no shadow of truth in any of these charges. His references to Atheism and Deism already cited in these pages afford evidence on this point. In 1798 he was at Gap in Pennsylvania, and in referring to his experience there he said: "Whilst in this neighborhood my mind was brought into a state of deep exercise and travail, from a sense of the great turning away of many of us, from the law and the testimony, and the prevailing of a spirit of great infidelity and deism among the people, and darkness spreading over the minds of many as a thick veil. It was a time in which Thomas Paine's Age of Reason (falsely so called) was much attended to in those parts; and some, who were members in our Society, as I was informed, were captivated by his dark insinuating address, and were ready almost to make shipwreck of faith and a good conscience. Under a sense thereof my spirit was deeply humbled before the majesty of heaven, and in the anguish of my soul I said, 'spare thy people, O Lord, and give not thy heritage to reproach,' and suffer not thy truth to fall in the streets."[102] [102] Journal, p. 70. Touching his supposed Unitarianism, there are no direct references to that theory in his published works. A letter written by Elias Hicks to William B. Irish,[103] Second month 11, 1821, is about the only reference to the matter. In this letter he says: [103] William B. Irish lived in Pittsburg, and was a disciple of Elias Hicks, as he confessed to his spiritual profit. In a letter written to Elias from Philadelphia, Eleventh month 21, 1823, he said: "I tell you, you are the first man that ever put my mind in search of heavenly food." Whether he ever united with the Society we are not informed, although Elias expressed the hope that he might see his way clear to do so. "In regard to the Unitarian doctrine, I am too much a stranger to their general tenets to give a decided sentiment, but according to the definition given of them by Dyche in his dictionary, I think it is more consistent and rational than the doctrine of the trinity, which I think fairly makes out three Gods. But as I have lately spent some time in perusing the ancient history of the church, in which I find that Trinitarians, Unitarians, Arians, Nestorians and a number of other sects that sprung up in the night of apostacy, as each got into power they cruelly persecuted each other, by which they evidenced that they had all apostatized from the primitive faith and practice, and the genuine spirit of Christianity, hence I conceive there is no safety in joining with any of those sects, as their leaders I believe are generally each looking to their own quarter for gain. Therefore our safety consists in standing alone (waiting at Jerusalem) that is in a quiet retired state, similar to the disciples formerly, until we receive power from on high, or until by the opening of that divine spirit (or comforter, a manifestation of which is given to every man and woman to profit withal) we are led into the knowledge of the truth agreeably to the doctrine of Jesus to his disciples." In regard to the death and resurrection of Jesus, Elias Hicks considered himself logically and scripturally sound, although his ideas may not have squared with any prevalent theological doctrines. In reply to the query, "By what means did Jesus suffer?" he answered unhesitatingly, "By the hands of wicked men." A second query was to the effect, "Did God send him into the world purposely to suffer death?" Here is the answer: "By no means: but to live a righteous and godly life (which was the design and end of God's creating man in the beginning), and thereby be a perfect example to such of mankind as should come to the knowledge of him and of his perfect life. For if it was the purpose and will of God that he should die by the hands of wicked men, then the Jews, by crucifying him, would have done God's will, and of course would all have stood justified in his sight, which could not be." ... "But the shedding of his blood by the wicked scribes and Pharisees, and people of Israel, had a particular effect on the Jewish nation, as by this the topstone and worst of all their crimes, was filled up the measure of their iniquities, and which put an end to that dispensation, together with its law and covenant. That as John's baptism summed up in one, all the previous water baptisms of that dispensation, and put an end to them, which he sealed with his blood, so this sacrifice of the body of Jesus Christ, summed up in one all the outward atoning sacrifices of the shadowy dispensation and put an end to them all, thereby abolishing the law having previously fulfilled all its righteousness, and, as saith the apostle, 'He blotted out the handwriting of ordinances, nailing them to his cross;' having put an end to the law that commanded them, with all its legal sins, and abolished all its legal penalties, so that all the Israelites that believed on him after he exclaimed on the cross 'It is finished,' might abstain from all the rituals of their law, such as circumcision, water baptisms, outward sacrifices, Seventh-day Sabbaths, and all their other holy days, etc."[104] [104] All of the extracts above are from a letter to Dr. Nathan Shoemaker, of Philadelphia, written Third month 31, 1823. See "Foster's Report," pp. 422-23. Continuing, he says: "Now all this life, power and will of man, must be slain and die on the cross spiritually, as Jesus died on the cross outwardly, and this is the true atonement, of which that outward atonement was a clear and full type." For the scriptural proof of his contention he quotes Romans VI, 3:4. He claimed that the baptism referred to by Paul was spiritual, and the newness of life to follow must also be spiritual. The resurrection was also spiritualized, and given an internal, rather than an external, significance. Its intent was to awaken in "the believer a belief in the sufficiency of an invisible power, that was able to do any thing and every thing that is consistent with justice, mercy and truth, and that would conduce to the exaltation and good of his creature man." "Therefore the resurrection of the dead body of Jesus that could not possibly of itself create in itself a power to loose the bonds of death, and which must consequently have been the work of an invisible power, points to and is a shadow of the resurrection of the soul that is dead in trespasses and sins, and that hath no capacity to quicken itself, but depends wholly on the renewed influence and quickening power of the spirit of God. For a soul dead in trespasses and sins can no more raise a desire of itself for a renewed quickening of the divine life in itself than a dead body can raise a desire of itself for a renewal of natural life; but both equally depend on the omnipotent presiding power of the spirit of God, as is clearly set forth by the prophet under the similitude of the resurrection of dry bones." Ezekiel, 37:1.[105] [105] "The Quaker," Vol. IV, p. 286. Letter of Elias Hicks to an unknown friend. "Hence the resurrection of the outward fleshly body of Jesus and some few others under the law dispensation, as manifested to the external senses of man, gives full evidence as a shadow, pointing to the sufficiency of the divine invisible power of God to raise the soul from a state of spiritual death into newness of life and into the enjoyment of the spiritual substance of all the previous shadows of the law state. And by the arising of this Sun of Righteousness in the soul all shadows flee away and come to an end, and the soul presses forward, under its divine influence, into that that is within the veil, where our forerunner, even Jesus, has entered for us, showing us the way into the holiest of holies."[106] [106] "The Quaker," Vol. IV, pp. 286-287. Letter of Elias Hicks to an unknown friend. We have endeavored to give such a view of the doctrinal points covered as will give a fair idea of what Elias Hicks believed. Whether they were unsound opinions, such as should have disrupted the Society of Friends, and nearly shipwreck it on a sea of bitterness, we leave for the reader to decide. It should be stated, however, that the opinions herein set forth did not, by any means, constitute the subject matter of all, or possibly a considerable portion of the sermons he preached. There is room for the inquiry in our time whether a large amount of doctrinal opinion presented in our meetings for worship, even though it be of the kind in which the majority apparently believe, would not have a dividing and scattering effect. CHAPTER XIV. Before the Division. No biography of Elias Hicks could be even approximately adequate which ignored the division in the Society of Friends in 1827-1828, commonly, but erroneously, called "the separation." While his part in the trouble has been greatly exaggerated, inasmuch as he was made the storm-center of the controversy by his opponents, to consider the causes and influences which led to the difficulty, especially as they were either rightly or wrongly made to apply to Elias Hicks, is vital to a study of his life, and an appreciation of his labors. We shall not be able to understand the matter at all, unless we can in a measure take ourselves back to the first quarter of the nineteenth century, and as far as possible appreciate the thought and life of that time. We must remember that a system of dogmatic theology, unqualified and untempered by any of the findings of modern scholarship, was the central and dominating influence in the religious world. Authority of some sort was the source of religious belief, and uniformity of doctrine the basis of religious fellowship. The aftermath of the French Revolution appeared in a period of religious negation. Destructive, rather than constructive criticism was the ruling passion of the unchurched world. The conservative mind was burdened with apprehension, and the fear of a chaos of faith possessed the minds of the preachers, the theologians and the communicants of the so-called Orthodox Christian churches. The Unitarian uprising in New England had hopelessly divided the historic church of the Puritans, and the conservative Friends saw in every advance in thought the breaking up of what they considered the foundations of religion, and fear possessed them accordingly. But more important than this is the fact that Friends had largely lost the historic perspective, touching their own origin. They had forgotten that their foundations were laid in a revolt against a prevalent theology, and the evil of external authority in religion. From being persecuted they had grown popular and prosperous. They therefore shrank from change in Zion, and from the opposition and ostracism which always had been the fate of those who broke with approved and established religious standards. Without doubt they honored the heroism and respected the sacrifices of the fathers as the "first spreaders of truth." But they had neither the temper nor the taste to be alike heroic, in making Quakerism a progressive spirit, rather than a final refuge of a traditional religion. An effort was made by the opponents of Elias Hicks to make it appear that what they were pleased to call his "unsoundness in doctrine," came late in life, and somewhat suddenly. But for this claim there is little if any valid evidence. His preaching probably underwent little vital change throughout his entire ministry. Turner, the English historian, says: "But the facts remain that until near the close of his long life Hicks was in general esteem, that there is no sign anywhere in his writings of a change of opinions, or new departure in his teaching."[107] [107] "The Quakers," Frederick Storrs Turner, p. 293. There is unpublished correspondence which confirms the opinion of Turner. This is true touching what might be called his theological as well as his sociological notions. In a letter written to Elias Hicks in 1805, by James Mott, Sr.,[108] reference is made to Elias having denied the absolutely saving character of the Scriptures. In this connection the letter remarks: "I conceive it is no matter how highly people value the Scriptures, provided they can only be convinced that the spirit that gave them forth is superior to them, and to be their rule and guide instead of them." [108] This James Mott was the father of Anne, who married Adam, the father of James, the husband of Lucretia. James Mott, Sr. died in 1823. In 1806, in a sermon at Nine Partners, in Dutchess County, New York, as reported by himself, he declared that men can only by "faithful attention and adherence to the aforesaid divine principle, the light within, come to know and believe the certainty of those excellent Scripture doctrines, of the coming, life, righteous works, sufferings, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ our blessed pattern; and that _it is by obedience to this inward light only_ that we are prepared for admittance into the heavenly kingdom."[109] [109] Journal, p. 122. It seems, however, that Stephen Grellet,[110] if we may take the authority of his biographers, Hodgson[111] and Guest,[112] as early as 1808, was fearful of the orthodoxy of Elias Hicks, and probably based his fear on extracts like the passage cited above. Whatever may be imagined to the contrary, it is pretty certain that at no time for forty years before his death did Elias Hicks preach doctrine that would have been satisfactory to the orthodox theologians of his time, although he did not always antagonize the dogmas of the churches. [110] Stephen Grellet, born in Limoges, France, Eleventh month 2, 1773. A scion of the French nobility. Became interested in the Society of Friends when about twenty years of age. Came to America in 1795, and was recorded a minister in Philadelphia, in 1798. Became a New York business man in 1799. Made extensive religious visits in various countries in Europe, and in many American states. Was also active in philanthropic work. He died at Burlington, N. J., in 1855. In his theology he was entirely evangelical. [111] "Life of Stephen Grellet," Hodgson, p. 142. [112] "Stephen Grellet," by William Guest, p. 73. If Stephen Grellet ever had any personal interview with Elias Hicks regarding his "unsoundness," the matter was ignored by the latter. In Eighth month, 1808, some months after it is claimed the discovery was made by Grellet, the two men, with other Friends, were on a religious visit in parts of New England. In a letter to his wife, dated Danby, Vt., Eighth month 26, 1808, Elias says: "Stephen Grellet, Gideon Seaman, Esther Griffin and Ann Mott we left yesterday morning at a town called Middlebury, about eighteen miles short of this place, Stephen feeling a concern to appoint a meeting among the town's people of that place." Evidently no very great barrier existed between the two men at that time. In any event no disposition seemed to exist to inaugurate a theological controversy in the Society of Friends, or to erect a standard of fellowship other than spiritual unity, until a decade after the claimed concern of Stephen Grellet. It appears that in 1818, Phebe Willis, wife of Thomas Willis, a recorded minister of Jericho Monthly Meeting, had a written communication with Elias, touching his doctrinal "soundness," Phebe being an elder. That the opposition began in Jericho, and that it was confined to the Willis family and one other in that meeting, seems to be a fairly well attested fact. In 1829, after the division in the Society had been accomplished, Elias Hicks wrote a letter to a friend giving a short history of the beginning of the trouble in Jericho, from which we make the following extract: "The beginning of the rupture in our yearly meeting had its rise in our particular monthly meeting, and I have full evidence before me of both its rise and progress. The first shadow of complaint against me as to my doctrines was made by Thomas Willis, a member and minister of our own preparative meeting. He manifested his first uneasiness at the close of one of our own meetings nearly in these words, between him and myself alone. 'That he apprehended that I, in my public communication, lowered down the character of Jesus and the Scriptures of truth.' My reply to him was that I had placed them both upon the very foundation they each had placed themselves, and that I dare not place them any higher or lower. At the same time the whole monthly meeting, except he and his wife, as far as I knew, were in full unity with me, both as to my ministry and otherwise, but as they were both members of the meeting of ministers and elders they made the first public disclosure of their uneasiness. Thomas had an ancient mother, likewise a minister, that lived in the house with them; they so far overcame her better judgment as to induce her to take a part with them, although she was a very amiable and useful member, and one that I had always a great esteem for, and we had been nearly united together in gospel fellowship, both in public meetings and those for discipline, for forty years and upward."[113] [113] Letter to Johnson Legg, dated Jericho, Twelfth month 15, 1829. The meeting, through a judicious committee, tried to quiet the fears of Thomas Willis and wife, and bring them in unity with the vastly major portion of the meeting, but without success. These Friends being persistent in their opposition, they were suspended from the meeting of ministers and elders, but were permitted to retain their membership in the Society. CHAPTER XV. First Trouble in Philadelphia. Transferring the story of the opposition to the ministry of Elias Hicks to Philadelphia, it would appear that its first public manifestation occurred in 1819. During this year he made his fifth somewhat extended religious visit to the meetings within the bounds of Philadelphia Yearly Meeting. Elias was attending the monthly meeting then held in the Pine Street meeting-house, and obtained liberty to visit the women's meeting. While absent on this concern, the men's meeting did the unprecedented thing of adjourning, the breaking up of the meeting being accomplished by a few influential members. For a co-ordinate branch of a meeting for discipline to close while service was being performed in the allied branch in accord with regular procedure was considered irregular, if not unwarranted. The real inspiring cause for this conduct has been stated as follows by a contemporary writer: "An influential member of this meeting who had abstained from the produce of slave labor came to the conclusion that this action was the result of his own will. He therefore became very sensitive and irritable touching references to the slavery question, and very bitter against the testimony of Elias Hicks. It is believed that this was one of the causes which led to the affront of Elias Hicks in the Pine Street Meeting aforesaid."[114] [114] "A review of the general and particular causes which have produced the late disorders and divisions in the Yearly Meeting of Friends, held in Philadelphia," James Cockburn, 1829, p. 60. It was claimed in the famous New Jersey chancery case[115] by the Orthodox Friends, that there was precedent for adjourning a meeting while a visiting minister in proper order was performing service in a co-ordinate branch of the Society. Be that as it may, the weight of evidence warrants the conclusion that the incident at Pine Street was intended as an affront to Elias Hicks. The conservative elements in Philadelphia had evidently made up their minds that the time had come to visit their displeasure upon the Long Island preacher. [115] Foster's report, many times referred to in these pages, is a two-volume work, containing the evidence and the exhibits in a case in the New Jersey Court of Chancery. The examinations began Sixth month 2, 1830, in Camden, N. J., before J. J. Foster, Master and Examiner in Chancery, and continued from time to time, closing Fourth month 13, 1831. The case was brought to determine who should possess the school fund, of the Friends' School, at Crosswick, N. J. The decision awarded the fund to the Orthodox. The incident referred to above must have occurred in the latter part of Tenth month. Elias says in his Journal, after mentioning his arrival in Philadelphia: "We were at two of their monthly meetings and their quarterly meeting."[116] He makes no mention of the unpleasant occurrence. [116] Journal, p. 382. There seems to have been no further appearance of trouble in the latitude of Philadelphia until Eighth month, 1822. This time opposition appeared in what was evidently an irregular gathering of part of the Meeting for Sufferings. At this meeting Jonathan Evans is reported to have said: "I understand that Elias Hicks is coming on here on his way to Baltimore Yearly Meeting. Friends know that he preaches doctrines contrary to the doctrines of our Society; that he has given uneasiness to his friends at home, and they can't stop him, and unless we can stop him here he must go on."[117] This statement was only partially true, to say the most possible for it. But a small minority of Elias' home meeting were in any way "uneasy" about him, whatever may have been the character of his preaching. It stands to reason that had there been a general and united opposition to the ministry of Elias Hicks in his monthly meeting or in the New York Yearly Meeting at any time before the "separation," he could not have performed the service involved in his religious visits. It will also appear from the foregoing that the few opponents of Elias Hicks on Long Island had evidently planned to invoke every possible and conceivable influence, at the center of Quakerism in Philadelphia, to silence this popular and well-known preacher. At what point the influence so disposed became of general effect in the polity of the Society only incidentally belongs to the purpose of this book. [117] "Foster's Report," pp. 355-356. Out of the unofficial body[118] above mentioned, about a dozen in number, a small and "select" committee was appointed. The object was apparently to deal with Elias for remarks said to have been made by him at New York Yearly Meeting in Fifth month of that year, and reported by Joseph Whitall. [118] "Foster's Report," 1831, Vol. I. See testimony of Joseph Whitall, p. 247. Also testimony of Abraham Lower, pp. 355-356. The minute under which Elias performed the visit referred to above was granted by his monthly meeting in Seventh month, and he promptly set out on his visit with David Seaman as his traveling companion. He spent nearly three months visiting meetings in New Jersey and in Bucks, Montgomery, Delaware and Chester Counties, Pennsylvania, reaching Baltimore the 25th of Tenth month, where he attended the Yearly Meeting. This appearance and service in Philadelphia, he states very briefly, and with no hint of the developing trouble, as follows: "We arrived in Philadelphia in the early part of Twelfth month, and I immediately entered on the arduous concern which I had in prospect and which I was favored soon comfortably to accomplish. We visited the families composing Green Street Monthly Meeting, being in number one hundred and forty, and we also attended that monthly meeting and the monthly meeting for the Northern District. This closed my visit here, and set me at liberty to turn my face homeward."[119] [119] Journal, p. 394. It will thus be seen that the charge of unsoundness was entered in Philadelphia Meeting for Sufferings soon after Elias started on his southern visit, but the matter was held practically in suspense for four months. In the meantime Elias was waited upon by a few elders, presumably in accordance with the action of the Meeting for Sufferings held in Eighth month. This opportunity was had when the visitor passed through Philadelphia en route to Baltimore. There is reason for believing that Elias succeeded in measurably satisfying this small committee. But there was evidently an element in Philadelphia that did not propose to be satisfied. In Twelfth month, when Elias arrived in Philadelphia from his southern trip, and began his visits among the families of Green Street Monthly Meeting, a meeting of the elders of all the monthly meetings in the city was hastily called. A deputation from the elders sought an "opportunity" with Elias, and insisted that it be _private_.[120] His position was that he was not accountable to them for anything he had said while traveling with a minute as a minister. Elias finally consented, out of regard to some particular Friends, to meet the elders in Green Street meeting-house, provided witnesses other than the opposing elders could be present. Among those who accompanied Elias were John Comly, Robert Moore, John Moore and John Hunt. When the meeting was held, however, the elders who opposed Elias said they could not proceed, their reason being that the gathering was not "select." In connection with this controversy letters passed between the opposing parties. One was signed by ten elders of Philadelphia, and is as follows: [120] "Foster's Report," pp. 359-360. "Cockburn's Review," p. 66. "TO ELIAS HICKS: "Friends in Philadelphia having for a considerable time past heard of thy holding and promulgating doctrines different from and repugnant to those held by our religious society, it was cause of uneasiness and deep concern to them, as their sincere regard and engagement for the promotion of the cause of Truth made it very desirable that all the members of our religious society should move in true harmony under the leading and direction of our blessed Redeemer. Upon being informed of thy sentiments expressed by Joseph Whitall--that Jesus Christ was not the son of God until after the baptism of John and the descent of the Holy Ghost, and that he was no more than a man; that the same power that made Christ a Christian must make us Christians; and that the same power that saved Him must save us--many friends were affected therewith, and some time afterward, several Friends being together in the city on subjects relating to our religious society, they received an account from Ezra Comfort of some of thy expressions in the public general meeting immediately succeeding the Southern Quarterly Meeting lately held in the state of Delaware, which was also confirmed by his companion, Isaiah Bell, that Jesus Christ was the first man who introduced the gospel dispensation, the Jews being under the outward or ceremonial law or dispensation, it was necessary that there should be some outward miracle, as the healing of the outward infirmities of the flesh and raising the outward dead bodies in order to introduce the gospel dispensation; He had no more power given Him than man, for He was no more than man; He had nothing to do with the healing of the soul, for that belongs to God only; Elisha had the same power to raise the dead; that man being obedient to the spirit of God in him could arrive at as great, or a greater, degree of righteousness than Jesus Christ; that 'Jesus Christ thought it not robbery to be equal with God; neither do I think it robbery for man to be equal with God'; then endeavored to show that by attending to that stone cut out of the mountain without hands, or the seed in man, it would make man equal with God, saying: for that stone in man was the entire God. On hearing which it appeared to Friends a subject of such great importance and of such deep welfare to the interest of our religious society as to require an extension of care, in order that if any incorrect statement had been made it should as soon as possible be rectified, or, if true, thou might be possessed of the painful concerns of Friends and their sense and judgment thereon. Two of the elders accordingly waited on thee on the evening of the day of thy arriving in the city, and although thou denied the statement, yet thy declining to meet these two elders in company with those who made it left the minds of Friends without relief. One of the elders who had called on thee repeated his visit on the next day but one, and again requested thee to see the two elders and the Friends who made the above statements which thou again declined. The elders from the different Monthly Meetings of the city were then convened and requested a private opportunity with thee, which thou also refused, yet the next day consented to meet them at a time and place of thy own fixing; but, when assembled, a mixed company being collected, the elders could not in this manner enter into business which they considered of a nature not to be investigated in any other way than in a select, private opportunity. They, therefore, considered that meeting a clear indication of thy continuing to decline to meet the elders as by them proposed. Under these circumstances, it appearing that thou art not willing to hear and disprove the charges brought against thee, we feel it a duty to declare that we cannot have religious unity with thy conduct nor with the doctrines thou art charged with promulgating. "Signed, Twelfth month 19, 1822. "CALEB PIERCE, "LEONARD SNOWDEN, "JOSEPH SCATTERGOOD, "S. P. GRIFFITHS, "T. STEWARDSON, "EDWARD RANDOLPH, "ISRAEL MAULE, "ELLIS YARNALL, "RICHARD HUMPHRIES, "THOMAS WISTAR." To this epistle Elias Hicks made the following reply, two days having intervened: "TO CALEB PIERCE AND OTHER FRIENDS: "Having been charged by you with unsoundness of principle and doctrine, founded on reports spread among the people in an unfriendly manner, and contrary to the order of our Discipline, by Joseph Whitall, as charged in the letter from you dated the 19th instant, and as these charges are not literally true, being founded on his own forced and improper construction of my words, I deny them, and I do not consider myself amenable to him, nor to any other, for crimes laid to my charge as being committed in the course of the sittings of our last Yearly Meeting, as not any of my fellow-members of that meeting discovered or noticed any such thing--which I presume to be the case, as not an individual has mentioned any such things to me, but contrary thereto. Many of our most valued Friends (who had heard some of those foul reports first promulgated by a citizen of our city) acknowledged the great satisfaction they had with my services and exercise in the course of that meeting, and were fully convinced that all those reports were false; and this view is fully confirmed by a certificate granted me by the Monthly and Quarterly Meetings of which I am a member, in which they expressed their full unity with me--and which meetings were held a considerable time after our Yearly Meeting, in the course of which Joseph Whitall has presumed to charge me with unsoundness of doctrine, contrary to the sense of the Monthly, Quarterly and Yearly Meetings of which I am a member, and to whom only do I hold myself amenable for all conduct transacted within their limits. The other charges made against me by Ezra Comfort, as expressed in your letter, are in general incorrect, as is proved by the annexed certificate; and, moreover, as Ezra Comfort has departed from gospel order in not mentioning his uneasiness to me when present with me, and when I could have appealed to Friends of that meeting to justify me; therefore, I consider Ezra Comfort to have acted disorderly and contrary to the discipline, and these are the reasons which induce me to refuse a compliance with your requisitions--considering them arbitrary and contrary to the established order of our Society. "ELIAS HICKS. "PHILADELPHIA, Twelfth month 21, 1822." As already noted the charges in the letter of the ten elders were based on statements made by Joseph Whitall, supplemented by allegations by Ezra Comfort, as to what Elias had said in two sermons, neither of which was delivered within the bounds of Philadelphia Quarterly Meeting. The matters complained of are mostly subject to variable interpretation, and scarcely afford a basis for a religious quarrel, especially considering that the alleged statements were at the best garbled from quite lengthy discourses. On the same day that Elias replied to the ten elders, three members of Southern Quarterly Meeting issued a signed statement regarding the charges of Ezra Comfort. It is as follows: "We, the undersigned, being occasionally in the city of Philadelphia, when a letter was produced and handed us, signed by ten of its citizens, Elders of the Society of Friends, and directed to Elias Hicks, after perusing and deliberately considering the charges therein against him, for holding and propagating doctrines inconsistent with our religious testimonies, and more especially those said by Ezra Comfort and Isaiah Bell, to be held forth at a meeting immediately succeeding the late Southern Quarterly Meeting, and we being members of the Southern Quarter, and present at the said meeting, we are free to state, for the satisfaction of the first-mentioned Friends and all others whom it may concern, that we apprehend the charges exhibited by the two Friends named are without substantial foundation; and in order to give a clear view we think it best and proper here to transcribe the said charges exhibited and our own understanding of the several, viz., 'That Jesus Christ was the first man that introduced the Gospel Dispensation, the Jews being under the outward and ceremonial law or dispensation, it was necessary there should be some outward miracles, as healing the outward infirmities of the flesh and raising the outward dead bodies in order to introduce the gospel dispensation;' this in substance is correct. 'That he had no more power given him than man,' this sentence is incorrect; and also, 'That he had nothing to do with the healing of the soul, for that belongs to God only,' is likewise incorrect; and the next sentence, 'That Elisha also had the same power to raise the dead' should be transposed thus to give Elias's expressions. 'By the same power it was that Elisha raised the dead.' 'That man being obedient to the spirit of God in him could arrive at as great or greater degree of righteousness than Jesus Christ,' this is incorrect; 'That Jesus Christ thought it not robbery to be equal with God,' with annexing the other part of the paragraph mentioned by the holy apostle would be correct. 'Neither do I think it robbery for man to be equal with God' is incorrect. 'Then endeavouring to show that by attending to that stone cut out of the mountain without hands or the seed in man it would make men equal with God' is incorrect; the sentence for that stone in man should stand thus: 'That this stone or seed in man had all the attributes of the divine nature that was in Christ and God.' This statement and a few necessary remarks we make without comment, save only that we were then of opinion and still are that the sentiments and doctrines held forth by our said friend, Elias Hicks, are agreeable to the opinions and doctrines held by George Fox and other worthy Friends of his time. "ROBERT MOORE, "THOMAS TURNER, "JOSEPH G. ROWLAND.[121] "12 mo., 21, 1822." [121] "Cockburn's Review," p. 73. First month 4, 1823, the ten elders sent a final communication to Elias Hicks, which we give in full: "On the perusal of thy letter of the 21st of last month, it was not a little affecting to observe the same disposition still prevalent that avoided a select meeting with the elders, which meeting consistently with the station we are placed in and with the sense of duty impressive upon us, we were engaged to propose and urge to thee as a means wherein the cause of uneasiness might have been investigated, the Friends who exhibited the complaint fully examined, and the whole business placed in a clear point of view. "On a subject of such importance the most explicit candour and ingenuousness, with a readiness to hear and give complete satisfaction ought ever to be maintained; this the Gospel teaches, and the nature of the case imperiously demanded it. As to the certificate which accompanied thy letter, made several weeks after the circumstances occurred, it is in several respects not only vague and ambiguous, but in others (though in different terms) it corroborates the statement at first made. When we take a view of the whole subject, the doctrines and sentiments which have been promulgated by thee, though under some caution while in this city, and the opinions which thou expressed in an interview between Ezra Comfort and thee, on the 19th ult., we are fully and sorrowfully confirmed in the conclusion that thou holds and art disseminating principles very different from those which are held and maintained by our religious society. "As thou hast on thy part closed the door against the brotherly care and endeavours of the elders here for thy benefit, and for the clearing our religious profession, this matter appears of such serious magnitude, so interesting to the peace, harmony, and well-being of society, that we think it ought to claim the weighty attention of thy Friends at home."[122] [122] "Cockburn's Review," p. 76. As the signatures are the same as in the previous letter, repeating them seems unnecessary. One other communication closed the epistolary part of the controversy for the time being. It was a letter issued by twenty-two members of Southern Quarterly Meeting, concerning the ministerial service of Elias Hicks, during the meetings referred to in the charge of Ezra Comfort: "We, the subscribers, being informed that certain reports have been circulated by Ezra Comfort and Isaiah Bell that Elias Hicks had propagated unsound doctrine, at our general meeting on the day succeeding our quarterly meeting in the 11th month last, and a certificate signed by Robert Moore, Joseph Turner and Joseph G. Rowland being read contradicting said reports, the subject has claimed our weighty and deliberate attention, and it is our united judgment that the doctrines preached by our said Friend on the day alluded to were the Truths of the Gospel, and that his labours of love amongst us at our particular meetings as well as at our said quarterly meeting were united with by all our members for aught that appears. "And we believe that the certificate signed by the three Friends above named is in substance a correct statement of facts. "ELISHA DAWSON, "WILLIAM DOLBY, "WALTER MIFFLIN, "DANIEL BOWERS, "WILLIAM LEVICK, "ELIAS JANELL, "JACOB PENNINGTON, "JONATHAN TWIBOND, "HENRY SWIGGITT, "MICHAEL OFFLEY, "JAMES BROWN, "GEORGE MESSECK, "WILLIAM W. MOORE, "JOHN COGWILL, "SAMUEL PRICE, "ROBERT KEMP, "JOHN TURNER, "HARTFIELD WRIGHT, "DAVID WILSON, "MICHAEL LOWBER, "JACOB LIVENTON, "JOHN COWGILL, JUNR. "LITTLE CREEK, 2 mo. 26th, 1823." "I hereby certify that I was at the Southern Quarterly Meeting in the 11th month last, but owing to indisposition I did not attend the general meeting on the day succeeding, and having been present at several meetings with Elias Hicks, as well as at the Quarterly Meeting aforesaid, I can testify my entire unity with the doctrines I have heard him deliver. "ANTHONY WHITELY."[123] [123] "Cockburn's Review," p. 78. All of these communications, both pro and con, are presented simply for what they are worth. When it comes to determining what is or is not "unsound doctrine," we are simply dealing with personal opinion, and not with matters of absolute fact. This is especially true of a religious body that had never attempted to define or limit its doctrines in a written creed. The attempt of the Philadelphia elders to deal in a disciplinary way with Elias Hicks on the score of the manner or matter of his preaching was pronounced by his friends a usurpation of authority. It was held that the elders in question had no jurisdiction in the case, in proof of which the following paragraph in the Discipline of the Philadelphia Yearly Meeting was cited: "And our advice to all our ministers is that they be frequent in reading the Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments; and if any in the course of their ministry shall misapply or draw unsound inferences or wrong conclusions from the text, or shall misbehave themselves in point of conduct or conversation, let them be admonished in love and tenderness by the elders or overseers where they live."[124] [124] Rules of Discipline of the Yearly Meeting of Friends, held in Philadelphia, 1806, p. 62. It is undoubtedly true that a certain amount of encouragement came to the opponents of Elias Hicks in Philadelphia from some Friends on Long Island, and from three or four residents of Jericho, but they did not at that time at least officially represent any meeting of Friends at Jericho, either real or pretended. This far in the controversy the aggressors were confined to those who at that time were considered the "weight of the meeting," and who at best represented only the so-called "select" meeting and not the Society at large. At the beginning at least the trouble was an affair of the ministers and elders. It later affected the whole Society, by the efforts of the leaders on both sides. Incidents are not wanting to show that up to the very end of the controversy the rank and file of Friends had little vital interest in the matters involved in the trouble. It is related on good authority that two prominent members of Nine Partners Quarterly Meeting in Dutchess County, New York, husband and wife, made a compact before attending the meeting in Eighth month, 1828, feeling that the issue would reach its climax at that time. They agreed that whichever side retained control of the organization and the meeting-house would be considered by them the meeting, and receive their support. We mention this as undoubtedly representing the feeling in more than one case. The fact that it took practically a decade of excitement and manipulation, to create the antagonisms, personal and otherwise, which resulted in an open rupture, shows how little disposed the majority of Friends were to disrupt the Society. CHAPTER XVI. The Time of Unsettlement. Between the trouble related in the last chapter and the culmination of the disturbance in the Society of Friends, in 1827-1828, there was an interval of four or five years. This period was by no means one of quiet. On the other hand it was one of confusion, in the midst of which the forces were at work, and the plans perfected which led up logically to the end. It will be remembered that the last communication of the Philadelphia elders sent to Elias Hicks was dated First month 4, 1823. They had manifestly failed to silence the preacher from Jericho, or to greatly alarm him with their charges of heresy. Just eleven days after the epistle in question was written, the Meeting for Sufferings of Philadelphia Yearly Meeting assembled. This meeting issued a singular document,[125] said by the friends of Elias Hicks to have been intended as a sort of "Quaker Creed," but this was vigorously denied by those responsible for its existence. The statement of doctrine, which was as follows, was duly signed by Jonathan Evans, clerk, "on behalf of the meeting:" [125] The title of the production was as follows: Extracts from the Writings of Primitive Friends, concerning the Divinity of Our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. Published by the direction of the Meeting for Sufferings, held in Philadelphia. Solomon W. Conrad, printer. "At a Meeting for Sufferings held in Philadelphia the 17th of the First month, 1823, an essay containing a few brief extracts from the writings of our primitive Friends on several of the doctrines of the Christian religion, which have been always held, and are most surely believed by us, being produced and read; on solid consideration they appeared so likely to be productive of benefit, if a publication thereof was made and spread among our members generally, that the committee appointed on the printing and distribution of religious books are directed to have a sufficient number of them struck off and distributed accordingly, being as follows: "We have always believed that the Holy Scriptures were written by divine inspiration, that they are able to make wise unto salvation through faith which is in Christ Jesus, for, as holy men of God spake as they were moved by the Holy Ghost, they are therefore profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness, that the man of God may be perfect, thoroughly furnished unto all good works. But they are not or cannot be subjected to the fallen, corrupt reason of man. We have always asserted our willingness that all our doctrines be tried by them, and admit it as a positive maxim that whatsoever any do (pretending to the Spirit) which is contrary to the Scriptures be accounted and judged a delusion of the devil. "We receive and believe in the testimony of the Scriptures simply as it stands in the text. 'There are three that bear record in heaven, the Father, the Word, and the Holy Ghost, and these three are one.' "We believe in the only wise, omnipotent and everlasting God, the creator of all things in heaven and earth, and the preserver of all that he hath made, who is God over all blessed forever. "The infinite and most wise God, who is the foundation, root and spring of all operation, hath wrought all things by his eternal Word and Son. This is that Word that was in the beginning with God and was God, by whom all things were made, and without whom was not anything made that was made. Jesus Christ is the beloved and only begotten Son of God, who, in the fulness of time, through the Holy Ghost, was conceived and born of the Virgin Mary; in him we have redemption through his blood, even the forgiveness of sins. We believe that he was made a sacrifice for sin, who knew no sin; that he was crucified for us in the flesh, was buried and rose again the third day by the power of his Father for our justification, ascended up into heaven and now sitteth at the right hand of God. "As then that infinite and incomprehensible Fountain of life and motion operateth in the creatures by his own eternal word and power, so no creature has access again unto him but in and by the Son according to his own blessed declaration, 'No man knoweth the Father but the Son, and he to whom the Son will reveal him.' Again, 'I am the way, the truth, and the life; no man cometh unto the Father but by me.' Hence he is the only Mediator between God and man for having been with God from all eternity, being himself God, and also in time partaking of the nature of man; through him is the goodness and love of God conveyed to mankind, and by him again man receiveth and partaketh of these mercies. "We acknowledge that of ourselves we are not able to do anything that is good, neither can we procure remission of sins or justification by any act of our own, but acknowledge all to be of and from his love, which is the original and fundamental cause of our acceptance. 'For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' "We firmly believe it was necessary that Christ should come, that by his death and sufferings he might offer up himself a sacrifice to God for our sins, who his own self bear our sins in his own body on the tree; so we believe that the remission of sins which any partake of is only in and by virtue of that most satisfactory sacrifice and not otherwise. For it is by the obedience of that one that the free gift is come upon all to justification. Thus Christ by his death and sufferings hath reconciled us to God even while we are enemies; that is, he offers reconciliation to us, and we are thereby put into a capacity of being reconciled. God is willing to be reconciled unto us and ready to remit the sins that are past if we repent. "Jesus Christ is the intercessor and advocate with the Father in heaven, appearing in the presence of God for us, being touched with a feeling of our infirmities, sufferings, and sorrows; and also by his spirit in our hearts he maketh intercession according to the will of God, crying abba, Father. He tasted death for every man, shed his blood for all men, and is the propitiation for our sins; and not for ours only, but also for the sins of the whole world. He alone is our Redeemer and Saviour, the captain of our salvation, the promised seed, who bruises the serpent's head; the alpha and omega, the first and the last. He is our wisdom, righteousness, justification and redemption; neither is there salvation in any other, for there is no other name under heaven given among men whereby we may be saved. "As he ascended far above all heavens that he might fill all things, his fulness cannot be comprehended or contained in any finite creature, but in some measure known and experienced in us, as we are prepared to receive the same, as of his fulness we have received grace for grace. He is both the word of faith and a quickening spirit in us, whereby he is the immediate cause, author, object and strength of our living faith in his name and power, and of the work of our salvation from sin and bondage of corruption. "The Son of God cannot be divided from the least or lowest appearance of his own divine light or life in us, no more than the sun from its own light; nor is the sufficiency of his light within set up or mentioned in opposition to him, or to his fulness considered as in himself or without us; nor can any measure or degree of light received from Christ be properly called the fulness of Christ; or Christ as in fulness, nor exclude him from being our complete Saviour. And where the least degree or measure of this light and life of Christ within is sincerely waited in, followed and obeyed there is a blessed increase of light and grace known and felt; as the path of the just it shines more and more until the perfect day, and thereby a growing in grace and in the knowledge of God and of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ hath been and is truly experienced. "Wherefore we say that whatever Christ then did, both living and dying, was of great benefit to the salvation of all that have believed and now do and that hereafter shall believe in him unto justification and acceptance with God; but the way to come to that faith is to receive and obey the manifestation of his divine light and grace in the conscience, which leads men to believe and value and not to disown or undervalue Christ as the common sacrifice and mediator. For we do affirm that to follow this holy light in the conscience and to turn our minds and bring all our deeds and thoughts to it is the readiest, nay, the only right way, to have true, living and sanctifying faith in Christ as he appeared in the flesh; and to discern the Lord's body, coming and sufferings aright, and to receive any real benefit by him as our only sacrifice and mediator, according to the beloved disciple's emphatical testimony, 'If we walk in the light as he (God) is in the light we have fellowship one with another, and the blood of Jesus Christ his son cleanseth us from all sin.' "By the propitiatory sacrifice of Christ without us we, truly repenting and believing, as through the mercy of God, justified from the imputation of sins and transgressions that are past, as though they had never been committed; and by the mighty work of Christ within us the power, nature and habits of sin are destroyed; that as sin once reigned unto death even so now grace reigneth through righteousness unto eternal life by Jesus Christ our Lord."[126] [126] "The Friend, or Advocate of Truth," Vol. I, pp. 152-154. This deliverance is almost as theological and dogmatic as the Westminster Confession. It scarcely contains a reference to the fundamental doctrine of George Fox. It is not too much to say that if it was the belief of the "primitive" Friends, there was little reason, touching points of doctrine, for the preaching of Fox, or the first gathering of the Society. All the ground covered by this doctrinal statement was amply treated in the Articles of Religion of the Church of England, and the Confession of the Presbyterians. The above document was issued without quotation marks, or any indication as to what "primitive" Friends were responsible for the sentiments contained in its various parts. By careful examination it will be seen that one sentence, at least, is from Barclay's Apology, "but it proves to be a garbled quotation." We refer to the following sentence in the second paragraph in the above article, relating to the Scriptures: "But they are not or cannot be subjected to the fallen, corrupt reason of man." Barclay's complete statement is here given: "Yet, as the proposition itself concludeth, to the last part of which I now come, it will not from thence follow that these divine revelations are to be subjected to the examination either of the outward testimony of Scripture or of the human or natural reason of man, as to a more noble and certain rule or touchstone; for the divine revelation and inward illumination is that which is evident by itself, forcing the well-disposed understanding and irresistibly moving it to assent by its own evidence and clearness, even as the common principles of natural truths to bend the mind to a natural assent."[127] [127] "Barclay's Apology." Edition of Friends' Book Store, 304 Arch Street, Philadelphia, 1877, p. 68. It will be seen clearly that the reference in the document issued by the Meeting for Sufferings was not only a misquotation from Barclay, but also misrepresented his meaning. The latter is particularly true if we refer to the top of the same page that contains the above extract, where he says: "So would I not have any reject or doubt the certainty of that unerring Spirit which God hath given his children as that which can alone guide them into all truth, because some have falsely pretended to it."[128] It will thus appear clear that Elias Hicks, and not the Meeting for Sufferings, was supported by Barclay. [128] "Barclay's Apology." Edition of 1877, p. 68. The reference in the third paragraph in the foregoing "declaration" to the "three that bear record in heaven" is a quotation from 1 John 5:7. It is entirely omitted from the Revised Version, and thorough scholars in the early years of the nineteenth century were convinced that the passage was an interpolation. The statement of belief prepared by the Meeting for Sufferings was not approved by the Yearly Meeting, so nothing was really accomplished by the compilation, if such it was. Considering the order of the events recorded, it is hard not to conceive that the attempt to promulgate a "declaration of faith" by the Yearly Meeting was really intended for personal application to Elias Hicks. Had the plan succeeded, the elders could easily have attempted to silence the Jericho preacher in Philadelphia, on the ground that he was "unsound" touching the doctrine promulgated by the Yearly Meeting. The task of detailing all of the doings of this period would be too difficult and distasteful to be fully recorded in this book. That the unfriendly conduct was by no means all on one side is painfully true. Still, as the determination of the Philadelphia elders to deal with Elias Hicks, and stop his ministry if possible, was continued, the effort cannot be ignored. In First month, 1825, the elders presented a charge of unsoundness against Elias Hicks in the Preparative Meeting of Ministers and Elders, the intent being to have the charge forwarded to the monthly meeting, but this action was not taken. With phenomenal persistence one of the elders introduced the subject in the monthly meeting, and secured the appointment of a committee to investigate the merits of the case. This committee made a report unfavorable to Elias Hicks, which report, his friends claimed was improperly entered on the minutes. A vigorous, but by no means a united effort was made to get this report forwarded to Jericho Monthly Meeting, but this failed. One of the incidents of this attempt against Elias Hicks was the disownment of a member of the Northern District Monthly Meeting, for remarks made in Western District Monthly Meeting. The report of the committee against Elias was under consideration, when the visitor arose and said: "If it be understood by the report--if it set forth and declare, that Elias Hicks, the last time he was in this house, preached doctrines contrary to the Holy Scriptures, or contrary to our first or primitive Friends, being present at that time, I stand here as a witness that it is utterly false."[129] Although this Friend was disowned by his monthly meeting he was reinstated by the Quarterly Meeting. It should be said that the report of unsoundness referred to, contained this specific charge: "We apprehend that Elias Hicks expressed sentiments inconsistent with the Holy Scriptures, and the religious principles our Society has held from its first rise." [129] "Cockburn's Review," p. 95. The trouble in Philadelphia was renewed in an aggravated form in First month, 1827, when Elias Hicks appeared in the city on another religious visit. Of course the atmosphere had been charged with all sorts of attacks regarding the venerable preacher. Under such conditions no special advertising was necessary to get a crowd. The populace was curious, not a few wanted to hear and see, for themselves, this man about whom so many charges had been made. As a matter of course the meeting-houses were crowded beyond their capacity. It was alleged by Orthodox Friends that the meetings were disorderly, which may have been literally true. But the tumult was increased by injecting an element of controversy, into the First-day afternoon meeting in Western meeting-house, on the part of an Orthodox elder. All the evidence goes to show that Elias attempted to quiet the tumult. He seems to have been willing to accord liberty of expression to his opponents. The matter was taken into Western Monthly Meeting, a committee entering the following charge: "That a large and disorderly concourse of people were brought together, at an unseasonable hour, and under circumstances that strongly indicated a design to preoccupy the house to the exclusion of most of the members of our meeting, and to suppress in a riotous manner any attempt that might be made to maintain the doctrine and principles of our religious society, in opposition to the views of Elias Hicks."[130] [130] "Cockburn's Review," p. 100. The literal truthfulness of this charge in every particular may be at least mildly questioned. It must be remembered that of the Friends in Philadelphia at that time, the Orthodox were a minority of about one to three. The majority of Friends felt that much of the trouble was personal, and they undoubtedly flocked to hear the traduced preacher. The outside crowd that came could not rightfully or wisely have been kept from attending public meetings. Both parties had been sowing to the wind, and neither could validly object to the whirlwind that inevitably came. Still Western Monthly Meeting proposed to deal with a visiting minister from another yearly meeting, on points of doctrine, and there can be little doubt that arbitrary proceedings of this sort had quite as much, if not more, to do with kindling the fires of "separation," as the preaching of Elias Hicks. Rapidly the trouble ran back to the opposition raised by the elders in 1822. Eventually Green Street Monthly Meeting became the center of Society difficulty. It will be remembered that in the year last written that monthly meeting had enjoyed a family visitation from Elias Hicks, and had subsequently given him a minute of approval. After this one of the elders, who acquiesced in this action, joined the other nine in written disapproval of Elias Hicks. The major portion of the monthly meeting proposed to take the inconsistent conduct of this elder under care, and the matter was handed over to the overseers. In thus hastily invoking the discipline, Green Street Monthly Meeting made an apparent error of judgment, even admitting that the spirit of the transaction was not censurable. This brought the Quarterly Meeting of Ministers and Elders precipitously into the case. Finally Green Street Monthly Meeting released the Friend in question from his station as elder. A question arose on which there was a sharp discussion as to whether elders were independent of the overseers in the exercise of their official duties. A long line of conduct followed, finally resulting in the Quarterly Meeting of Ministers and Elders sending a report to the general quarterly meeting, amounting to a remonstrance against Green Street Monthly Meeting. This appeared to be a violation of Discipline, which said: "None of the said meetings of ministers and elders are in anywise to interfere with the business of any meeting for discipline."[131] These matters, with the remonstrance of the released Green Street elder, would therefore seem to have been irregularly brought before the quarterly meeting. It was claimed by the friends of Elias Hicks that he had broken no rule of discipline; that the charge, that he held "sentiments inconsistent with the Scriptures, and the principles of Friends," was vague as to its matter, and purely personal as to the manner of its circulation. Up to this point it should be remembered, the controversy was almost entirely centered on Elias Hicks. [131] Rules of Discipline of the Yearly Meeting of Friends, held in Philadelphia, 1806, p. 67. This matter dragged along, a source of constant disturbance, appearing in perhaps a new form in the Quarterly Meeting of Ministers and Elders in Eighth month, 1826. The immediate action involved appointing a committee to assist the Preparative Meeting of Ministers and Elders of Green Street Monthly Meeting, the assumed necessity in the case being the reported unsoundness of a Green Street minister, a charge to this effect having been preferred by one member only. The situation, however, caused an abatement in answering the query relating to love and unity. While these transactions were going on among the ministers and elders, Green Street Monthly Meeting took action which removed two of its elders from that station in the Society. The two deposed elders took their grievances to the general quarterly meeting. While the quarterly meeting would not listen to a statement of grievances, yet a committee to go over the whole case was appointed. The committee thus appointed, without waiting any action by the quarterly meeting, transformed the removal of the aggrieved elders into an appeal, and then demanded that Green Street Monthly Meeting turn over to that committee all the minutes relating to the case of the two elders. This the Green Street Meeting refused to do. Although the case had never been before the quarterly meeting, the committee of inquiry reported to the full meeting, that all of the action of Green Street Monthly Meeting relating to the two elders should be annulled. It was claimed that, by virtue of the leadership which the Orthodox had in the quarterly meeting, a precedent had been established which gave committees the right to exceed the power conferred upon them by the meeting which appointed them. The committee had not been appointed to decide a case, but to investigate a complaint. Following this experience, after much wrangling, and in the midst of manifest disunity, and against what it was claimed was the manifest opposition of the major portion of the meeting, the quarterly meeting in Eleventh month, 1826, appointed a committee to visit the monthly meetings. This committee was manifestly one-sided, but could have no possible disciplinary service from extending brotherly care. Nevertheless at the quarterly meeting in Fifth month, 1827, this committee, for presumed gospel labor, reported that the large Green Street Monthly Meeting should be laid down, and its members attached to the Northern District Monthly Meeting. It is not necessary to enter into any argument as to the right of a quarterly meeting, under our system, to lay down an active monthly meeting, without that meeting's consent. The laying down of Green Street Monthly Meeting followed, the "separation" in the yearly meeting. It should be said that in Second month, 1827, Green Street Monthly Meeting, attempted to secure consent from the quarterly meeting to transfer itself to Abington Quarterly Meeting, and subsequently this was done. The claim was made, and with some show of reason, that the various lines of conduct taken against Green Street Monthly Meeting, were incited by a desire to punish this meeting for its friendly interest in Elias Hicks. We are rapidly approaching the point where the Society troubles in Philadelphia ceased to directly relate to Elias Hicks. It will be remembered that there was trouble touching the preaching of Elias coming by way of Southern Quarterly Meeting in 1822. The facts indicate that a majority of that meeting was quite content to let matters rest. It seems, however, that two members of the Meeting for Sufferings from that quarter had misrepresented their constituency in the Hicks controversy. Therefore in 1826 that quarterly meeting discontinued the service of the two members of the Meeting for Sufferings, supplying their places with new appointments. This action was objected to by the full meeting, the majority holding that members could not have their service discontinued by the constituent bodies which appointed them. An attempt was made to convince Southern Quarterly Meeting that it was improper and illegal to appoint new representatives, if the old ones were willing to serve. It was also claimed that it was "never intended to release the representatives from a quarterly meeting to the Meeting for Sufferings, except at their own request."[132] Surely the Discipline then operative gave no warrant for such an inference.[133] Assuming that the above contention was valid, the Meeting for Sufferings would simply have become a small hierarchy in the Society, never to be dissolved, except at its own request. [132] "Cockburn's Review," p. 170. [133] Rules of Discipline of the Yearly Meeting of Friends, held in Philadelphia, 1806, p. 54-55. It would seem, however, that the rules governing the Meeting for Sufferings were especially made to guard against just such an exercise of power as has been mentioned. The Discipline under the heading, "Meeting for Sufferings," contained this provision: "The said meeting is not to meddle with any matter of faith or discipline, which has not been determined by the yearly meeting."[134] This will make it plain why there was such an anxiety that the statement of doctrine issued in 1823,[135] should be endorsed by the yearly meeting, and when that failed, how utterly the statement was without authority or binding force on the Society in general or its members in particular. [134] The same, p. 55. [135] See page 139 of this book. CHAPTER XVII. Three Sermons Reviewed. We have reached the point where it would seem in order to consider the matter contained in some of the sermons preached by Elias Hicks, in order to determine, if we can, what there was about the matter or the manner of his ministry, which contributed to the controversy, personal and theological, which for several years disturbed the Society of Friends. The trouble was initiated, and for some time agitated, by comparatively few people. Two or three Friends began talking about what Elias said, from memory. Later they took long-hand notes of his sermons, in either case using isolated and disconnected sentences and expressions. Taken from their association with the balance of the sermon, and passed from mouth to mouth by critics, they assumed an exaggerated importance, and stood out boldly as centers of controversy. All of the evidence goes to show that little attempt was made to give printed publicity to these discourses, until the preacher had been made famous by the warmth and extent of the controversy over the character of his preaching. A volume of twelve sermons preached by Elias Hicks at various points in Pennsylvania in 1824 was published the following year in Philadelphia by Joseph and Edward Parker. These discourses were taken in short-hand by Marcus T. C. Gould. Two years later, in 1827, Gould began the publication of "The Quaker," which contained sermons by Elias, and a few other ministers in the Society. In his advertisement of the first volume of this publication, after stating the fact of the controversy which was rapidly dividing the Society of Friends in two contending parties, Gould says: "At this important crisis, the reporter and proprietor of the following work was employed by the joint consent of both parties, to record in meeting the speeches of the individual whose doctrines were by some pronounced sound, and by others unsound. Since that period he has continued to record the language of the same speaker, and others who stand high as ministers in the Society, and the members have continued to read his reports, as the only way of arriving at the truth, in relation to discourses which were variously represented." It is not our purpose in this chapter to give sermons or parts of sermons in detail. On the other hand, to simply review a few of these discourses as samples, because at the time of their delivery they called out opposition from Orthodox Friends. It may be fairly inferred that they contained in whole or in part the points of doctrinal offending in the estimation of the critics of Elias Hicks. The first of the series of sermons especially under review, was delivered in the Pine Street meeting house, Philadelphia, Twelfth month 10, 1826. At the conclusion of this sermon Jonathan Evans arose, and spoke substantially as follows: "I believe it to be right for me to say, that our Society has always believed in the atonement, mediation, and intercession of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ--that by him all things were created, in heaven and in earth, both visible and invisible, whether they be thrones, principalities, or powers. "We believe that all things were created by him, and for him; and that he was before all things, and that by him all things consist. And any doctrine which goes to invalidate these fundamental doctrines of the Christian religion we cannot admit, nor do we hold ourselves accountable for. "Great efforts are making to make the people believe that Jesus Christ was no more than a man, but we do not believe any such thing, nor can we receive any such doctrine, or any thing which goes to inculcate such an idea. "We believe him to be King of kings, and Lord of lords, before whose judgment seat every soul shall be arraigned and judged by him. We do not conceive him to be a mere man; and we therefore desire, that people may not suppose that we hold any such doctrines, or that we have any unity with them." Isaac Lloyd said: "I unite with Jonathan Evans--we never have believed that our blessed Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, came to the Jews only; for he was given for God's salvation, to the ends of the earth."[136] [136] "The Quaker," Vol. I, p. 72. To these doctrinal statements Elias Hicks added: "I have spoken; and I leave it for the people to judge--I do not assume the judgment seat." It may be informing in this connection to examine this sermon somewhat in detail, to see if we can find the definite doctrine which aroused the public opposition. The text was, "Let love be without dissimulation." Having declared that there could be no agreement between hatred and love; and that love could not promote discord, he indulged in what may be called a spiritual figure of speech, declaring that a Christian must be in the same life, and live with the same blood that Christ did, making the following explanation: "As the support of the animal life is the blood; so it is with the soul: the breath of life which God breathed into it is the blood of the soul; the life of the soul; and in this sense we are to understand it, and in no other sense." He referred to the reprover of our sins, said that it is God who reproves us. "Now, here is the great business of our lives," he remarked, "not only to know this reprover, but to know that it is a gift from God, a manifestation of His own pure life, that was in his son Jesus Christ." Continuing he said: "As the apostle testifies: 'In him was life, and the life was the light of men; and that was the true light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world.' Now can we hesitate a single moment, in regard to the truth of this declaration? No sensible, reflecting mind can possibly do it."[137] [137] "The Quaker," Vol. I, p. 51. Touching the outward and written as compared with the inner law of life, he affirmed: "Here is a law more comprehensive than the law of Moses, and it is clear to every individual of us, as the law was to the Israelites. For I dare not suppose that the Almighty would by any means make it a doubtful or mysterious one. It would not become God at all to suppose this the case--it would be casting a deep reflection upon his goodness and wisdom. Therefore I conceive that the law written in the heart, if we attend to it and do not turn from it to build up traditions, or depend on anything that arises from self, or that is in our own power, but come to be regulated by this law, we shall see that it is the easiest thing to be understood that can be, and that all our benefits depend on our complying with this law. "Here now we see what tradition is. It is a departure from this law; and it has the same effect now that tradition had upon the followers of the outward law; as a belief in tradition was produced they were bound by it, and trusted in it. And so people, nowadays, seem to be compelled to believe in tradition, and thus they turn away from the gospel dispensation, or otherwise the light and life of God's Spirit in the soul, which is the law of the new covenant; for the law is light and the commandment a lamp to show us the way to life."[138] [138] "The Quaker," Vol. I, p. 51. Using the term, "washed clean in the blood of the lamb," he proceeded to explain himself as follows: "And what is the blood of the lamb? It was his life, my friends; for as outward, material blood was made use of to express the animal life, inspired men used it as a simile. Outward blood is the life of the animal, but it has nothing to do with the soul; for the soul has no animal blood, no material blood. The life of God in the soul is the blood of the soul, and the life of God is the blood of God; and so it was the life and blood of Jesus Christ his son. For he was born of the spirit of his heavenly Father, _and swallowed up fully and completely in his divine nature, so that he was completely divine_. It was this that operated, in that twofold state, and governed the whole animal man which was the son of Abraham and David--a tabernacle for his blessed soul. Here now we see that flesh and blood are not capable of being in reality divine; for are they not altogether under the direction and guidance of the soul? Thus the animal body of Jesus did nothing but what the divine power in the soul told it to do. Here he was swallowed up in the divinity of his Father while here on earth, and it was this that was the active thing, the active principle, that governed the animate earth. For it corresponds, and cannot do otherwise, with Almighty goodness, that the soul should have power to command the animal body to do good or evil; because he has placed us in this probationary state, and in his wisdom has set evil and good before us--light and darkness. He has made us free agents, and given us opportunity to make our own election. "Here now we shall see what is meant by election, the election of God. We see that those who choose the Lord for their portion and the God of Jacob for the lot of their inheritance, these are the elect. And nothing ever did or can elect a soul to God, but in this choice."[139] [139] "The Quaker," Vol. I, p. 62. It is not easy to see how any one can impartially consider the foregoing, especially the words printed in _italics_, and continue to claim that Elias Hicks denied the divinity of Christ. Near the end of this sermon we find the following paragraph: "I say, dearly beloved, my soul craves it for us, that we may sink down and examine ourselves; according to the declaration of the apostle: 'Examine yourselves whether ye be in the faith; prove your own selves; know ye not your own selves, how that Jesus Christ is in you except ye be reprobates?' Now we cannot suppose that the apostle meant that outward man that walked about the streets of Jerusalem; because he is not in any of us. But what is this Jesus Christ? He came to be a Saviour to that nation, and was limited to that nation. He came to gather up, and look up the lost sheep of the house of Israel. But as he was a Saviour in the outward sense, so he was an outward shadow of good things to come; and so the work of the man, Jesus Christ, was a figure. He healed the sick of their outward calamities--he cleansed the leprosy--all of which was external and affected only their bodies--as sickness does not affect the souls of the children of men, though they may labour under all these things. But as he was considered a Saviour, he meant by what he said, a Saviour is within you, the anointing of the spirit of God is within you; for this made the ways of Jesus so wonderful in his day that the Psalmist in his prophecy concerning him exclaims: 'Thou hast loved righteousness and hated iniquity; therefore God, even thy God hath anointed thee with the oil of gladness above thy fellows.' He had loved righteousness, you perceive, and therefore was prepared to receive the fullness of the spirit, the fullness of that divine anointing; for there was no germ of evil in him or about him; both his soul and body were pure. He was anointed above all his fellows, to be the head of the church, the top stone, the chief corner stone, elect and precious. And what was it that was a Saviour? Not that which was outward; it was not flesh and blood; for 'flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of heaven'; it must go to the earth from whence it was taken. It was that life, that same life that I have already mentioned, that was in him, and which is the light and life of men, and which lighteth every man, and consequently every woman, that cometh into the world. And we have this light and life in us; which is what the apostle meant by Jesus Christ; and if we have not this ruling in us we are dead, because we are not under the law of the spirit of life. For the 'law is light and the reproofs of instruction the way to life.'"[140] [140] "The Quaker," Vol. I, p. 68. Unless the so-called heterodox doctrine can be found in the foregoing extracts, it does not exist in the sermon under discussion. Two other sermons were evidently both considered offensive and objectionable by the orthodox. One was preached at the Twelfth Street meeting, Twelfth month 10, 1826, and the other the 12th of the same month at Key's Alley, both in Philadelphia. At the Twelfth Street meeting, amid much confusion, Thomas Wistar attempted to controvert what Elias Hicks had said in certain particulars. While this Friend was talking, Elias tried to persuade the audience to be quiet. At Key's Alley, when Elias had finished, Philadelphia Pemberton, in the midst of a disturbance that nearly drowned his voice, gave an exhortation in support of the outward and vicarious atonement. When Friend Pemberton ceased, Elias Hicks expressed his ideas regarding gospel order and variety in the ministry, for which Friends had always stood, in which he said: "My dear friends, God is a God of order--and it will do me great pleasure to see this meeting sit quiet till it closes. We have, and claim gospel privileges, and that every one may be persuaded in his own mind; and as we have gifts differing, so ought every one to have an opportunity to speak, one by one, but not two at once, that all may be comforted. If any thing be revealed (and we are not to speak except this is the case), if any thing be revealed to one, let others hold their peace--this is according to order. And I desire it, once for all, my dear friends, if you love me, that you will keep strictly to this order: it will be a great comfort to my spirit."[141] [141] "The Quaker," Vol. I, p. 125. Speaking of the fear of God, he said that he did not mean "a fear that arises from the dread of torment, or of chastisement, or anything of this kind; for that may be no more than the fear of devils, for they, we read, believe and tremble." His theory was that fear must be based on knowledge, and the fear to displease God is not because of what he may do to us, but what, for want of this knowledge, we lose. Again, he practically repeated what was evidently considered a truism: "My friends, we are not to look for a law in our neighbor's heart, nor in our neighbor's book; but we are to look for that law which is to be our rule and guide, in our consciences, in our souls; for the law is whole and perfect." Continuing he remarked: "Now, how concordant this is with the testimony of Jesus, when he queried with his disciples in this wise: 'Whom do men say that I the son of man am?' They enumerated several characters, according to the views of the people in that day. But until we come to this inward, divine law, we shall know nothing rightly of that manifestation; for none of us have seen him, nor any of his works which he acted outwardly. But here we find some are guessing, one way, and some another way, till they become cruel respecting different opinions about him, insomuch that they will kill and destroy each other for their opinions. This is the effect of men's turning away from the true light, the witness for God in their own souls; it throws them into anarchy and confusion."[142] [142] "The Quaker," Vol. I, p. 94. In the opinion of Elias Hicks, it was not the man Peter that was to constitute the rock upon which the church was to be built, but rather the inner revelation, which enabled the disciple to know that the Master was the Christ. "When a true Christian comes to this rock, he comes to know it, as before pointed out; and here every one must see, when they build on this divine rock, this revealed will of our Heavenly Father, there is no fear." Touching the vital matters of salvation, we make the following extracts from this sermon: "Nothing but that which is begotten in every soul can manifest God to the soul. You must know this for yourselves, as nothing which you read in the Scriptures can give you a sense of his saving and almighty power. Now, the only begotten is what the power of God begets in the soul, by the soul uniting with the visitations of divine love. It becomes like a union--the soul submits and yields itself up to God and the revelation of his power, and thus it becomes wedded to him as its heavenly husband. Here, now, is a birth of the Son of God; and this must be begotten in every soul, as God can be manifested by nothing else. "Now, what was this Holy Ghost and spirit of truth, and where are we to find it? He did not leave his disciples in the dark--'He dwelleth with you, and shall be in you.' Mind it, my friends. What a blessed sovereign God this is to be to the children of men--a God who has placed a portion of himself in every rational soul--a measure of his grace sufficient for every purpose, for the redemption of the souls of men from sin and transgression, and to lead them to the kingdom of heaven. And there is no other way. Then do not put it off any longer; do not procrastinate any longer; do not say to-morrow, but immediately turn inward, for the day calls aloud for it--everything around us calls for us to turn inward, to that which will help us to do the great work of our salvation."[143] [143] "The Quaker," Vol. I, p. 97-98. There seems to have been little, if any, public demonstration against the preaching of Elias Hicks in meetings where he was present, except in Philadelphia. That is especially true before the coming of the English preachers, and the strained conditions that existed just preceding and during the various acts of separation. It will thus be seen that the concern and purpose of the ten men elders of Philadelphia remained persistent until the end. CHAPTER XVIII. The Braithwaite Controversy. One of the marked incidents during the "separation" period was the controversy between Elias Hicks and Anna Braithwaite,[144] and the still more pointed discussion indulged in by the friends and partisans of these two Friends. From our viewpoint there seems to have been a certain amount of unnecessary sensitiveness, which led both these Friends to exalt to the dignity of an insult, and positive impeachment of integrity, matters which probably belonged in the domain of misunderstanding. It was apparently impossible for either to think in the terms of the other, and so the contest went on and ended. [144] Anna Braithwaite, daughter of Charles and Mary Lloyd, of Birmingham, England, was born Twelfth month, 1788. She was married to Isaac Braithwaite, Third month 26, 1809, and removed to Kendal immediately after. She sailed for America on her first visit, Seventh month 7th, 1823. She attended three meetings in New York, and then the Quarterly Meeting at Burlington, at which place she seems to have been the guest of Stephen Grellet. She made two other visits to America, one in 1825 and the other in 1827. She returned to England after her first visit to America in the autumn of 1824. The last two visits she made to America she was accompanied by her husband. Anna Braithwaite was a woman of commanding presence, and was unusually cultured for one of her sex at that time. She was something of a linguist, speaking several languages. Her visits in America were quite extensive, taking her as far south as North Carolina. She died Twelfth month 18th, 1859. We shall let her friends state the beginning and progress of Anna Braithwaite's religious labor in America, and quote as follows: "She arrived in New York in Eighth month, 1823. For seven months she met with no opposition. True, she always preached orthodox doctrines, but she had made no pointed allusions to the reputed sentiments of Elias Hicks."[145] [145] "Calumny Refuted; or, Plain Facts _versus_ Misrepresentations." Being reply to Pamphlet entitled, "The Misrepresentations of Anna Braithwaite in Relation to the Doctrines Preached by Elias Hicks," etc., p. 2. It is interesting to note that the positive preaching of "orthodox doctrine," on its merits, caused no opposition, even from the friends of Elias Hicks, the trouble only coming when a personal application was made, amounting to personal criticism. This is a fine testimony to the ministerial liberty in the Society, and really a confirmation of the claim that spiritual unity, and not doctrinal uniformity, was the true basis of fellowship among Friends. We quote again: "She visited Long Island in the spring, and had some opportunities of conversing with Elias Hicks on religious subjects, and also of hearing him preach. They differed widely in sentiment, upon important doctrines, and she soon had to conclude that his were at variance with the hitherto well-established principles of the Society. With these views, she returned to New York, and, subsequently, about the time of the Yearly Meeting, in May, she considered it an act of duty to warn her hearers against certain specious doctrines, which were gradually spreading, and undermining what she believed to be the 'true faith.'"[146] [146] The same, p. 6. It seems that Anna Braithwaite was twice the guest of Elias Hicks in Jericho, dining at his house both times. The first visit was in First month, 1824, and the other in Third month of the same year. They were both good talkers, and apparently expressed themselves with commendable frankness. The subject-matter of these two conversations, however, became material around which a prolonged controversy was waged. Before Anna Braithwaite sailed for England, she wrote a letter to an unnamed Friend in Flushing relative to the interviews with Elias Hicks. The letter was dated Seventh month 16, 1824. After Anna Braithwaite's departure from this country, the letter referred to, with "Remarks in Reply to Assertions of Elias Hicks," was published and extensively circulated. It bore the following imprint: "Philadelphia: Printed for the Reader, 1824."[147] In this collection was a letter from Ann Shipley, of New York, dated Tenth month 15, 1824, in which she declares she was present "during the conversation between her [Anna Braithwaite] and Elias Hicks. The statement she left was correct." While Ann Shipley's letter was published without her consent, it seemed to fortify the Braithwaite statement, and both were extensively used in an attempt to cast theological odium on the venerable preacher. The possibility that both women might have misunderstood or misinterpreted Elias Hicks does not seem to have entered the minds of the Anti-Hicks partisans. [147] Most of the controversial pamphlets and articles of the "separation" period were anonymous. Except when the articles were printed in regular periodicals, their publishers were as unknown as their authors. This particular epistle of Anna Braithwaite does not contain much material not to be found in a subsequent letter with "notes," which will receive later treatment. In her letter she habitually speaks of herself in the third person, and makes this observation: "When at Jericho in the Third month A. B. took tea with E. H. in a social way. She had not been long in the house, when he began to speak on the subject of the trinity, which A. B. considers a word so grossly abused as to render it undesirable even to make use of it."[148] One cannot well suppress the remark that if a like tenacity of purpose regarding other theological terms had been held and followed by all parties to the controversy, the history of the Society of Friends would have been entirely different from the way it now has to be written. [148] "Remarks in Reply to Assertions of Elias Hicks," p. 7. Touching the two visits to Elias Hicks, we have direct testimony from the visitor. We quote: "I thought on first entering the house, my heart and flesh would fail, but after a time of inexpressible conflict, I felt a consoling belief that best help would be near, and I think that every opposing thing was in a great measure kept down.... He listened to my views, which I was enabled to give with calmness. He was many times brought into close quarters; but when he could not answer me directly, he turned to something else. My mind is sorrowfully affected on this subject, and the widespread mischief arising from the propagation of such sentiments."[149] [149] "Memoirs of Anna Braithwaite," by her son, J. Bevan Braithwaite, p. 129-130. In another letter, written to her family, she thus referred to her interview with Elias Hicks: "I have reason to think that, notwithstanding the firm and honest manner in which my sentiments were expressed, an open door is left for further communication. We met in love and we parted in love. He wept like a child for some time before we separated; so that it was altogether a most affecting opportunity."[150] [150] The same, p. 140. While these two Friends undoubtedly were present in the same meeting during the subsequent visits of Anna Braithwaite to this country, their relations became so strained that they never met on common Friendly ground after the two occasions mentioned. After the publication of the communication and comments referred to, Elias Hicks wrote a long letter to his friend, Dr. Edwin A. Atlee, of Philadelphia.[151] This letter became the subject of a good deal of controversy, and may have been the exciting cause of a letter which Anna Braithwaite wrote Elias Hicks on the 13th of Eleventh month, 1824, from Lodge Lane, near Liverpool. This letter, with elaborate "notes," was published and widely circulated on this side of the ocean. The letter itself would have caused very little excitement, but the "notes" were vigorous causes of irritation and antagonism. The authorship of the "notes" was a matter of dispute. It was claimed that they were not written by Anna Braithwaite, and the internal evidence gave color to that conclusion. They were not, in whole or in part, entirely in her spirit, and the temper of them was rather masculine. There were persons who believed, but, of course, without positive evidence, that Joseph John Gurney was their author. [151] The text of this letter will be found listed as Appendix B in this book. The letter of Anna Braithwaite contains few points not covered by the "notes." She charges that Elias had denied that the Scriptures were a rule of faith and practice, and it was also claimed that he repudiated "the propitiatory sacrifice of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ." This, she affirmed, was infidelity of a most pronounced type. The "notes" attached to this letter constitute a stinging arraignment of the supposed sentiments of Elias Hicks. They were considered by his friends such an unwarranted attack as to call for vigorous treatment, and in numerous ways they became points of controversy. They were mild at first, but personal and almost bitter at the last. The first "note" in the collection briefly, but fully, lays the foundation for arbitrary authority in religion. It says: "It is a regulation indispensably necessary to the peace of society, and to the preservation of order, consistency and harmony among Christians, that the members of every religious body, and especially those who assume the office of teachers or ministers, should be responsible to the authorities established in the church, for the doctrines which they hold and promulgate."[152] [152] A letter from Anna Braithwaite to Elias Hicks, on the Nature of His Doctrines, etc., p. 9. There is critical reference to a statement which Anna Braithwaite said Elias Hicks made in the Meeting of Ministers and Elders in Jericho, touching spiritual guidance in appointing people to service in the Society. She says that Elias declared that "if each Friend attended to his or her proper gift, as this spirit is endued with prescience, that no Friend would be named for any appointment, but such as would attend, and during my long course of experience, I have never appointed any one who was prevented from attending either by illness or otherwise."[153] [153] The same, p. 4. In his letter to Dr. Atlee, Elias states his expression at the meeting as differing from Anna Braithwaite's in a material way. This is what he declares he said: "That I thought there was something wrong in the present instance, for, as we profess to believe in the guidance of the Spirit of Truth as an unerring Spirit, was it not reasonable to expect, especially in a meeting of ministers and elders, that if each Friend attended to their proper gifts, as this Spirit is endued with prescience, that it would be much more likely, under its divine influence, we should be led to appoint such as would attend on particular and necessary occasions, than to appoint those who would not attend?" We make these quotations not only to show the difference in the two statements, but to also make it plain what small faggots were used to build the fires of controversy regarding the opinions of Elias Hicks. It looks in this particular citation like a case of criticism gone mad. The following extracts are from the "notes": "We shall now notice the comparatively modern work of that arch-infidel, Thomas Paine, called "The Age of Reason," many of the sentiments of which are so exactly similar to those of Elias Hicks, as almost to induce us to suspect plagiarism."[154] [154] The same, p. 23-24. "We could adduce large quotations from authors of the same school with Paine, showing in the most conclusive manner that the dogmas of Elias Hicks, so far from being further revelations of Christian doctrines, are merely the stale objections to the religion of the Bible, which have been so frequently routed and driven from the field, to the utter shame and confusion of their promulgators."[155] [155] The same, p. 26. Those who defended Elias Hicks saw in these criticisms an act of persecution, and a veiled attempt to undermine his reputation as a man and a minister. The latter effort was read into the following paragraph, which was presented as an effort at justifying the criticism of the Jericho preacher. We quote: "It was both Friendly and Christian to warn them of the danger of listening with credulity to one whose high profession, reputed morality, and popular eloquence, had given him considerable influence; and if his opinions had been correct, the promulgation of them would not have proved prejudicial to him."[156] [156] The same, p. 21-22. The references to Thomas Paine will sound singularly overdrawn if read in connection with the reference of Elias Hicks to the same person.[157] It may be asserted with some degree of safety that it is doubtful if either Elias Hicks or his critics ever read enough of the writings of Thomas Paine to be really qualified to judicially criticise them. [157] See page 117 of this book. When Anna Braithwaite visited this country the second time, in 1825, she found matters much more unsettled than on her first visit. Her own part in the controversy had been fully, if not fairly, discussed. As showing her own feeling touching the second visit, we quote the following from a sermon preached by her: "I have thought many times, while surrounded by my family and my friends, and when I have bowed before the throne of grace, how very near and how very dear were my fellow-believers, on this side of the Atlantic, made unto my soul. It seemed to me, as if in a very remarkable manner, their everlasting welfare was brought before me, as if my fellow-professors of the same religious principles with myself were in a very peculiar manner the objects of much solicitude. How have I had to pour out my soul in secret unto the Lord, that he would turn them more and more, and so let their light shine before men, that all being believers in a crucified Saviour, they may be brought to know for themselves that though 'Christ Crucified was to the Jews a stumbling block, and unto the Greeks foolishness; but unto them which are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ, the power of God and the wisdom of God.' I say my soul hath been poured out before the Lord, that their light might shine in a still more conspicuous manner, through their hearts being brought into deep prostration of soul, that so their works might glorify their Father which is in heaven. My heart was enlarged toward every religious denomination; for surely, the world over, those who are believers in Christ have one common bond of union--they are the salt of the earth--the little flock to whom the Father in his good pleasure will give the Kingdom. I have often greatly desired to be with you, while I am well aware that to many it must appear a strange thing, that a female should leave her home, her family, and her friends, and should thus expose herself to the public, to preach the glad tidings of salvation through Jesus Christ; yet I have thought, my beloved friends, that though all may not see into these things, yet surely there is no other way for any of us, but to yield up our thoughts unto the Lord."[158] [158] Sermon and prayer by Anna Braithwaite, delivered in Friends' Meeting, Arch Street, Philadelphia, October 26, 1825. Taken in short-hand by M. T. C. Gould, stenographer, p. 4-5. There seem to have been some Friends desirous of producing a meeting between Anna Braithwaite and Elias Hicks during this visit. In Tenth month, 1825, she wrote him from Kipp's Bay, Long Island. She informed him of her arrival, and then stated "that if he wishes to have any communication with her, she is willing to meet him in the presence of their mutual friends, or to answer any letter he may write to her;" then she adds these remarkable words: "Having written to thee sometime ago, what I thought was right, I do not ask an interview."[159] [159] "Christian Inquirer," new series, Vol. I, 1826, p. 57. To this communication Elias Hicks made a somewhat full reply. He says that her notes of the conversation, "divers of which were without foundation," led him to wonder why she should even think of having any future communication with him. He then says: "That I have no desire for any further communication with thee, either directly or indirectly, until thou makest a suitable acknowledgment for thy breach of friendship, as is required by the salutary discipline of our Society; but as it respects myself, I freely forgive thee, and leave thee to pursue thy own way as long as thou canst find true peace and quiet therein."[160] [160] The same, p. 57. It has to be said regretfully that during Anna Braithwaite's second visit to this country, she met with both personal and Society rebuffs. In some meetings her minute was read, but with no expression of approbation in the case. The Meeting of Ministers and Elders at Jericho appointed a committee,[161] to advise her not to appoint any more meetings in that neighborhood during her stay. A good many Friends objected to her family visits, and, taken altogether, her stay must have been one of trial. [161] The same, p. 59. She came again in the early part of the year 1827, and was here when the climax came in that year and the year following. The English Friends, who were so much in evidence in our troubles, went home to face the Beacon controversy,[162] then gathering in England. The Beaconite movement caused several hundred Friends to sever their connection with the Society. But it did not reach the dignity of a division or a separation. Whether the English Friends profited by the experiences suffered by the Society in America is not certain. At any rate, they seem to have been able to endure their differences without a rupture. [162] This controversy took its name from a periodical called the "Beacon," edited by Isaac Crewdson. In this evangelical doctrines and methods were advocated. The Beaconites were strong in advocating the doctrine of justification by faith, and practically rejected the fundamental Quaker theory of the Inner Light. From the American standpoint, the Beaconite position seems to have been the logical development of the doctrines preached by the English and American opponents of Elias Hicks. After the English trouble had practically subsided, in 1841, Anna Braithwaite made the following suggestive admission, which may well close this chapter: "Calm reflection and observation of passing events, and of persons, have convinced me that I took an exaggerated view of the state of society with reference to Hicksism.... We have as great a horror of Hicksism as ever, but we think Friends generally are becoming more alive to its dangers, and that the trials of the last few years have been blessed to the instruction of many."[163] [163] "J. Bevan Braithwaite; a Friend of the Nineteenth Century," by his children, p. 59-60. CHAPTER XIX. Ann Jones in Dutchess County. In Fifth month, 1828, a year after the division had been accomplished in Philadelphia, a most remarkable round of experiences took place within the bounds of Nine Partners and Stanford Quarterly Meetings, in Dutchess County, New York. Elias Hicks was past eighty years of age, but he attended the series of meetings in the neighborhood mentioned. George and Ann Jones, English Friends, much in evidence in "separation" matters, were also in attendance, the result being a series of controversial exhortations, mingled with personal allusions, sometimes gently veiled, but containing what would now pass for bitterness and railing. The "sermons" of this series were stenographically reported, and form a small book of ninety-eight pages. The first meeting was held at Nine Partners, First-day, Fifth month 4th. Elias Hicks had the first service in the meeting. After he had closed, Ann Jones made the following remarks: "We have heard considerable said, and we have heard, under a specious pretence of preaching, the Gospel, the Saviour of the world denied, who is God and equal with the Father. And we have heard that the Scriptures had done more hurt than good. We have also heard the existence of a devil denied, except what arises from our propensities, desires, &c."[164] [164] "Sermons" by Elias Hicks, Ann Jones and others of the Society of Friends, at the Quarterly Meeting of Nine Partners and Stanford, and first day preceding in Fifth month, 1828. Taken in short-hand by Henry Hoag, p. 20. After this deliverance, Elias Hicks again arose and said: "I will just observe that my friends are acquainted with me in these parts, and know me very well when I speak to them. I came not here as a judge, but as a counsellor: I leave it for the people to judge. And I would hope to turn them to nothing but a firm and solid conviction in their minds. We may speak one by one, for that becometh order. I thought I would add a word or two more. When I was young, I read the Scriptures, and I thought that they were not the power, nor the spirit, and that there was but very little in them for me; but I was vain. But when I had once seen the sin in my heart, then I found that this book pointed to the Spirit, but never convicted me of sin. "I believe that this was the doctrine of ancient Friends; for George Fox declared that his Saviour never could be slain by the hands of wicked men. I believe the Scriptures concerning Jesus Christ, and David, too, and a host of others, who learned righteousness and were united one with another. I believe that Jesus Christ took upon him flesh made under the law, for all people are made under the law, and Christ is this Light which enlighteneth every man that comes into the world. And now, my friends, I would not have you believe one word of what I say, unless by solid conviction."[165] [165] The same. It will be in order to find out what was said by Elias Hicks which called for the personal allusion made by Ann Jones. We are not able to find in the remarks of Elias Hicks on this occasion anything that would justify the strong language of his critic, especially as to the Scriptures having done more hurt than good. It would seem that the supplementary statement quoted must be accepted as containing his estimate of the book which he was charged with repudiating, rather than the critical assertion of his doctrinal opponent. There are various statements in the Hicks sermon which denied some of the material claims of popular theology, but they did not class him with those who denied the existence or spiritual office of Christ. In the meetings under review, and at other times, the evidence is abundant that his critics either did not want to or could not understand him. He dealt with the spirit of the gospel, and with the inner manifestation of that spirit in the heart. They stood for scriptural literalness, and for the outward appearance of Christ. It is not for us to condemn either side in the controversy, but to state the case. We produce a few sentences and expressions from the sermon by Elias Hicks, which might have created antagonism at the time. Speaking of the "Comforter" which was to come, he said: "And what was this Comforter? Not an external one--not Jesus Christ outward, to whom there was brought diseased persons and he delivered them from their various diseases.... Here, now, he told them how to do: he previously made mention that when the Comforter had come, he would reprove the world of sin--now the world is every rational soul under heaven. And he has come and reproved them. I dare appeal to the wickedest man present, that will acknowledge the truth, that this Light has come into the world; but men love darkness better than light, because their deeds are evil; yet they know the light by an evidence in their hearts."[166] [166] The same, p. 9. Near the end of this discourse he elaborated his idea as to the ineffectual character of all outward and formal soul cleansing, in the following language: "Now can any man of common sense suppose that it can be outward blood that was shed by the carnal Jews that will cleanse us from our sins? The blood of Christ that is immortal, never can be seen by mortal eyes. And to be Christians, we must come to see an immortal view. After Christ had recapitulated the precepts of the law, 'Is it not written in your law, an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth: but I say unto you, if a man smite thee on one cheek turn to him the other also: and if a man take thy coat from thee, give him thy cloak also.' Don't we see how different the precepts of the law of God are? He tells us how we should do--we should take no advantage at all. The Almighty visits us, to get us willing to observe his law; and if all were concerned to maintain his law, all lawyers would be banished; we should have no need of them; as well as of hireling Priests. We should have no need of them to teach us, nor no need of the laws of men, for each one would have a law in his own mind."[167] [167] The same, p. 17. The other points in Dutchess County visited, and involved in the reports of sermons under consideration, were Chestnut Ridge, Stanford and Oblong. At some of these meetings the preachers spoke more than once. It does not appear that in the brief communications of George Jones he either directly or indirectly referred to statements made by Elias Hicks, or particularly sought to antagonize them. Ann Jones, however, was not similarly considerate and cautious. Either directly or by inference, she quite generally attempted to furnish the antidote for what she considered the pernicious doctrine of her fellow-minister. Speaking at Nine Partners Quarterly Meeting, Fifth month 7th, she said: "I believe it to be right for me to caution the present company without respect of persons--how they deny the Lord that bought them--how they set at nought the outward coming of the Lord Jesus Christ who died for them: they will have to answer it at the awful tribunal bar of God, where it will be altogether unavailing to say that such a one taught me to believe that there was nothing in this. Oh! my friends! God hath not left us without a witness; Oh, then it is unto the faithful and true witness, 'the testimony of Jesus, which is the spirit of prophecy.' I am engaged in gospel love to recommend, and to hold out unto you, that you meddle not with the things of God; and that you cry unto him for help. For what hope can they have of present or future good, or of everlasting happiness, if they reject the only means appointed of God to come unto the Father through Jesus Christ, the messenger of God, and of the new covenant?"[168] [168] The same, p. 60. At this meeting Elias Hicks followed Ann Jones in vocal communication. He made no direct reference to what she said, the short sermon being largely a reiteration touching the inner revelation to the souls of men, as the reprover of sin, and the power which kept from sinning, as against the outward, sacrificial form of salvation. In closing his remarks, Elias Hicks made this statement: "I do not wish to detain this assembly much longer, but I want that we should cast away things that are mysterious, for we cannot comprehend mystery. 'Secret things belong to God, but those that are revealed (that are understood), to us and our children.' And those that are secret can never be found out by the prying of mortals. Do we suppose for a moment--for it would cast an indignity upon God to suppose that he had laid down any name except his own by which we can have communion with him. It is a plain way, a simple way which all can understand, and not be under the necessity to go to a neighbor, and to say, 'Know thou the Lord? for all shall know me, from the least of them unto the greatest of them,' as said Jeremy the prophet. It is bowing down to an ignorant state of mind, to suppose that there is no other power whereby we can come unto God, but by one of the offspring of Abraham, and that we have need to go back to the law which was given to the Israelites, and to no other people. He has never made any covenant with any other people, but that which he made with our first parents. That is the covenant that has been made with all the nations of the earth. "He justifies for good and condemns for evil. And although every action is to be from the operation of his power, yet he has given us the privilege to obey or disobey; here now is a self-evident truth; as they have the liberty to choose, so if they do that which is contrary to his will, and so slay the Divine life in the soul: and thus they have slain the innocent Lamb of God in the soul, which is the same thing. All that we want, is to return to the inward light in the soul. The Lord had declared beforehand unto them in plain characters, that none need to say, 'Know ye the Lord? for I will be merciful to them, I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more.' This was equally the case until the law was abolished: until he blotted out the handwriting of the law, and put an end to outward ordinances. The law was fulfilled when they had crucified him, then it was that that law was abolished that consisted in making their atonements which all had to make. "The people could not understand the doctrine delivered in the sermon on the mount, although plainly preached to them. Jesus, when about to take leave of his disciples, left this charge with them: 'Tarry at Jerusalem until the Holy Ghost come upon you'; and then, and not till then, were they to bear witness unto him. He told them that it would bring everything to their remembrance: everything which is by the preaching of the gospel brought to your remembrance; therefore he says: 'All things shall be brought to your remembrance.' They would not then be looking to anything outward, because he had filled them with the Spirit of truth. What is this, but this Comforter which reproves the world of sin? All that will obey the voice of this reprover in the soul are in the way of redemption and salvation. 'By disobedience, sin entered into the world and death by sin: but life and immortality is brought to light by the gospel.' I am willing to leave you, and I recommend you to God, and the power of his grace, which is able to build you up, as you are faithful to its operation."[169] [169] The same, p. 71. The last meeting of the series was held in connection with Nine Partners Quarterly Meeting, Fifth month 9th. This was evidently the closing session of the Quarterly Meeting. From these published sermons it would seem that Elias Hicks and George Jones were the only Friends who engaged in vocal ministry that day. There was nothing specially relevant to the controversy going on in the Society in either of these short discourses. In reading this collection of sermons one cannot avoid the conclusion that, apart from dissimilarity in phraseology, and the matters involved in interpreting Scripture, these Friends had much in common. Had they been minded to seek for the common ground, it is quite probable that they would have found that they were really quarreling over the minor, rather than the major, propositions. In Eighth month, 1828, Elias Hicks was on his last religious visit to the Western Yearly Meetings. The "separation" in the New York Yearly Meeting had taken place in Fifth month, the trouble then passing to the Quarterly and particular meetings. It reached Nine Partners at the Quarterly Meeting held as above. Ann Jones attended this meeting, the last sermon in the little volume from which the extracts given in this chapter are taken having been preached by this Friend. There was little new matter in this sermon. Much, by inuendo, was laid at the door of those who were pronounced unorthodox, and who constituted a majority of the meeting. So far as the charge of persecution is concerned, it was repeatedly employed by Elias Hicks and his sympathizers in describing the spirit and conduct of the orthodox party. In this particular, at least, the disputants on both sides were very much alike. Ann Jones' reference to throwing down "his elders and prophets" contains more touching the animus of the controversy than the few words really indicate. As will be somewhat clearly shown in these pages, the trouble in the Society quite largely had reference to authority in the church, and its arbitrary exercise by a select few, constituting a sort of spiritual and social hierarchy in the monthly meetings. It was this authoritative class which had been "thrown down," or was likely to be so repudiated. We would by no means claim that with the "separation" an accomplished fact, the body of Friends not of the orthodox party thus gathered by themselves became at once and continuously relieved of the arbitrary spirit. The history of this branch of the Society from 1827 to 1875, and in places down to date, would entirely disprove any such claim. It would seem that wherever the Society lost ground numerically, and wherever its spiritual life dwindled, it was due largely because some sort of arbitrary authority ignored the necessity for real spiritual unity, and discounted the spiritual democracy upon which the Society of Friends was based. The "separation" in the Quarterly Meetings in Dutchess County was perfected in Eighth month, 1828. Both Anna Braithwaite and Ann Jones were in attendance, and evidently took part in the developments at that time. Elias Hicks was on his last religious visit to the "far west." Informing partnership letters were sent to Elias, then in Mt. Pleasant, Ohio, by Jacob and Deborah Willetts,[170] under date of Eighth month 18, 1828. Jacob gave brief but explicit information as to the division in the several meetings. For instance, he says that in Oswego Monthly Meeting one-sixth of the members went orthodox. At Creek, about one-fourth left to form an orthodox meeting, about the same proportion existing at Stanford. Nine Partners seems to have been the center of the difficulty, the orthodox leadership apparently having been more vigorous at that point. Still, about three-fourths of the members refused to join the orthodox. A very brief appreciation of the transatlantic visitors is given in Jacob's letter. He says: "The English Friends are very industrious, but I do not find that it amounts to much. Friends have generally become acquainted with their manoeuvring." [170] Jacob and Deborah Willetts were friendly educators in the first half of the nineteenth century. Jacob became principal of Nine Partners boarding school in 1803, when only 18 years of age, and Deborah Rogers principal of the girl's department in 1806, when at the same age. Jacob Willetts and Deborah Rogers were married in 1812. At the time of the "separation," Nine Partners' school passed into the hands of the Orthodox, and Jacob and Deborah resigned their positions, and started a separate school, which they conducted successfully for nearly thirty years. Jacob was the author of elementary text books of arithmetic and geography, and Deborah was an accomplished grammarian, and assisted Gould Brown in the preparation of his once well-known English Grammar. Deborah's letter was both newsy and personal, and threw interesting sidelights on the "separation" experiences. At the close of a sermon by Ann Jones, Eighth month 5th, she made reference to the sudden death of a woman Friend of the orthodox party, which is thus referred to in this letter: "Perhaps thou wilt hear ere this reaches thee of the death of Ann Willis. She died at William Warings on her way home from Purchase Quarterly Meeting, in an apoplectic fit. At our Quarterly Meeting Ann Jones told us of the dear departed spirit of one who had lived an unspotted life, who passed away without much bodily suffering, and whose soul was now clothed in robes of white, singing glory, might and majesty with angels forever and ever: which amounted nearly to a funeral song." We make the following extract from the letter of Deborah Willetts because of its interesting references and statements: "A week ago I returned from Stanford Quarterly Meeting held at Hudson. All the English force was there save T. Shillitoe with a large re-enforcement from New York, but they were headed by 15 men and 25 women of the committee of Friends, and a great many attended from the neighboring meetings, Coeymans, Rensalaerville, Saratoga, &c. The city was nearly full. Anna Braithwaite and suite took lodgings at the hotel. It was the most boisterous meeting I ever attended. The clerks in each meeting were orthodox, but Friends were favored to appoint others who opened the meeting. Anna Braithwaite had much to say to clear up the charges against her in circulation that their expenses had been borne by Friends, which she said was false, and never had been done but in two instances, and mentioned it twice or three times that her dear husband felt it a very great pleasure to meet all expenses she might incur, and she would appeal to those present for the truth of what she had said, and then Ann Jones, Claussa Griffin, Ruth Hallock, Sarah Upton and some others immediately attested to the truth of it. Oh, how inconsistent is all this in a Friends' meeting. She also gave a long statement of the separation at Yearly Meeting, but she was reminded of her absence at the time, but she replied Ann Jones had informed her. She accused Friends of holding erroneous doctrine and said Phebe I. Merritt did not believe in the atonement for sin. Phebe said she denied the charge, when Anna turning and looking stern in her face said, 'Did thou not say, Phebe Merritt, all the reproof thou felt for sin was in thy own breast?' Phebe then arose and was favored to express her views in a clear way with an affecting circumstance that she experienced in her childhood that brought such a solemnity over the meeting that almost disarmed Anna of her hostile proceedings. She stood upon her feet the while ready to reply but began in a different tone of voice, and changed the subject, and very soon after, Ann Jones made a move to adjourn when they could hold Stanford Quarterly Meeting, which was seconded by several others and Friends in the meantime as cordially and silently uniting with them in the motion. They then retired without reading an adjournment, I afterwards learnt, to the Presbyterian Conference room. I dined in company with Willett Hicks, who said he was surprised to see so few go with them after such a noble effort." CHAPTER XX. The Experience with T. Shillitoe. The first day after his arrival in America, Thomas Shillitoe[171] attended Hester Street Meeting, in New York. He tells that "it was reported that he had come over to help the Friends of Elias Hicks."[172] As this Friend came into collision with Elias several times, and was second to none in vigor and virulence among his antagonists, either domestic or foreign, it seems proper to review his connection with the controversy, because some added light may thus be thrown on the spirit and purpose of the opposition to Elias Hicks. [171] Thomas Shillitoe was born in London "about the Second month, 1754," Elias Hicks being six years his senior. His parents were not Friends. At one time his father kept an inn. Joined Grace Church Street Monthly Meeting in London about 1775. Was acknowledged a minister at Tottenham in 1790. He learned the grocery business, and afterward entered a banking house. Finally learned shoemaker's trade, and had a shop. Was married in 1778. Came to America in 1826, arriving in New York, Ninth month 8th. While here traveled extensively, visiting certain Indian tribes. In 1827 he had an interview with President Andrew Jackson. He left New York for Liverpool in Eighth month, 1829, having been in this country nearly three years. Thomas Shillitoe died in 1836. [172] "Journal of Thomas Shillitoe," Vol. 2, p. 150. Of the experience on that first meeting in America the venerable preacher says: "I found it hard work to rise upon my feet, but believing that the offer of the best of all help was made, I ventured and was favored to clear my mind faithfully, and in a manner I apprehended would give such of the followers of Elias Hicks as were present a pretty clear idea of the mistake they had been under of my being come over to help their unchristian cause."[173] [173] "Journal of Thomas Shillitoe," Vol. 2, p. 151. He had not been seen at that time to converse with a single friend of Elias Hicks, and there is no evidence that during the three years he was in America he mingled at all with any Friends who were not of the so-called orthodox party. During the week following his arrival in this country, Thomas Shillitoe visited Jericho by way of Westbury. Regarding his visit he says: "We took our dinner with G. Seaman; after which we proceeded to Jericho, and took up our abode this night with our kind friend, Thomas Willis. In passing through the village of Jericho, Elias Hicks was at his own door; he invited me into his own house to take up my abode, which I found I could not have done, even had we not previously concluded to take up our abode with T. Willis. I refused his offer in as handsome a manner as I well knew how. He then pressed me to make him a call; I was careful to make such a reply as would not make it binding upon me, although we had to pass his door on our way to the next meeting. I believe it was safest for me not to comply with his request."[174] [174] "Journal of Thomas Shillitoe," Vol. 2, p. 154. G. Seaman, mentioned above, became the first clerk of the Orthodox Monthly Meeting of Westbury and Jericho, organized after the "separation," and Thomas Willis was the Friend who should probably be called the father of the opposition to Elias Hicks. Had the English visitor determined from the start to hear nothing, and know nothing but one side of the controversy, he could not have more fully made that possible than by the intercourse he had with Friends on this continent. To show how bent he was not to be influenced or contaminated by those not considered orthodox, it may be noted that while in Jericho he was visited by Friends in that neighborhood, who urged him to call on them. He was at first inclined to acquiesce, but after "waiting where the divine counsellor is to be met with," he changed his mind, remarking, "I afterwards understood some of these individuals were of Elias Hicks's party."[175] [175] "Journal of Thomas Shillitoe," Vol. 2, p. 154. The New York Yearly Meeting of 1827 was attended by all of the ministering Friends and their companions from England, viz: Thomas Shillitoe, Elizabeth Robson, George and Ann Jones, Isaac and Anna Braithwaite. There seems to have been a foreshadowing of trouble in this yearly meeting. Elizabeth Robson asked for a minute to visit men's meeting, which met with some opposition, and was characterized by confusion in carrying out the purpose. Elias Hicks says nothing about the matter in his Journal, and no reference was made to this Friend in his personal correspondence. The English Friends left New York before the close of the Yearly Meeting, to attend New England Yearly Meeting. It is not our purpose to follow the wanderings of Thomas Shillitoe in America. He was at the New York Yearly Meeting again in 1828, at the time of the "separation." Touching this occasion, the minutes of the meeting in question furnish some information, as follows: "Thomas Shillitoe, who is in this country on a religious visit from England, objected to the company of some individuals who were present with us, and members of a neighboring yearly meeting, stating that they had been regularly disowned," etc.[176] For thus dictating to the yearly meeting, Thomas Shillitoe presented this justification: [176] From Minute Book of New York Yearly Meeting, session of 1828. "I obtained a certificate from my own monthly meeting and quarterly meeting, and also one from the Select Yearly Meeting of Friends held in London, expressive of their concurrence with my traveling in the work of the ministry on this continent, which certificates were read in the last Yearly Meeting of New York, and entered in the records of that Yearly Meeting; such being the case, it constitutes me as much a member of this Yearly Meeting as any other member of it."[177] [177] "Journal of Thomas Shillitoe," Vol. 2, p. 311. This may have been according to good society order and etiquette eighty odd years ago, but would hardly pass current in our time. For a visitor in a meeting to object to the presence of other visitors, on the ground of rumor and with no regular or official evidence of the charges against them, would probably put the objector into disfavor. But we are not warranted in passing harsh judgment in the nineteenth-century case. The English Friends, right or wrong, came to this country under the impression that they were divinely sent to save the Society of Friends in America from going to the bad. At the worst, it was a case of assuming the care of too many consciences. Soon after the close of the New York Yearly Meeting of 1828, both Thomas Shillitoe and Elias Hicks started on a western trip. Elias seems to have preceded the English Friend by a few days. The two men met at Westland.[178] At this place Thomas says that Elias denied that Jesus was the son of God, until after the baptism, and opposed the proper observance of the Sabbath.[179] Of course, the statements of Elias were controverted by his fellow-preacher, or, at least, an attempt to do so was made. It should be understood that Elias denied that Jesus was the son of God in the sense in which Thomas conceived he was, and he undoubtedly antagonized the observance of the Sabbath in the slavish way which considered that man was secondary to the institution. [178] See page 47 of this book. [179] "Journal of Thomas Shillitoe," Vol. 2, p. 328. Part of the mission of our English Friend from this time seems to have been to oppose Elias Hicks, and turn the minds of the people against him. They both attended Redstone Monthly Meeting. Here Elias presented his minute of unity and the other evidences of good faith which he possessed. At this point Thomas says: "Observing a disposition in most of the members of the meeting to have these minutes read in the meeting, I proposed to the meeting to consider how far with propriety they could read them; after their Meeting for Sufferings had given forth a testimony against the doctrines of Elias Hicks. But a determination to read his minutes being manifested, Friends were obliged to submit."[180] [180] "Journal of Thomas Shillitoe," Vol. 2, p. 330. Taken altogether, this is a remarkable statement. The "testimony" referred to was the "declaration of faith"[181] published by the Philadelphia Meeting for Sufferings. This document did not mention Elias Hicks, and failed to secure the approval of the Yearly Meeting, before the "separation." It is evident that "most of the members" were with Elias Hicks on this occasion. Only the few opposers were "Friends"; so the statement infers. [181] See page 139 of this book. The two preachers are next heard from at Redstone Quarterly Meeting, where Thomas was disposed to practice an act of self-denial. He told the meeting that he preferred his own minute should not be read, if Elias Hicks's was received. We have some evidence from Elias Hicks himself regarding this incident, in a letter written to Valentine and Abigail Hicks, from Pittsburg, Eighth month 5, 1828, stating the proposition of Thomas Shillitoe regarding his minute. Elias says: "Friends took him at his word, and let him know that they should not minute it, but insisted that mine should be minuted, expressing very general satisfaction with my company and service, and reprobated his in plain terms, and charged him and his companion with breach of the order and discipline of the Society, and insisted that the elders and overseers should stop at the close of the meeting and see what could be done to put a stop to such disorderly conduct." Thomas then says that he exposed Elias Hicks as an impostor "in attempting as he did to impose himself upon the public as a minister in unity with the Society of Friends; the Society having, by a printed document, declared against his doctrine, and himself as an approved minister."[182] Evidently this was another reference to the much-lauded "declaration of faith," although this did not represent an actually authoritative declaration of the Society. At its best, Philadelphia's Meeting for Sufferings was not the Society of Friends; but the people still wanted to hear Elias. They apparently preferred to interpret him at first-hand. [182] "Journal of Thomas Shillitoe," Vol. 2, p. 331. Thomas Shillitoe tells us that when they crossed the Ohio River he talked with the woman at the ferry, who protested against the ideas of Elias Hicks, and then remarks: "She kept a tavern, and I left with her one of the declarations, requesting her to circulate it amongst her neighbors."[183] Evidently the publican, in this case, was sound in the faith as held by the English preacher. [183] "Journal of Thomas Shillitoe," Vol. 2, p. 332. Mt. Pleasant was next visited by both Friends, preceding and at Ohio Yearly Meeting. They do not seem to have come personally into collision at this point, and insofar as either makes reference to the occurrences there, they are in substantial agreement.[184] Thomas Shillitoe bears mildly veiled testimony to the desire of the people to hear Elias Hicks, in the following statement: "From the great concourse of people we passed in the afternoon on the way to Short Creek Meeting, where Elias Hicks was to be, I had cherished a hope we should have had a quiet meeting at Mt. Pleasant."[185] But the contrary was the case; to whom the blame was due, the reader may decide. [184] For other reference to this matter, see page 49 of this book. [185] "Journal of Thomas Shillitoe," Vol. 2, p. 343. It is to be presumed that these two Friends, both of whom performed valuable service for the Society, according to their lights and gifts, never met after their western experience. For the want of understanding each other, they went their way not as fellow-servants, but as strangers, if not enemies. The unity of the spirit was obliterated in a demand for uniformity of speculative doctrine. CHAPTER XXI. Disownment and Doctrine. The "separation" was accomplished in most meetings in the East by the withdrawal of the orthodox party, after which they set up new meetings for worship and discipline. In a minority of meetings the orthodox held the property and the organization, and the other Friends withdrew. At Jericho and Westbury the great majority of the members remained, and continued to occupy the old meeting-houses. The orthodox who separated from the Westbury and Jericho Monthly Meetings organized the Monthly Meeting of Westbury and Jericho, as has already been mentioned. In 1829, when the new monthly meeting was formed, the membership of Westbury Monthly Meeting was as follows: Westbury Preparative Meeting, 193; Matinecock Preparative Meeting, 121; Cow Neck (now Manhassett), 65; total, 379. Of this number, accessions to the orthodox were: From Westbury Preparative Meeting, 32; Matinecock Preparative Meeting, 2; Cow Neck Preparative Meeting, 5; total, 39. In Jericho the members of the monthly meeting, Fifth month, 1829, numbered 225. Of this number, nine left to join the Monthly Meeting of Westbury and Jericho, and five were undetermined in their choice. Giving the latter meeting the benefit of the doubt, and assigning to it the five uncertain members, the meeting that disowned Elias Hicks was composed of fifty-three members, of whom thirteen were minors and five of only mild allegiance. A simple mathematical calculation will show that the Monthly Meeting of Westbury and Jericho contained 10 per cent. of the Friends who had been members of the two original monthly meetings, which meetings still survived, retaining 90 per cent. of the members. These figures will throw suggestive light on what follows. It was the Westbury and Jericho Monthly Meeting which, on the 29th of Fourth month, 1829, adopted the "testimony against Elias Hicks," called his disownment. It contained specified charges, which may be condensed as follows: He denied the influence or existence of an evil spirit; doubted the fall of man, and his redemption through Christ; endeavored to "destroy a belief in the miraculous conception of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ"; also rejected a "belief in his holy offices, his propitiatory offering for the redemption of mankind; and has denied his resurrection and ascension into heaven"; "he also denied his mediation and intercession with the Father." He was charged with too much industry in promulgating his views, causing great numbers to embrace them, "and has at length become the leader of a sect distinguished by his name." He was also charged with meeting with, and countenancing by his presence and conduct, those who had "separated" from Friends. This had reference to many meetings of a large majority of the Society held at various places in 1828. The "testimony" also alleges that he had many times been tenderly admonished and advised, but that he and his friends "prevented the timely exercise of the discipline in his case." It all, without doubt, sounded very formidable to the little company of Friends who formulated and issued the document. This was a remarkable document in more ways than one. The meeting which issued it assumed an authority in conduct hard now to understand, and asserted as facts mere assumptions, and yet we are bound to believe that, in the main, they thought they were performing God's service. It must be remembered that the orthodox Friends, in 1829, everywhere operated on the theory that those who considered themselves "sound in doctrine," no matter how few in numbers, were the Society of Friends, in direct descent from the founders of the faith. It was their religious duty to excommunicate all whom they considered unsound, even though those disowned might constitute the overwhelming portion of the meeting. That this was the sincere conviction of the orthodox Friends all through the "separation" period, and also before and after it, is a demonstrable fact of history. There was also a marked disposition to adhere to tradition and to cling to former precedents. If there had ever been a time when Friends had been disowned on account of theological opinions, the practice should be kept up, and practically continued forever. That there was a considerable amount of precedent for disowning Friends on points of doctrine is undoubtedly true. In the famous New Jersey Chancery trial, Samuel Parsons gave several cases of such disownment.[186] They involved cases in half a dozen monthly meetings, and included charges as follows: Denying the miraculous conception; denying the divinity of Jesus Christ; denying the authenticity of the Scriptures; promulgating the belief that the souls of the wicked would be annihilated. [186] "Foster's Report," Vol. I, p. 171. The orthodox Friends might have done still better, and cited the case of John Bartram,[187] the father of American botany, who was disowned by Darby Monthly Meeting in 1758, for deistical and other unorthodox opinions. It has been supposed that Bartram was disowned by Friends for placing the following inscription over his door: [187] John Bartram, born near Darby, Pa., Third month 23, 1699. Was the earliest native American botanist. He died Ninth month 22, 1777. Bartram traveled extensively in the American colonies in pursuit of his botanical studies and investigations. He established the Bartram Botanical Gardens near the Schuykill River, which are still often visited. "'Tis God alone, Almighty Lord, The Holy One by me adored. John Bartram, 1770." As this sentiment is dated twelve years after the disownment,[188] it is evident that it was not the primary cause of the action taken by Darby Monthly Meeting. [188] "Memorials of John Bartram and Humphrey Marshall," by William Darlington, 1849, p. 42. During the period of repression in the Society, lasting from about 1700 to 1850, it was not hard to find precedent for disowning members on almost any ground, so that the treatment of Elias Hicks, on account of alleged "unsound" doctrine calls for no complaint on the score of regularity. Disowning members for that cause in one branch of Friends to-day would be practically inconceivable. Its wisdom at any time was doubtful, and, in spite of precedents, the practice was not general. The main point in this transaction, however, is that the meeting which issued the "testimony" against Elias Hicks had no jurisdiction in the case. As a matter of fact, he was never a member of the meeting in question, unless it be assumed that 10 per cent. of two monthly meetings can flock by themselves, organize a new meeting, and take over the 90 per cent. without their knowledge or consent. In the main, we do not care to consider or discuss the points in the "testimony" under consideration. Those who have followed the pages of this book thus far will be able to decide whether the main causes as stated by those who prepared and approved the document were true in fact, and whether they would have constituted a sufficient reason for the action of the Monthly Meeting of Westbury and Jericho, had it possessed any authority in the case. Just what Elias Hicks thought regarding the matter of Society and disciplinary authority in his case, we have documentary evidence. In a private letter he said: "For how can they disown those who never attended their meetings, nor never had seen the inside of their new-built meeting-houses, and who never acknowledged their little separate societies? Would it not be as rational and consistent with right order for a Presbyterian or a Methodist society to treat with and disown us for not attending their meetings, and not acknowledging their creed?"[189] [189] Letter to Johnson Legg, Twelfth month 15, 1829. There is one point in the "testimony" which cannot so easily or reasonably be ignored. It says that Elias Hicks "has at length become the leader of a sect, distinguished by his name, yet unjustly assuming the character of Friends." From the assumed standpoint of those who made this statement of fact, it had no warrant. That body of Friends in, at least, the Yearly Meetings of New York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore, which at the time of the "separation" housed two-thirds of all the members, was as much entitled to be called Friends, and assume their "character," as the minority. The distinguishing epithet was not of their selecting or adoption, and those who applied it could scarcely with propriety force it upon those who did not claim it or want it. As for leadership, the outcome in 1827-28 was accomplished without either the presence or assistance of Elias Hicks in a majority of cases. If those who left the parent meetings and set up meetings of their own were the "separatists," then, in a majority of cases, the name belonged to the party that opposed Elias Hicks, and not to that body of Friends who objected to the Society being divided or perpetuated because of the personality or the preaching of any one man. It has to be said that the disowning at the time of the "separation" was not all on one side. Jericho Monthly Meeting "testified against" at least four of the orthodox party. But in every such case, so far as we are aware, no charges regarding doctrine were made against any. The disownments took place because the persons involved had become connected with other meetings, and did not attend the gatherings of that branch of Friends who issued disownments. Both sides undoubtedly did many things at the time which later would have been impossible. Elias Hicks evidently approved the general order of the Society in his time touching disownments. In a letter directed to "My Unknown Friend," but having no date, he deals with the disownment question. He goes on to say that it had been the practice of the Society to disown members for more than a century, when such members had deviated "from the established order of Society," and he reaches the conclusion that not to follow this course would lead to "confusion and anarchy." He then says: "These things considered, it appears to me the most rational and prudent, when a particular member of any society dissents in some particular tenet from the rest of that society, if such dissent break communion and render it necessary in the judgment of such society that a separation take place between them, that it be done in the same way, and agreeable to the general practice of such society in like cases." It is quite certain, however, that Elias Hicks did not think that disputed points of doctrine offered a sufficient ground for disownment in the Society of Friends. In a letter to David Evans, written at Jericho, Twelfth month 25, 1829, he says: "I apprehend that if the Friends who took part in the controversy on the side of the miraculous conception, and those on the opposition, will fully examine both sides of the question, they will find themselves more or less in error, as neither can produce sufficient evidence to enforce a rational conviction on others.... Surely, then, we who believe in the miraculous conception ought not to censure our brethren in profession for having a different opinion from ours, and especially as we have no knowledge of the subject in any wise, but from history and tradition. Surely, then, both parties are very far off the true Christian foundation for keeping up the controversy, inasmuch as it never has had the least tendency to gather on the one hand or the other, but always to scatter and divide, and still has the same baneful tendency." The reader will not fail to consider that at this late period Elias Hicks reiterates his personal belief in the miraculous conception, although the "testimony" of disownment against him charged that he was "endeavoring to destroy a belief in that doctrine." Whatever may have been his belief regarding the matter, it is clear that he did not consider acceptance or rejection of the doctrine a determining quality in maintaining a really Christian fellowship. CHAPTER XXII. After the "Separation." A letter dated Solebury, Pa., Sixth month 21, 1828, told of some experiences on his last western trip. It was addressed to his son-in-law, Valentine Hicks. On the journey from Jericho to New York, Elias was very much annoyed, if not vexed, by the crowds of "vain and foolish people coming from the city and its suburbs to see horses trot." "How ridiculous and insignificant," he says, "is such foolish conduct for professed rational beings! I can scarcely conceive in thought an epithet degrading enough to give a just estimate of such irrational conduct." The "separation" had just been accomplished in the New York Yearly Meeting, and as this was the first visit he had made to the local meetings and Friendly neighborhoods since that event, it is a matter of interest to learn from his own hand how he was received by Friends in the meetings. Rose and Hester Street Meetings, in New York, were attended the First-day after leaving home. Elias says, in the letter mentioned: "They were both large, solemn meetings, showing evidently the comfort and benefit Friends have derived from the orthodox troubles, (they) having separated themselves from us." This may have been the superficial view of many who were prominent in sustaining Elias Hicks. They failed to see, as did their opponents, that the "separation" no matter which side went off, was a violation of the real spirit of Quakerism. It was an unfortunate acknowledgment that "unity of the spirit" was a failure, if it required absolute uniformity of doctrine for its maintenance. Passing over to New Jersey, he reports universal kindly treatment. In this particular he remarks: "Indeed we have found nothing in the least degree to discourage or impede our progress, unless it be an excess of kindness from our friends, who can hardly give us up to pass on, without favoring them with a visit in their own houses. And not only Friends, but many who are not members manifest much friendly regard and respect. On Fourth-day we attended Friends' Monthly Meeting for Rahway and Plainfield held at Plainfield, Friends having given their neighbors notice of our intention to be there, it was largely attended by those of other professions, and some of the orthodox Friends', contrary to the expectation of Friends also attended. It was truly a very solemn and instructive good meeting, in which truth reigned. I was truly comforted in the meeting for discipline in viewing Friends' order, and the unity and harmony that prevailed, and the brotherly condescension that was manifested in transacting their business." Elias Hicks evidently possessed what might be called a grain of humor. In Eleventh month, 1828, when practically all of the "separations" had been accomplished, he wrote to his wife from Redstone, Pa. He had not been getting letters from home as he desired, and especially was that true regarding the much-valued missives from Jemima. He, therefore, says, toward the end of this particular epistle: "If I do not receive some direct account from home at one or both of these places (Alexandria or Baltimore), I shall be ready to conclude that my friends have forgotten me or turned orthodox." Evidently there had been a readjustment of society conditions in this neighborhood. He says: "Divers friends, whose names I have forgotten, and some who have never seen thee, but love thee on my account, desired to be affectionately remembered to thee. Indeed, love and harmony so abound among Friends in these parts, and the more they are persecuted, the more love abounds, insomuch that I have observed to them in some places, that if they continued faithful to the openings of truth on the mind, that they would so exalt the standard of love and light, that the old adage would be renewed, 'See how the Quakers love one another.'" Returning from the long western trip, considered in Chapter VI, Elias was met in New York by his wife and daughter Elizabeth, where Westbury Quarterly Meeting was attended. Many near and dear Friends greeted the aged minister, inwardly, if not outwardly, congratulating him upon his safe return home, and the labors so faithfully performed. In mentioning the event, Elias says: "It was truly a season of mutual rejoicing, and my spirit was deeply humbled under a thankful sense of the Lord's preserving power and adorable mercy, in carrying me through and over all opposition, both within and without. He caused all to work together for good, and the promotion of his own glorious cause of truth and righteousness in the earth, and landed me safe in the bosom of my dear family and friends at home, and clothed my spirit with the reward of sweet peace for all my labor and travail. Praises, everlasting high praises be ascribed unto our God, for his mercy endureth forever."[190] [190] "Journal," p. 425. Dark days were approaching, and the heavy hand of a great sorrow was about to be laid upon this strong man, who had buffeted many storms, and who seemed now to be feeling a period of calm and quiet. But we shall let Elias Hicks tell the details in his own words: "Soon after my return from the aforesaid journey, I had to experience a very severe trial and affliction in the removal of my dearly beloved wife. She was taken down with a cold, and although, for a number of days, we had no anticipation of danger from her complaint, yet about five days after she was taken, the disorder appeared to settle on her lungs, and it brought on an inflammation which terminated in a dissolution of her precious life, on the ninth day from the time she was taken ill. She had but little bodily pain, yet as she became weaker, she suffered from shortness of breathing; but before her close, she became perfectly tranquil and easy, and passed away like a lamb, as though entering into a sweet sleep, without sigh or groan, or the least bodily pain, on the 17th of Third month, 1829: And her precious spirit, I trust and believe, has landed safely on the angelic shore, 'where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.' To myself, to whom she was a truly affectionate wife, and to our children, whom she endeavored, by precept and example, to train up in the paths of virtue, and to guard and keep out of harm's way, her removal is a great and irreparable loss: and nothing is left to us in that behalf, but a confident belief and an unshaken hope, that our great loss is her still greater gain; and although the loss and trial, as to all my external blessings, are the greatest I have ever met with, or ever expect to have to endure, yet I have a hope, that, though separated, I may be preserved from mourning or complaining; and that I may continually keep in view the unmerited favour dispensed to us, by being preserved together fifty-eight years in one unbroken bond of endeared affection, which seemed if possible to increase with time to the last moment of her life; and which neither time nor distance can lessen or dissolve; but in the spiritual relation I trust it will endure for ever, where all the Lord's redeemed children are one in him, who is God over all, in all, and through all, blessed forever. She was buried on the 19th, and on this solemn occasion, the Lord, who is strength in weakness, enabled me to bear a public and, I trust, a profitable testimony to the virtues and excellences of her long and consistent life."[191] [191] "Journal," p 425. Regarding the funeral of Jemima Hicks, and its aftermath, rumor has been more or less busy. That Elias spoke on this occasion is certain. It was his eighty-first birthday. His remarks were undoubtedly in harmony, both as to the matter and the hope of a future reunion, with the extract printed above. There is in existence what purports to be matter copied from a Poughkeepsie newspaper relating to this event. The statement is supplemented by a "poem," entitled "Orthodox Reflections on the Remarks Made by Elias Hicks at His Wife's Funeral." These verses are both theological and savage. Elias is assured that, because of his belief, he cannot hope to "rest in heaven," or meet his wife there. What is strange, however, is that verses, signed "Elias Hicks," and in reply to the poetical attack, are also given. The first-mentioned rhyme may be genuine, as it voices an opinionated brutality and boldness which was not uncommon in dealing with the future life eighty years ago. But we can hardly imagine Elias Hicks being a "rhymster" under any sort of provocation. If the two "poems" were ever printed, touching the matter in question, some one besides Elias, undoubtedly is responsible for the rejoinder. Near the 1st of Sixth month, and a little more than three months after the death of his wife, Elias Hicks started on his last religious visit. His concern took him to the meetings and neighborhoods within the limits of his own Yearly Meeting. Nothing unusual is reported on this visit until Dutchess County was reached. All of the meetings were reported satisfactory. Of the meetings at West Branch, Creek and Crum-Elbow, Elias says: "Although it was in the midst of harvest, such was the excitement produced amongst the people by the opposition made by those of our members who had gone off from us, and set up separate meetings, that the people at large of other societies flocked to those meetings in such numbers, that our meeting-houses were seldom large enough to contain the assembled multitude; and we had abundant cause for thanksgiving and gratitude to the blessed Author of all our mercies, in condescending to manifest his holy presence, and causing it so to preside as to produce a general solemnity, tendering and contriting many minds, and comforting and rejoicing the upright in heart."[192] [192] "Journal," p. 428. Proceeding up the Hudson, arriving at Albany on Seventh-day, Eighth month 1st, that evening a large meeting was held in the statehouse. Those present represented the inhabitants generally of the capital city. Many meetings were attended after leaving Albany, which have now ceased to exist. In fact, few, if any, meetings then in existence were missed on this journey. The 17th of Eighth month he was in Utica. Of the meeting in that city, and at Bridgewater, he says: "These were not so large as in some other places, neither was there as much openness to receive our testimony as had generally been the case elsewhere. Our opposing Friends had filled their heads with so many strange reports, to which they had given credit without examination, by which their minds were so strongly prejudiced against me, that many in the compass of these two last meetings were not willing to see me, nor hear any reasons given to show them their mistakes, and that the reports they had heard were altogether unfounded: however, I was favored to communicate the truth to those who attended, so that they generally went away fully satisfied, and I left them with peace of mind."[193] [193] "Journal," p. 430. In 1829, under date of Seventh month 9th, in a letter written at Oblong, in Westchester County, New York, he expresses the feeling that the meeting at Jericho sustains important relations to the branch of Friends with which he was connected. The letter was written to his children, Valentine and Abigail Hicks. In it he says: "Although absent in body, yet my mind pretty often takes a sudden and instantaneous excursion to Jericho, clothed with a desire that we who constitute that monthly meeting, may keep our eye so single, to the sure and immovable foundation of the light within, so as to be entirely preserved from all fleshly reasonings, which if given way to, in the least degree, ever has, and ever will, have a tendency to divide in Jacob and scatter in Israel. I consider that much depends upon the course we take in our monthly meeting, as we are much looked up to as an example and if we make but a small miss, it may do much harm." Twelfth month 15, 1829, Elias Hicks wrote to his friend Johnson Legg, evidently in reply to one asking advice in regard to his own conduct in relation to the "separation." In this letter Elias says: "In the present interrupted and disturbed state of our once peaceful and favoured Society, it requires great deliberation and humble waiting on the Lord for counsel before we move forward on the right hand or the left. Had this been the case with our brethren of this yearly meeting who style themselves orthodox, I very much doubt if there would have been any separation among us. For although the chief cause thereof is placed to my account, yet I am confident I have given no just cause for it." This statement undoubtedly expresses the real feeling of Elias Hicks regarding the "separation." He could not see why what he repeatedly called "mere opinions" should cause a rupture in the Society. It will be noted that he still refers to the other Friends as "our brethren," and he, apparently, had no ill-will toward them. The letter from which this extract was taken was written only about two months before his death, and was undoubtedly his last written word on the unfortunate controversy, and the trouble that grew out of it. CHAPTER XXIII. Friendly and Unfriendly Critics. Few men in their day were more talked about than Elias Hicks. The interest in his person and in his preaching continued for years after his death. While the discussion ceased to be warm long years ago, his name is one which men of so-called liberal thought still love to conjure with, without very clearly knowing the reason why. Some clearer light may be thrown upon his life, labor and character by a brief review of opinions of those who criticised him as friends, and some of them as partisans, and those who were his open enemies, for the theological atmosphere had not yet appeared in which he could be even approximately understood by the men of the old school. We shall begin the collection of criticisms by quoting Edward Hicks,[194] who wrote a comparatively judicial estimate of his friend and kinsman. After stating that even the apostles had their weak side, that Tertullian "was led into a foolish extreme by the fanatical notions of Montanus;" and that Origen "did immense mischief to the cause of primitive Christianity by his extreme attachment to the Platonic philosophy, scholastic divinity and human learning," he remarks: [194] Edward Hicks, a relative of Elias Hicks, was born in Attleboro, Pa., Fourth month 4, 1780. His mother passed away when he was an infant, and he was cared for in his early youth by Elizabeth Twining, a friend of his mother. When a young man, he became a member of Middletown Monthly Meeting in Bucks County by request. He began speaking in meeting when about thirty years of age, and was a little later recorded as a minister. Edward Hicks for many years carried on the business of carriage maker and painter at Newtown, Pa. Although much more orthodox in doctrine than his celebrated kinsman, he was one of the most ardent friends and defenders of Elias Hicks. "Therefore, it is among the possible circumstances that dear Elias was led to an extreme in the Unitarian speculation, while opposing the Trinitarian, then increasing among Friends, and now almost established among our orthodox Friends. But I have no recollection of ever hearing him in public testimony, and I have heard him much, when his speculative views or manner of speaking, destroyed the savour of life that attended his ministry, or gave me any uneasiness. But I have certainly heard to my sorrow, too many of his superficial admirers that have tried to copy after him, pretending to wear his crown, without knowing anything of his cross, make use of the naked term, Jesus, both in public and private, till it sounded in my ears as unpleasant, as if coming from the tongue of the profane swearer; and on the other hand, I have been pained to hear the unnecessary repetition of the terms, our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, from those I verily believed Elias's bitter enemies, especially the English preachers, and have scarcely a doubt that they were substantially breaking the third commandment. And I will now add my opinion fearlessly, that Elias was wrong in entering into that quibbling controversy with those weak Quakers, alluded to in his letter, about the marvellous conception and parentage of Christ, a delicate and inexplicable subject, that seems to have escaped the particular attention of what we call the darker ages, to disgrace the highest professors of the nineteenth century."[195] [195] "Memoirs of Life and Religious Labors of Edward Hicks," p. 92. An independent, and in the main, a judicial critic of Quakers and Quakerism is Frederick Storrs Turner, an Englishman. Some of his estimates and observations of Elias Hicks, are both apt and discriminating. Of his preaching Turner says: "His great theme was the light within; his one aim to promote a true living spiritual, practical Christianity. He was more dogmatic and controversial than Woolman. There seems to have been in him a revival of the old aggressive zeal, and something of the acerbity of the early Quakers. 'Hireling priests' were as offensive in his eyes as in those of George Fox. He would have no compromise with the religions of the world, and denounced all new-fangled methods and arrangements for religious work and worship in the will of man. He was a Quaker to the backbone, and stood out manfully for the 'ancient simplicity.'"[196] [196] "The Quakers;" a study, historical and critical, by Frederick Storrs Turner, 1889, p. 292. With still deeper insight Turner continues his analysis: "This was his dying testimony: 'The cross of Christ is the perfect law of God, written in the heart ... there is but one Lord, one faith, and but one baptism.... No rational being can be a real Christian and true disciple of Christ until he comes to know all these things verified in his own experience.' He was a good man, a true Christian, and a Quaker of the Quakers. His very errors were the errors of a Quaker, and since the generation of the personal disciples of George Fox it would be difficult to point out any man who had a simpler and firmer faith in the central truth of Quakerism than Elias Hicks."[197] [197] The same, p. 293. Regarding some of the bitter criticisms uttered against Elias Hicks at the time of the controversy in the second decade of the nineteenth century, and repeated by the biographers and advocates of some of his opponents, Turner says: "This concensus of condemnation by such excellent Christian men would blast Hicks's character effectually, were it not for the remembrance that we have heard these shrieks of pious horror before. Just so did Faldo and Baxter, Owen and Bunyan, unite in anathematizing George Fox and the first Quakers. Turning from these invectives of theological opponents to Hicks's own writings, we at once discover that this arch-heretic was a simple, humble-minded, earnest Quaker of the old school."[198] [198] The same, p. 291. James Mott, Sr., of Mamaroneck, N. Y., was among the friendly, although judicial critics of Elias Hicks. In a letter written Eighth month 5, 1805, to Elias, he said: "I am satisfied that the master hath conferred on thee a precious gift in the ministry, and I have often sat with peculiar satisfaction in hearing thee exercise it." He then continues, referring to a special occasion: "But when thou came to touch on predestination, and some other erroneous doctrines, I thought a little zeal was suffered to take place, that led into much censoriousness, and that expressed in harsh expressions, not only against the doctrines, but those who had embraced them.... I have often thought if ministers, when treating on doctrinal points, or our belief, were to hold up our principles fully and clearly, and particularly our fundamental principle of the light within, what it was, and how it operates, there would very seldom be occasion for declamation against other tenets, however opposite to our own; nor never against those who have through education or some other medium embraced them." This would seem to be as good advice at the beginning of the twentieth century as it was in the first years of the nineteenth. In the matter of estimating Elias Hicks, Walt Whitman indulged in the following criticism, supplementing an estimate of his preaching. Dealing with some opinions of the contemporaries of Elias Hicks, he says: "They think Elias Hicks had a large element of personal ambition, the pride of leadership, of establishing perhaps a sect that should reflect his own name, and to which he should give special form and character. Very likely, such indeed seems the means all through progress and civilization, by which strong men and strong convictions achieve anything definite. But the basic foundation of Elias was undoubtedly genuine religious fervor. He was like an old Hebrew prophet. He had the spirit of one, and in his later years looked like one."[199] [199] "The Complete Works of Walt Whitman," Vol. 3, p. 269-270. It is not worth while to deny that Elias Hicks was ambitious, and desired to secure results in his labor. But those who carefully go over his recorded words will find little to warrant the literal conclusion of his critics in this particular. He probably had no idea at any time of founding a sect, or perpetuating his name attached to a fragment of the Society of Friends, either large or small. He believed that he preached the truth; he wanted men to embrace it, as it met the divine witness in their own souls, and not otherwise. Among the severe critics of Elias Hicks is William Tallack, who in his book "Thomas Shillitoe," says that "many of Elias Hicks' assertions are too blasphemous for quotation," while W. Hodgson, refers to the "filth" of the sentiments of Elias Hicks. But both these Friends use words rather loosely. Both must employ their epithets entirely in a theological, and not a moral sense. Having gone over a large amount of the published and private utterances of the Jericho preacher, we have failed to find in them even an impure suggestion. The bitterness of their attacks, simply illustrates the bad spirit in which theological discussion is generally conducted. The fame of Elias Hicks as a liberalizing influence in religion seems to have reached the Orient. Under date, "Calcutta, June 29, 1827," the celebrated East Indian, Rammohun Roy,[200] addressed an appreciative letter to him. It was sent by a Philadelphian, J. H. Foster, of the ship Georgian, and contained the following expressions: [200] Rammohun Roy was born in Bengal in 1772, being a high-class Brahmin. He was highly educated, and at one time in the employ of the English Government. In comparatively early life he became a religious and social reformer, and incurred the enmity of his family. He published various works in different languages, including English. In 1828 he founded a liberal religious association which grew into the Brahmo Somaj. Roy visited England in 1831, and died there in 1833. "My object in intruding on your time is to express the gratification I have felt in reading the sermons you preached at different meetings, and which have since been published by your friends in America.... Every sentence found there seems to have proceeded not only from your lips, but from your heart. The true spirit of Christian charity and belief flows from thee and cannot fall short of making some impression on every heart which is susceptible of it. I hope and pray God may reward you for your pious life and benevolent exertion, and remain with the highest reverence. "Your most humble servant, "RAMMOHUN ROY." A copy of what purports to be a reply to this letter is in existence, and is probably genuine, as the language is in accordance with the well-known ideas of Elias Hicks. Besides, an undated personal letter contains a direct reference to the East Indian correspondence. From it we quote: "I take my pen to commune with thee in this way on divers accounts, and first in regard to a letter I have recently received from Calcutta, subscribed by Rammohun Roy, author of a book entitled, 'The Precepts of Jesus, a Guide to Peace and Happiness.'"[201] [201] From letter written to William Wharton of Philadelphia. A request is made that William Wharton will find out if the ship-master, Foster, mentioned above, would convey a letter to Calcutta. Then Elias expresses himself as follows: "I also feel a lively interest in whatever relates to the welfare and progress of that enlightened and worthy Hindoo, believing that if he humbly attends to that hath begun a good work in him, and is faithful to its manifestations that he will not only witness the blessed effects of it, in his own preservation and salvation, but will be made an instrument in the divine hand of much good to his own people, and nation, by spreading the truth, and opening the right way of salvation among them, which may no doubt prove a great and singular blessing not only to the present, but to succeeding generations. And also be a means of opening the blind eyes of formal traditional Christians, who make a profession of godliness, but deny the power thereof, especially those blind guides, mere man-made ministers, and self-styled missionaries, sent out by Bible and missionary societies of man's constituting, under the pretence of converting those, who in the pride of their hearts they call Heathen, to Christianity, while at the same time, judging them by their fruits they themselves, or most of them, stand in as great, or greater need, of right conversion." Among the present-day critics of Elias Hicks, is Dr. J. Rendell Harris, of England. In his paper at the Manchester Conference in 1895, this quotation from Elias Hicks is given: "God never made any distinction in the manifestation of his love to his rational creatures. He has placed every son and daughter of Adam on the same ground and in the same condition that our first parents were in. For every child must come clean out of the hands of God."[202] Doctor Harris says Elias Hicks "was wrong not simply because he was unscriptural, but because he was unscientific."[203] Doctor Harris prefaces this remark by the following comment on the quotation from Elias Hicks: "Now suppose such a doctrine to be propounded in this conference would not the proper answer, the answer of any modern thinker, be (1) that we never had any first parents; (2) we were demonstrably not born good."[204] We do not at all assume that Elias Hicks had no limitations, or that he was correct at all points in his thinking, measured by the standards of present-day knowledge or any other standard. But we must claim that in holding that we had first parents, he was scriptural. The poor man, however, seems to have been, unconsciously, of course, between two stools. The orthodox Friends in the early part of the nineteenth century claimed that Elias was unsound because he did not cling to the letter of the scripture, and his critic just quoted claims that he was unscientific although he used a scriptural term. Doctor Harris then concludes that "a little knowledge of evolution would have saved him (Hicks) all that false doctrine." But how, in his time, could he have had any knowledge of evolution? A man can hardly be criticised for not possessing knowledge absolutely unavailable in his day and generation. We are then informed "that the world at any given instant, shows almost every stage of evolution of life, from the amoeba to the man, and from the cannibal to the saint. Shall we say that the love of God is equally manifested in all these?"[205] To use the Yankee answer by asking another question, may we inquire, in all seriousness, who is qualified to say with certainty that it is not so manifested? Who has the authority, in the language of Whittier, to ... "fix with metes and bounds The love and power of God?" [202] "Report of the Proceedings of the Conference of Members of the Society of Friends, held by Direction of the Yearly Meeting in Manchester," 1895, p. 220. [203] The same, p. 220. [204] We do not hesitate to say that had Elias Hicks made this statement he would have suffered more at the hands of the Philadelphia Elders in 1822 than is recorded in this book. [205] Report Manchester Conference, pp. 220-221. Elias Hicks was given to using figures of speech and scriptural illustrations in a broad sense, and those who carefully read his utterances will have no trouble in seeing in the quotation used by Doctor Harris simply an attempt to repudiate the attribute of favoritism on the part of the Heavenly Father toward any of his human children, and not to formulate a new philosophy of life, based on a theory of the universe about which he had never heard. The special labor of Elias Hicks, as we may now dispassionately review it, was not as an expounder of doctrine, or the creator of a new dogmatism, but as a rationalizing, liberalizing influence in the field of religion. He was a pioneer of the "modern thinkers" of whom Doctor Harris speaks, and did much, amid misunderstanding and the traducing of men, to prepare the way for the broader intellectual and spiritual liberty we now enjoy. CHAPTER XXIV. Recollections, Reminiscences and Testimonies. Many statements which have come down to us from the generation in which Elias Hicks lived, warrant the conclusion that he was a natural orator. He possessed in a large degree what the late Bishop Simpson, of the Methodist Episcopal Church, called "heart power." We are able to give the personal impression of a venerable Friend[206] now living, who as a boy of eleven heard Elias preach twice. [206] Dr. Jesse C. Green, of West Chester, Pa., now in his 93d year. Doctor Green almost retains the sprightliness of youth. One of the sermons was delivered at Center, Del., on the 8th of Twelfth month, 1828, and the other the day before at West Chester. This was on his last long religious visit, which took him to the then "far west," Ohio and Indiana. Doctor Green says that the manner of Elias Hicks when speaking was very impressive. In person he is described by this Friend "as above medium height, rather slim, and with a carriage that would attract universal attention." He wore very plain clothes of a drab color. With no education in logic, and no disposition to indulge in forensic debate, he was, nevertheless a logician, and had he indulged in public disputation, would have made it interesting if not uncomfortable for his adversary. If he occasionally became involved, or got into verbal deep water, he always extricated himself, and made his position clear to his hearers. Doctor Green tells us that he had an uncle, not a member of meeting, but a good judge of public speaking, who considered Elias Hicks the most logical preacher in the Society of Friends. On one occasion he heard Elias when he became very much involved in his speaking, and as this person put it, he thought Elias had "wound himself up," but in a few minutes he came down from his verbal flight, and made every point so clear that he was understood by every listener. Henry Byran Binns, Whitman's English biographer, gives the following estimate of the preaching of Elias Hicks: "With grave emphasis he pronounced his text: 'What is the chief end of man?' and with fiery and eloquent eyes, in a strong, vibrating, and still musical voice, he commenced to deliver his soul-awakening message. The fire of his fervor kindled as he spoke of the purpose of human life; his broad-brim was dashed from his forehead on to one of the seats behind him. With the power of intense conviction his whole presence became an overwhelming persuasion, melting those who sat before him into tears and into one heart of wonder and humility under his high and simple words."[207] [207] "A Life of Walt Whitman," Henry Byran Binns, p. 16. We have another living witness who remembers Elias Hicks. This Friend says that she, with the members of her family, were constant attenders of the Jericho meeting. Speaking of Elias she remarks: "His commanding figure in the gallery is a bright picture I often see in my mind. His person was tall, straight and firm; his manner dignified and noble and agreeable; his voice clear, distinct and penetrating--altogether grand."[208] [208] Extract of letter from Mary Willis, of Rochester, N. Y., dated Ninth month 7, 1910. This Friend is 92 years old. The letter received was entirely written by her, and is a model of legible penmanship and clear statement. We quote the following interesting incidents from the letter of Mary Willis: "One other bit I recall was a talk, or sermon, to the young especially. He related that once he threw a stone and killed a bird, and was struck with consternation and regret at killing an innocent bird that might be a parent, and its young perish for the need of care. He appealed feelingly to the boys to refrain from giving needless pain. "He was guardian to my mother, sisters and brother, and they and their mother returned his loving care with warm affection, always, as did my father. "One of his characteristics was his kindness to the poor. Not far from his home (three miles, perhaps) was a small colony of colored people on poor land, who shared his bounty in cold, wintry weather, in his wagon loads of vegetables and wood, delivered by his own hand." Probably one of the most appreciative, and in the main discriminative estimates of Elias Hicks, was made by Walt Whitman. The "notes (such as they are) founded on Elias Hicks," for such the author called them, were written in Camden, N. J., in the summer of 1888. Elias Hicks had been dead nearly half a century. Whitman's impressions of the famous preacher were based on the memory of a boy ten years old, for that was Whitman's age when he heard Elias Hicks preach in Brooklyn. But personal memory was supplemented by the statements of his parents, especially his mother, as the preaching of their old Long Island neighbor was undoubtedly a subject of frequent conversation in the Whitman home. As to the manner of the preacher Whitman says: "While he goes on he falls into the nasality and sing-song tone sometimes heard in such meetings; but in a moment or two, more as if recollecting himself, he breaks off, stops, and resumes in a natural tone. This occurs three or four times during the talk of the evening, till he concludes."[209] [209] "The Complete Works of Walt Whitman," Vol. 3, p. 259. The "unnamable something behind oratory," Whitman says Elias Hicks had, and it "emanated from his very heart to the heart of his audience, or carried with him, or probed into, and shook or aroused in them a sympathetic germ."[210] [210] The same, p. 264. There are a good many anecdotes regarding Elias Hicks current in Jericho, going to show some of his characteristics. It is stated that at one time he found that corn was being taken, evidently through the slats of the crib. One night he set a trap in the suspected place. Going to the barn in the morning he saw a man standing near where the trap was set. Elias passed on without seeming to notice the visitor. On returning to the house he stopped, spoke to the man, and released him from the trap. Elias would never tell who the man was. Illustrating his feeling regarding slavery, and his testimony against slave labor, the following statement is made: Before his death, and following the fatal paralytic stroke, he noticed that the quilt with which he was covered contained cotton. He had lost the power of speech, but he pushed the covering off, thus indicating his displeasure at the presence of an article of comfort which was the product of slave labor. There is an anecdote which illustrates the spirit of the man in a striking way. He is said to have had a neighbor with whom it did not seem possible to maintain cordial relations. One day Elias saw this neighbor with a big load of hay stalled in a marsh in one of his fields. Without a word of recognition Elias approached the man in the slough and hitching his own ox team to the load in front of the other team proceeded to pull the load out of the slough. It was all done in characteristic Quaker silence. The result was the establishment of cordial relations between the two neighbors. In bestowing his benefactions, he was exceedingly sensitive, not wishing to be known in the matter, and especially not desiring to receive ordinary expressions of gratitude. His habitual custom was to take his load of wood or provisions, as the case might be, leave them at the door or in the yard of the family in need, and without announcement or comment silently steal away. During the Revolutionary War, Elias Hicks, in common with other Friends, had property seized in lieu of military service or taxes. The value does not seem to have been great in any of the cases which were reported to the monthly meeting. We copy the following cases from the records: "On the 28th of Eighth month, 1777, came Justice Maloon, Robert Wilson, Daniel Wilson, and Daniel Weeks, sergeant under the above Captain (Youngs) and took from me a pair of silver buckles, worth 18 shillings; two pair of stockings worth 15 shillings; and two handkerchiefs worth 5 shillings, for my not going at the time of an alarm.--Elias Hicks, Jericho, 24th of Ninth month, 1777."[211] [211] Westbury Monthly Meeting: "A Record of Marriages, Deaths, Sufferings, etc.," p. 231. The "silver buckles" were either for the shoes or the knees. They were evidently more ornamental than useful, and how they comported with the owner's rather severe ideas of plainness is not for us to explain. The price put on these stockings may surprise some twentieth century reader, but it should be remembered that they were long to reach to the knees, and went with short breeches called in the vernacular of the time, "small clothes." "The 3d of Twelfth month, 1777, there came to my house George Weeks, sergeant under said Captain (Thorne) with a warrant, and demanded twelve shillings of me toward paying some men held to repair the forts near the west end of the island, and upon my refusing to pay, took from me a great coat, worth one pound and six shillings.--Elias Hicks."[212] [212] The same, p. 234. We continue the "sufferings," only remarking that the "great coat" was an overcoat, the price at the equivalent of about six dollars and a half was not overdrawn. "The Sixth month, 1778, taken from Elias Hicks by order of Captain Daniel Youngs, for refusing to pay toward hiring of men to work on fortifications near Brooklyn Ferry, a pair of stockings worth 5 shillings; razor case and two razors, worth 4 shillings."[213] [213] The same, p. 242. The next record of "suffering" is more than ordinarily interesting in that it shows that the seizures of property were very arbitrary, and it also gives the price of wheat on Long Island at that time. We quote: "About the middle of Tenth month, 1779, came George Weeks, by order of Captain Daniel Youngs, and I being from home demanded from my wife three pounds, for not assisting to build a fort at Brooklyn Ferry, for which he took two bags with three bushels of wheat, worth one pound, ten shillings."[214] [214] The same, p. 254. At this rate the market price of wheat was $2.50 per bushel. Possibly this was during the period of scarcity, referred to in the introduction. In 1794 Elias Hicks was influential in establishing in Jericho an organization, the scope of which was described in its preamble as follows: "We, the subscribers, do hereby associate and unite into a Society of Charity for the relief of poor among the black people, more especially for the education of their children."[215] [215] This organization has been in continuous existence since its inception. Meets regularly every year, and distributes the proceeds of an invested fund in accordance with its original purpose. This society was almost revolutionary at the time of its inception, showing how far-seeing its projectors were. Its constitution declared that the society was rendered necessary because of the injustice and lack of opportunity which the colored people suffered. The hope was expressed that the time would come when the black people would cease to be a submerged and oppressed race. It was provided that in case the original need for the society should disappear, its benefits might be distributed in any helpful way. It may be interesting to note that at the meetings of the society the scarcity of colored children attending the school was mentioned with regret. So far as we know, the Jericho society was the first organized Friendly effort in negro education. Elias Hicks contributed $50 to the invested funds of the organization. CHAPTER XXV. Putting Off the Harness. During the series of visits, reported in the twenty-second chapter, Elias was ill a number of times, and was forced to rest from his labors. On the return trip from central and western New York, he visited for the last time the Hudson Valley meetings which he attended on his first religious journey in 1779. He arrived in New York the 8th of Eleventh month, attending the mid-week meeting at Hester Street that day. On First-day, the 15th, he attended the Rose Street meeting in the morning and Hester Street in the afternoon. Second-day evening, the 16th, a largely attended appointed meeting was held in Brooklyn. He then proceeded toward Jericho, arriving home on Fourth-day, the 18th of Eleventh month, 1829. The "Journal" is singularly silent regarding this Brooklyn meeting. Henry Byran Binns, on what he considers good authority, says, "Elias Hicks preached in the ball-room of Morrison's Hotel on Brooklyn Heights." To this statement he has added this bit of realistic description: "The scene was one he (Whitman) never forgot. The finely fitted and fashionable place of dancing, the officers and gay ladies in that mixed and crowded assembly, the lights, the colors and all the associations, both of the faces and of the place, presenting so singular contrast with the plain ancient Friends seated upon the platform, their broad-brims on their heads, their eyes closed; with silence, long continued and becoming oppressive; and most of all, with the tall, prophetic figure that rose at length to break it."[216] [216] "A Life of Walt Whitman," p. 16. Whitman's own reference to this meeting is still more striking. He says that he, a boy of ten, was allowed to go to the Hicks meeting because he "had been behaving well that day." The "principal dignitaries of the town" attended this meeting, while uniformed officers from the United States Navy Yard graced the gathering with their presence. The text was, "What is the chief end of man?" Whitman says: "I cannot follow the discourse, it presently becomes very fervid and in the midst of its fervor, he takes the broad-brim hat from his head and almost dashing it down with violence on the seat behind, continues with uninterrupted earnestness. Though the differences and disputes of the formal division of the Society of Friends were even then under way, he did not allude to them at all. A pleading, tender, nearly agonizing conviction and magnetic stream of natural eloquence, before which all minds and natures, all emotions, high or low, gentle or simple, yielded entirely without exception, was its cause, method and effect. Many, very many, were in tears."[217] [217] "The Complete Writings of Walt Whitman." Issued under the editorial supervision of his Literary Executors, 1902, Vol. 3, p. 258. With the account of this journey of 1829 his narrative in the "Journal" closed. This paragraph formed a fitting benediction: "The foregoing meetings were times of favor, and as a seal from the hand of our gracious and never-failing helper, to the labor and travail which he has led me into, and enabled me to perform, for the promotion of this great and noble cause of truth and righteousness in the earth, as set forth in the foregoing account, and not suffering any weapon formed against me to prosper. 'This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their righteousness is of me, saith the Lord.' For all these unmerited favors and mercies, in deep humiliation my soul doth magnify the Lord, and return thanksgiving and glory to his great and excellent name; for his mercy endureth forever."[218] [218] "Journal," p. 438. It should be remembered that Elias Hicks was then past his eighty-first year. He started on this last long religious visit, Sixth month 24th, and was therefore absent from home one week less than five months. He says himself, in the last sentence of the "Journal": "We traveled in this journey nearly fifteen hundred miles." These are words as impressive as they are simple. During this trip many families were visited from the Valley of the Genesee to the City of New York, where he tarried several days that he might see his friends in their homes. Whatever may have been their mind in the case, he doubtless felt that they would look upon his face no more. But Elias Hicks was not yet free from his religious concerns, for on First month 21, 1830, he asked for a minute, which was granted by Jericho Monthly Meeting, and is as follows: "Our beloved Friend, Elias Hicks, presented a concern to make a religious visit to the families of Friends and some Friendly people (as way may open), within the compass of this and Westbury Monthly Meeting, which claimed the solid attention of this meeting, was united with, and he left at liberty to pursue his prospect accordingly." This is the last minute ever asked for by Elias Hicks. But evidently the visits contemplated were never undertaken, for about that time he had a slight attack of paralysis, which affected his right side and arm. Still the next day he attended a meeting at Bethpage, and a little later quarterly and monthly meetings in New York. In both he performed ministerial service with his usual power and clearness. From a little brochure printed in 1829, we quote: "In the Monthly Meeting, he took a review of his labors in the city for many years; and then expressed a belief that his religious services were brought nearly to a close. "After adverting to the great deviations that had taken place in the Society, from that plainness and simplicity into which our principles would lead us, he added, 'but if I should live two or three years longer, what a comfort it would be to me to see a reformation in these respects.' He then spoke in commemoration of the goodness of his Heavenly Father, and closed with these memorable words: 'As certainly as we are engaged to glorify him in all our works, he will as certainly glorify us.'"[219] [219] "Life, Ministry, Last Sickness and Death of Elias Hicks," Philadelphia, J. Richards, printer, 130 North Third Street. But the time of putting off the harness was near at hand. On the 14th of Second month, 1830, he suffered a severe attack of paralysis which involved the entire right side, and deprived him of the use of his voice. When attacked he was alone in his room, but succeeded in getting to his family in an adjoining apartment. He declined all medical aid. In a condition of helplessness he lingered until Seventh-day the 27th, when he quietly passed away. Although he could only communicate by signs, consciousness remained until near the end. The funeral was held in the meeting house at Jericho, on Fourth-day, Third month 3d. Without a storm raged in strange contrast to the peace and quiet within. A large company braved the elements, to pay their respects to his worth, as a man and a minister, while a number of visiting ministering Friends had sympathetic service at the funeral, after which the burial took place in the ground adjoining the meeting-house, where he had long worshipped and ministered. The last act performed by Elias Hicks before the fatal stroke came, was to write a letter to his friend Hugh Judge,[220] of Barnesville, Ohio. Between the two men a singular sympathy had long existed, and to Hugh, Elias unburdened his spirit in this last word to the world. In fact the letter fell from the hand of the writer, after the shock. It was all complete with signature and postscript. [220] Hugh Judge was born about 1750 of Catholic parents. Joined Friends in his young manhood in Philadelphia. Removed to Ohio in 1815. Died Twelfth month 21, 1834. He died while on a religious visit to Friends in Philadelphia Yearly Meeting. Was buried at Kennett Square. He was a recorded minister for many years. This letter really summarizes the doctrine, and states the practical religion which inspired the ministry and determined the life and conduct of this worthy Friend. It may be well, with its suggestive postscript, to close this record of the life and labors of Elias Hicks: "Jericho, Second month 14th, 1830. "Dear Hugh: Thy very acceptable letter of the 21st ultimo was duly received, and read with interest, tending to excite renewed sympathetic and mutual fellow-feeling; and brought to my remembrance the cheering salutation of the blessed Jesus, our holy and perfect pattern and example, to his disciples, viz: 'Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.' By which he assured his disciples, that, by walking in the same pathway of self-denial and the cross, which he trod to blessedness, they might also overcome the world; as nothing has ever enabled any rational being, in any age of the world, to overcome the spirit of the world, which lieth in wickedness, but the cross of Christ. "Some may query, what is the cross of Christ? To these I answer, it is the perfect law of God, written on the tablet of the heart, and in the heart of every rational creature, in such indelible characters that all the power of mortals cannot erase nor obliterate. Neither is there any power or means given or dispensed to the children of men, but this inward law and light, by which the true and saving knowledge of God can be obtained. And by this inward law and light, all will be either justified or condemned, and all be made to know God for themselves, and be left without excuse; agreeably to the prophecy of Jeremiah, and the corroborating testimony of Jesus in his last counsel and command to his disciples, not to depart from Jerusalem until they should receive power from on high; assuring them that they should receive power when they had received the pouring forth of the spirit upon them, which would qualify them to bear witness to him in Judea, Jerusalem, Samaria, and to the uttermost parts of the earth; which was verified in a marvellous manner on the day of Pentecost, when thousands were converted to the Christian faith in one day. By which it is evident that nothing but this inward light and law, as it is heeded and obeyed, ever did, or ever can make a true and real Christian and child of God. And until the professors of Christianity agree to lay aside all their non-essentials in religion, and rally to this unchangeable foundation and standard of truth, wars and fightings, confusion and error will prevail, and the angelic song cannot be heard in our land, that of 'glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace and good will to men.' But when all nations are made willing to make this inward law and light the rule and standard of all their faith and works, then we shall be brought to know and believe alike, that there is but one Lord, one faith, and but one baptism; one God and Father, that is above all, through all, and in all; and then will all those glorious and consoling prophecies, recorded in the scriptures of truth, be fulfilled. Isaiah 2:4. 'He,' the Lord, 'shall judge among the nations, and rebuke many people; and they shall beat their swords into plough-shares, and their spears into pruning-hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation; neither shall they learn war any more.' Isaiah 11. 'The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf, and the young lion, and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them. And the cow and the bear shall feed; their young ones shall lie down together; and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. And the sucking child shall play on the hole of the asp, and the weaned child put his hand on the cockatrice's den. They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain; for the earth,' that is our earthly tabernacles, 'shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea.' "These scripture testimonies give a true and correct description of the gospel state, and no rational being can be a real Christian and true disciple of Christ until he comes to know all these things verified in his own experience, as every man and woman has more or less of all those different animal propensities and passions in their nature; and they predominate and bear rule, and are the source and fountain from whence all wars, and every evil work, proceed, and will continue as long as man remains in his first nature, and is governed by his animal spirit and propensities, which constitute the natural man, which Paul tells us, 'receiveth not the things of the spirit of God, for they are foolishness unto him, neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned.' This corroborates the declaration of Jesus to Nicodemus, that 'except a man be born again he cannot see the kingdom of God;' for 'that which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is born of the spirit is spirit.' "Here Jesus assures us, beyond all doubt, that nothing but spirit can either see or enter into the kingdom of God; and this confirms Paul's doctrine, that 'as many as are led by the spirit of God are the sons of God, and joint heirs with Christ.' And Jesus assures us, by his declaration to his disciples, John 14:16-17; 'if ye love me keep my commandments; and I will pray the Father and he shall give you another comforter, that he may abide with you forever, even the spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive;' that is, men and women in their natural state, who have not given up to be led by this spirit of truth, that leads and guides into all truth; 'because they see him not, neither do they know him, but ye know him, for he dwelleth with you, and shall be in you.' And as these give up to be wholly led and guided by him, the new birth is brought forth in them, and they witness the truth of another testimony of Paul's, even that of being 'created anew in Christ Jesus unto good works,' which God had foreordained that all his new-born children should walk in them, and thereby show forth, by their fruits and good works, that they were truly the children of God, born of his spirit, and taught of him; agreeably to the testimony of the prophet, that 'the children of the Lord are all taught of the Lord, and in righteousness they are established, and great is the peace of his children.' And nothing can make them afraid that man can do unto them; as saith the prophet in his appeal to Jehovah: 'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee, because he trusteth in thee.' Therefore let every one that loves the truth, for God is truth, 'trust in the Lord forever, for in the Lord Jehovah there is everlasting strength.' "I write these things to thee, not as though thou didst not know them, but as a witness to thy experience, as 'two are better than one, and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.' "I will now draw to a close, with just adding, for thy encouragement, be of good cheer, for no new thing has happened to us; for it has ever been the lot of the righteous to pass through many trials and tribulations in their passage to that glorious, everlasting peace and happy abode, where all sorrow and sighing come to an end; the value of which is above all price, for when we have given all that we have, and can give, and suffered all that we can suffer, it is still infinitely below its real value. And if we are favored to gain an inheritance in that blissful and peaceful abode, 'where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest,' we must ascribe it all to the unmerited mercy and loving kindness of our Heavenly Father, who remains to be God over all, blessed forever! "I will now conclude, and in the fulness of brotherly love to thee and thine, in which my family unite, subscribe thy affectionate friend, "ELIAS HICKS. "To Hugh Judge: "Please present my love to all my friends as way opens." APPENDIX. A DESCENDANTS OF ELIAS HICKS. The only lineal descendants of Elias Hicks are through his daughters, Abigail and Sarah. Abigail's husband, Valentine, was her cousin, and Sarah's husband, Robert Seaman, was a relative on the mother's side. Descendants of Valentine and Abigail Hicks. CHILDREN OF THE ABOVE. GRANDCHILDREN OF ELIAS HICKS.--Caroline, married Dr. William Seaman; Phebe, married Adonijah Underhill (no children); Elias Hicks, married Sarah Hicks; Mary (unmarried). GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN OF ELIAS HICKS. CHILDREN OF DR. WILLIAM SEAMAN AND CAROLINE HICKS.--Valentine Hicks Seaman, married Rebecca Cromwell; Sarah Seaman, married Henry B. Cromwell; Samuel Hicks Seaman, married Hannah Husband. CHILDREN OF ELIAS HICKS AND SARAH HICKS.--Mary, married Peter B. Franklin; Elias Hicks (unmarried), deceased; Caroline (unmarried), deceased. GREAT-GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN OF ELIAS HICKS. CHILDREN OF VALENTINE H. AND REBECCA C. SEAMAN.--William, married Addie W. Lobdell; Caroline (infant);[221] Henry B.,[222] married Grace Dutton; Edwin H. (infant); Howard (unmarried), deceased; Valentine H. (unmarried); Emily C. (unmarried); Frederic C., married Ethel Lobdell. [221] Note--Those marked "(infant)" died in infancy. Those without notation are under age and living. [222] Henry B. Seaman is a graduate of Swarthmore College, class of 1881, and received degree of C. E. in 1884. Was for three years Chief Engineer of the Public Service Commission of Greater New York. He resigned this position Tenth month 1, 1910, because he could not approve estimates desired by the authorities. Since then these estimates have been held up as excessive. CHILDREN OF HENRY B. AND SARAH SEAMAN CROMWELL.--George[223] (unmarried); Henry B. (unmarried), deceased. [223] When Greater New York was incorporated George Cromwell was elected President of the Borough of Richmond. Although this borough is normally Democratic in its politics, George Cromwell has been re-elected, and is the only president the borough has ever had. He and Henry B. Seaman are double first cousins. CHILDREN OF SAMUEL H. AND HANNAH H. SEAMAN.--Joseph H. (unmarried); Caroline Hicks, married William A. Read; Mary T. (unmarried); Franklin (unmarried), deceased; Sarah, married Lloyd Saltus. CHILDREN OF PETER B. AND MARY HICKS FRANKLIN.--Anne M., married Walter A. Campbell. GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN OF ELIAS HICKS. CHILDREN OF WILLIAM AND ADDIE SEAMAN.--Howard L. (unmarried); Jessie M. (unmarried). CHILDREN OF HENRY B. AND GRACE D. SEAMAN.--Ayres C.; Henry Bowman. CHILDREN OF FREDERIC C. AND ETHEL L. SEAMAN.--Esther.... CHILDREN OF WILLIAM A. AND CAROLINE SEAMAN READ.--William Augustus; Curtis Seaman; Duncan Hicks; R. Bartow; Caroline Hicks; Bancroft (infant); Bayard W.; Mary Elizabeth; Kenneth B. (infant). CHILDREN OF LLOYD AND SARAH SEAMAN SALTUS.--Mary Seaman; Ethel S.; Seymour; Lloyd. CHILDREN OF WALTER ALLISON AND ANNE M. FRANKLIN CAMPBELL.--Franklin Allison; Mary Elizabeth. Descendants of Robert Seaman and Sarah, Daughter of Elias Hicks. CHILDREN OF THE ABOVE. GRANDCHILDREN OF ELIAS HICKS.--Phebe (died); Hannah, married Matthew F. Robbins; Willet (died); Elizabeth, married Edward Willis; Elias H., married Phebe Underhill; Willet H., married Mary Wing; Mary H., married Isaac Willis. GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN OF ELIAS HICKS. CHILDREN OF HANNAH AND MATTHEW F. ROBBINS.--Caroline, married Sidney W. Jackson; Walter, married Sarah E. Hubbs. CHILDREN OF ELIZABETH AND EDWARD WILLIS.--Sarah R.; Mary S. (died); Caroline H. (died); Henrietta, married Stephen J. Underhill. CHILDREN OF ELIAS H. AND PHEBE SEAMAN.--Mary (died); Samuel J., married Matilda W. Willets; Sarah (died); Anna; Robert, married Hannah W. Willets; William H., married Margaret J. Laurie; James H., married (1) Bessie Bridges; (2) Florence Haviland. CHILDREN OF WILLET H. AND MARY SEAMAN.--Edward W.; Willet H.; Frank W. CHILDREN OF MARY H. AND ISAAC WILLIS.--Henry, married June Barnes; Robert S. GREAT-GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN OF ELIAS HICKS. SON OF CAROLINE AND SIDNEY W. JACKSON.--M. Franklin, married Annie T. Jackson. CHILDREN OF WALTER AND SARAH E. JACKSON.--Caroline J., married William G. Underhill; Annie H., married Thomas Rushmore; Cora A., married John Marshall. CHILDREN OF HENRIETTA AND STEPHEN J. UNDERHILL.--Edward W., married Emeline Kissam; Hannah W.; Henry T., married Dorothy Vernon; Arthur. CHILDREN OF SAMUEL J. AND MATILDA W. SEAMAN.--Mary W., married Leon A. Rushmore; Samuel J., married Ethelena T. Bogart; Anna Louise; Frederick W.; Lewis V. (died). DAUGHTER OF ROBERT AND HANNAH W. SEAMAN.--Phebe U. CHILDREN OF WILLIAM H. AND MARGARET L. SEAMAN.--William Laurie; Faith Frances (died). CHILDREN OF JAMES H. AND BESSIE B. SEAMAN.--George B.; Elias Haviland. CHILDREN OF JAMES H. AND FLORENCE H. SEAMAN.--Bertha Lucina; Willard H.; Helen U. GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN OF ELIAS HICKS. DAUGHTER OF M. FRANKLIN AND ANNIE T. JACKSON.--Marion F. CHILDREN OF CAROLINE J. AND WILLIAM G. UNDERHILL.--Mildred; Irene; Margaret. CHILDREN OF ANNIE H. AND THOMAS RUSHMORE.--Lillian A.; Elizabeth A. SON OF CORA A. AND JOHN MARSHALL.--John W. DAUGHTER OF HENRY T. AND DOROTHY UNDERHILL.--Winifred. SON OF MARY S. AND LEON A. RUSHMORE.--Leon A. B Letter to Dr. Atlee.[224] [224] See page 164 of this book. Copy of a letter from Elias Hicks to Dr. Edwin A. Atlee, of Philadelphia: "JERICHO, Ninth mo. 27, 1824. "MY DEAR FRIEND: "Thy very acceptable letter of the 29th ultimo came duly to hand, and I have taken my pen not only to acknowledge thy kindness, but also to state to thee the unfriendly and unchristian conduct of Anna Braithwaite toward me, not only as relates to that extract, but in her conversation among Friends and others, traducing my religious character, and saying I held and promulgated infidel doctrines, etc.--endeavoring to prejudice the minds of Friends against me, behind my back, in open violation of gospel order. She came to my house, as stated in the extract thou sent me, after the quarterly meeting of ministers and elders at Westbury in First month last. At that meeting was the first time I saw her, which was about five or six months after her arrival in New York. And as I had heard her well spoken of as a minister, I could have had no preconceived opinion of her but what was favorable, therefore, I treated her with all the cordiality and friendship I was capable of. She also, from all outward appearance, manifested the same; and, after dinner, she requested, in company with A. S., a female Friend that was with her, a private opportunity with me. So we withdrew into another room, where we continued in conversation for nearly two hours. And being innocent and ignorant of any cause that I had given, on my part, for the necessity of such an opportunity, I concluded she had nothing more in view than to have a little free conversation on the state of those select meetings. "But, to my surprise, the first subject she spoke upon, was to call in question a sentiment I had expressed in the meeting aforesaid, which appeared to me to be so plain and simple, that I concluded the weakest member in our society, endued with a rational understanding, would have seen the propriety of. It was a remark I made on the absence of three out of four of the representatives appointed by one of the preparative meetings to attend the quarterly meeting. And I having long been of the opinion, that much weakness had been introduced into our society by injudicious appointments, I have often been concerned to caution Friends on that account. The remark I made was this: that I thought there was something wrong in the present instance--for, as we profess to believe in the guidance of the Spirit of Truth as an unerring Spirit, was it not reasonable to expect, especially in a meeting of ministers and elders, that if each Friend attended to their proper gifts, as this Spirit is endued with prescience, that it would be much more likely, under its divine influence, we should be led to appoint such as would attend on particular and necessary occasion, than to appoint those who would not attend? "This idea, she contended, was not correct; and the sentiments she expressed on this subject really affected me. To think that any, professing to be a gospel minister, called from a distant land to teach others, and to be so deficient in knowledge and experience, in so plain a case, that I could not well help saying to her, that her views were the result of a want of religious experience, and that I believed if she improved her talent faithfully, she would be brought to see better, and acknowledge the correctness of my position. But she replied, she did not want to see better. This manifestation of her self-importance, lowered her character, as a gospel minister, very much in my view; and her subsequent conduct, while she was with us, abundantly corroborated and confirmed this view concerning her. As to her charge against me, in regard to the Scriptures, it is generally incorrect, and some of it false. And it is very extraordinary, that she should manifest so much seeming friendship for me, when present, and in my absence speak against me in such an unbecoming manner. Indeed, her conduct toward me, often reminds me of the treachery of Judas, when he betrayed his Master with a kiss. And, instead of acting toward me as a friend or a Christian, she had been watching for evil. "As to my asserting that I believe the Scriptures were held in too high estimation by the professors of Christianity in general, I readily admit, as I have asserted it in my public communications for more than forty years, but, generally, in opposition to those that held them to be the only rule of faith and practice; and my views have always been in accordance with our primitive Friends on this point. And at divers times, when in conversation with hireling teachers, (and at other times) I have given it as my opinion, that so long as they held the Scriptures to be the only rule of faith and practice, and by which they justify wars, hireling ministry, predestination, and what they call the ordinances, viz: water baptism and the passover supper, mere relics of the Jewish law, so long the Scriptures did such, more harm than good; but that the fault was not in the Scriptures, but in their literal and carnal interpretation of them--and that would always be the case until they came to the Spirit that gave them forth, as no other power could break the seal, and open them rightly to us. Hence I have observed, in my public communications, and in conversation with the members of different denominations, and others, who held that the Scriptures are the primary and only rule of faith and practice--that, according to the true analogy of reasoning, 'that for which a thing is such--the thing itself is more such'--as the Spirit was before the Scriptures, and above them, and without the Spirit they could not have been written or known. And with this simple but conclusive argument, I have convinced divers of the soundness of our doctrine in this respect--that not the Scriptures but the Spirit of Truth, which Jesus commanded his disciples to wait for, as their only rule, they would teach them all things, and guide them into all truth, is the primary and only rule of faith and practice, and is the only means by which our salvation is effected. "The extract contains so much inconsistency, and is so incorrect, that, as I proceed, it appears less and less worthy of a reply, and yet it does contain some truth. I admit that I did assert, and have long done it, that we cannot believe what we do not understand. This the Scripture affirms, Deut. xxix. 29--'The secret things belong unto the Lord our God, but the things that are revealed belong unto us and our children forever, that we may do all the words of this law'--and all that is not revealed, is to us the same as a nonentity, and will forever remain so, until it is revealed; and that which is revealed, enables us, agreeably to the apostle's exhortation, to give a reason of the hope that is in us, to honest inquirers. I also assert, that we ought to bring all doctrines, whether written or verbal, to the test of the Spirit of Truth in our minds, as the only sure director relative to the things of God; otherwise, why is a manifestation of the Spirit given to every man if it not to profit by; and, if the Scriptures are about the Spirit, and a more certain test of doctrines, why is the Spirit given, seeing it is useless? But this doctrine, that the Scriptures are the only rule of faith and practice, is a fundamental error, and is manifested to be so by the Scriptures themselves, and also by our primitive Friends' writings. It would seem that Anna Braithwaite has strained every nerve in exaggerating my words, for I have not said more than R. Barclay, and many others of our predecessors, respecting the errors in our English translation of the Bible. Hence it appears, that she was determined to criminate me at all events, by striving to make me erroneous for saying that the Gospel handed to us, was no more authentic than many other writings. Surely a person that did not assent to this, must be ignorant indeed. "Are not the writings of our primitive Friends as authentic as any book or writing, and especially such as were written so many centuries ago, the originals of which have been lost many hundred years? And are not the histories of passing events, written by candid men of the present age, which thousands know to be true, as authentic as the Bible? "Her assertions, that I asked if she could be so ignorant as to believe in the account of the creation of the world, and that I had been convinced for the last ten years, that it was only an allegory, and that it had been especially revealed to me at a meeting in Liberty Street about that time; that I asked her if she thought Adam was any worse after he had eaten the forbidden fruit than before, and that I said I did not believe he was; and also her asserting, that I said that Jesus Christ was no more than a prophet, and that I further said, that if she would read the Scriptures attentively she would believe that Jesus was the son of Joseph: these assertions of hers, are all false and unfounded, and must be the result of a feigned or forced construction of something I might have said, to suit her own purpose. For those who do not wish to be satisfied with fair reasoning, there is no end to their cavilling and misrepresentation. As to what she relates as it regards the manner of our coming into the world in our infant state, it is my belief, that we come into the world in the same state of innocence, and endowed with the same propensities and desires that our first parents were, in their primeval state; and this Jesus Christ has established, and must be conclusive in the minds of all true believers; when he took a little child in his arms and blessed him, and said to them around him that except they were converted, and become as that little child, they should in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven. Of course, all the desires and propensities of that little child, and of our first parents in their primeval state, must have been good, as they were all the endowments of their Creator, and given to them for a special purpose. But it is the improper and unlawful indulgence of them that is evil. "I readily acknowledge, I have not been able to see or understand, how the cruel persecution and crucifixion of Jesus Christ, by the wicked and hard-hearted Jews, should expiate my sins; and never have known anything to effect that for me, but the grace of God, that taught me, agreeably to the apostle's doctrine, to deny all ungodliness and the world's lusts, and do live soberly, righteously, and godly in this present world; and as I have faithfully abode under its teachings, in full obedience thereto, I have been brought to believe that my sins were forgiven, and I permitted to sit under the Lord's teaching, as saith the prophet: 'that the children of the Lord are all taught of the Lord, and in righteousness they are established, and great is the peace of his children.' And so long as I feel this peace, there is nothing in this world that makes me afraid, as it respects my eternal condition. But if any of my friends have received and known benefit from any outward sacrifice, I do not envy them their privilege. But, surely, they would not be willing that I should acknowledge as a truth, that which I have no kind of knowledge of. I am willing to admit, that Divine Mercy is no doubt watching over his rational creation for their good, and may secretly work at times for their preservation; but, if, in his infinite wisdom and goodness, he sees meet to hide it from us, as most consistent with his wisdom and our good, let us have a care that we do not, in the pride of our hearts, undertake to pry into his secret counsels, lest we offend; but be content with what he is pleased to reveal to us, let it be more or less, and, especially, if he is pleased to speak peace to our minds. And when he graciously condescends to do this, we shall know it to be a peace that the world cannot give, with all its enjoyments, neither take away, with all its frowns. "I shall now draw to a close, and, with the salutation of gospel love, I subscribe myself thy affectionate and sympathizing friend and brother. "ELIAS HICKS." To Edwin A. Atlee. C The Portraits. The cut facing page 121 is a photograph from the painting by Henry Ketcham. This was sketched by the artist who was in the public gallery of the meeting house at different times when Elias Hicks was preaching, his presence being unknown to the preacher. It was originally a full-length portrait, but many years ago was injured by fire, when it was cut down to bust size. For some time it was in the home of the late Elwood Walter, of Englewood, N. J. For many years it has been in the family of Henry B. Seaman. It is believed that the pictures made under direction of the late Edward Hopper, had this portrait as their original. The engravings in the "History of Long Island" and in the "Complete Works of Walt Whitman," are probably based on this portrait. They have passed through such a "sleeking-up" process, however, as to lack the individuality of the more crude production. The frontispiece is from a photograph of the bust of Elias Hicks, by the sculptor, William Ordway Partridge, and was made for Henry B. Seaman. In making the bust the artist used the oil painting referred to above, and all of the other pictures of Elias Hicks in existence, including the full-length silhouette. He also had the bust, said to have been taken from the death mask, and from them all attempted to construct what may be termed the "ideal" Elias Hicks. D The Death Mask. Much has been written about the death mask of Elias Hicks, from which the bust in Swarthmore College, in the New York Friend's Library and other places was made. That such a mask was taken admits of no doubt, and the only clear statement regarding the matter is given below. The bust is in the possession of Harry B. Seaman. The issue of "Niles Register" referred to was published only six weeks after the death of Elias Hicks. "We understand an Italian artist of this city, has secretly disinterred the body of Elias Hicks, the celebrated Quaker preacher, and moulded his bust. It seems he had applied to the friends of the deceased to take a moulding previous to his interment, but was refused. Suspicion being excited that the grave had been disturbed, it was examined, and some bits of plaster were found adhering to the hair of the deceased. The enthusiastic Italian was visited, and owned that, as he had been denied the privilege of taking a bust before interment, he had adopted the only method of obtaining one. We have heard nothing more on the subject, except that the bust is a most excellent likeness."[225] [225] Quoted from New York Constellation, in "Niles Weekly Register," April 10, 1830, p. 124. E A Bit of Advertising. As showing the way the presence of ministering Friends was advertised in Philadelphia eighty-eight years ago, we reproduce the following, which appeared in some of the papers[226] of that period: [226] The Cabinet, or Works of Darkness Brought to Light. Philadelphia, 1824, p. 33. "Arrived in this city on the 7th inst., Elias Hicks, a distinguished minister of the gospel, the Benign Doctrines of which he is a faithful embassador, has for many years past practically endeavored (both by precept and example) to promulgate in its primeval beauty and simplicity, without money and without price. Those who are Friends to plain truth and evangelical preaching, that have heretofore been edified and comforted under his ministry, will doubtless be pleased to learn of his arrival, and avail themselves of the present opportunity of attending such appointments as he, under the direction of Divine influence, may see proper to make in his tour of Gospel Love, to the inhabitants of this city and its vicinity. "A CITIZEN." PHILADELPHIA, December 9, 1822. F Acknowledgment. The author of this book acknowledges his indebtedness in its preparation to the following, who either in furnishing data, or otherwise assisted in its preparation: William and Margaret L. Seaman, and Samuel J. Seaman, Glen Cove, N. Y.; Robert and Anna Seaman, Jericho, N. Y.; Henry B. Seaman, Brooklyn, N. Y.; Dr. Jesse H. Green, West Chester, Pa.; Mary Willis, Rochester, N. Y.; Ella K. Barnard and Joseph J. Janney, Baltimore, Md.; Henry B. Hallock, Brooklyn, N. Y.; John Comly, Philadelphia, Pa. G Sources of Information. In making this book the following are the main sources of information that have been consulted; which are referred to those who may wish to go into the details of the matter involved: Journal of Elias Hicks, New York, 1832. Published by Isaac T. Hopper. The Lundy Family. By William Clinton Armstrong. New Brunswick, 1902. The Quaker; A Series of Sermons by Members of the Society of Friends, Philadelphia, 1827-28. Published by Marcus T. C. Gould. A Series of Extemporaneous Discourses, etc., by Elias Hicks. Philadelphia, 1825. Published by Joseph and Edward Parker. Letters of Elias Hicks. Philadelphia, 1861. Published by T. Ellwood Chapman. An Account of the Life and Travels of Samuel Bownas. Edited by J. Besse. London, 1756. Ante-Nicene Fathers. Vol. II. Buffalo, N. Y., 1885. The Christian Literature Publishing Company. The Quakers. By Frederick Storrs Turner. London, 1889. Swan, Sounenschein & Co. A Review of the General and Particular Causes Which Have Produced the Late Disorders in the Yearly Meeting of Friends Held in Philadelphia. By James Cockburn. Philadelphia, 1829. Foster's Report. Two volumes. By Jeremiah J. Foster, Master and Examiner in Chancery. Philadelphia, 1831. Rules of Discipline of the Yearly Meeting of Friends Held in Philadelphia, 1806. The Friend; or Advocate of Truth. Philadelphia, 1828. Published by M. T. C. Gould. An Apology for the True Christian Divinity, etc. By Robert Barclay. Philadelphia, 1877. Friends' Book Store. Memoirs of Anna Braithwaite. By her son, J. Bevan Braithwaite. London, 1905. Headley Brothers. The Christian Inquirer. New York, 1826. Published by B. Bates. J. Bevan Braithwaite; A Friend of the Nineteenth Century. By His Children. London, 1909. Hodder & Stoughton. Sermons by Elias Hicks, Ann Jones and Others of the Society of Friends, etc. Brooklyn, 1828. Journal of Thomas Shillitoe. London, 1839. Harvey & Darton. Memorials of John Bartram and Humphrey Marshall. By William Darlington. Philadelphia, 1849. The American Conflict. By Horace Greeley. Hartford, Conn., 1864. O. D. Case & Co. Memoirs of Life and Religious Labors of Edward Hicks. Philadelphia, 1851. Life of Walt Whitman. Henry Bryan Binns. Complete Works of Walt Whitman. 1902. History of Long Island. Proceedings of the Manchester Conference. 1895. Stephen Grellett. By William Guest. Philadelphia, 1833. Henry Longstreth. INDEX. Abolitionists, Garrisonian, 87 After the "Separation," 195 Aldrich, Royal, reference to, 69 Ancestry and Boyhood, 17 Apostolic Christian, an, 7 Appendix, 226 Apprenticeship of E. H., 22 Atlee, Dr. Edwin A., E. H.'s letter to, Appendix B; reference to, 166 Baltimore Y. M., E. H. attends, 44 Baptists, Southern, reference to, 94 Barclay's Apology, quotation from, 143-144 Bartram, John, reference to, 190; sketch of, 190; his supposed deism, 190-191 Beacon Controversy, the, 169-170 Berry, Mary, at Easton, Md., 37 Binns, Henry Byran, describes E. H.'s preaching, 212-218 Black people commended, 37 Bownas, Samuel (note), 18 Braithwaite, Anna, referred to, 49; sketch of (note), 161; writes to E. H., 162; writes to Friend in Flushing, 163; writes to E. H. from England, 165; writes to E. H. from Kipp's Bay, 168; advised by Jericho ministers and elders, 169; late reference to "Hicksism," 170 Braithwaite, Isaac, reference to (note), 161; reference to, 179-183 Braithwaite, J. Bevan (note), 164-170 Camp meetings, E. H. condemns, 104 Carpenter. E. H. apprenticed as, 22 Christ, Divinity of, 115, 116, 156 Christ as saviour, 156-157 Clarkson, Thomas, receives Hicks' pamphlet, 90 Clement of Alexandria, reference to, 106 Conflict, The American (note), 94 Cotton gin, invention of, 94 Court Crier, E. H. imitates, 62 Cropper, James (note), 89; letter from E. H., 90 Dancing, opinion of, 22 Discipline, E. H.'s regard for, 29 Disownment and doctrine, 188 Disownments for doctrine, 190; E. H. on, 191-193; during slavery agitation, 87-88 Division, before the, 121 Doctrine, statement of by Philadelphia Meeting for Sufferings, 139 Dutchess County, separation in, 178 Early labors in ministry, 32 Easton, Md., letter from, 37 Election, E. H. on, 110 Evans, Jonathan, opposes E. H., 127; clerk Meeting for Sufferings, 139; expounds orthodox doctrine, 153 Exeter, Pa., E. H. writes letter from, 38 Family, the Hicks, 71; E. H.'s statement about, 71; children in, 72-73 First Trouble in Philadelphia, 126 Fisher, Samuel R., entertains E. H., 44 Flushing, O., E. H. meets opposition in, 50; also (note), 50 Free Masonry, E. H. on, 103 Friends, Progressive (note), 88 Garrison, William Lloyd, on Society of Friends, 87 Gibbons, James S., is disowned, 87 Goldsmith, Oliver, extract from "Deserted Village," 68 Gould, Marcus T. C., publisher "The Quaker," 152-153 Greeley, Horace, quotation from, 94 Green, Dr. Jesse C., reference to, 211; recollections of E. H., 211-212 Green Street Monthly Meeting, center of difficulty, 147-149 Grellett, Stephen, sketch of (note), 123; questions orthodoxy of E. H., 123 Gurney, Joseph John, reference to, 165 Harris, Dr. J. Rendell, criticises E. H., 208 Heaven and hell, E. H. on, 110-111 Hicks, Abigail, daughter of E. H., 72; picture of, facing, 97 Hicks, David, son of E. H., 72 Hicks, Edward, sketch of (note), 202; estimate of E. H., 203 Hicks, Elias, apostolic Christian, 7; his type of Quakerism, 7; reading Scriptures, 12; reference to old folks, 13; objects to flower bed, 13; sells wheat at low price to neighbors, 14; favors disciplinary equality for women, 15; birth, 18; reference to parents, 11, 19; death of mother, 20; reference to singing and running horses, 20; apprenticed to learn carpenter's trade, 22; on dancing, 22-23; on hunting, 23-24; reference to possibly lost condition, 23; statement regarding his marriage, 24; marriage application in monthly meeting, 25; takes up residence in Jericho, 26; a surveyor, 27; appears in the ministry, 28-29; regard for discipline, 29; recorded a minister, 30; passes through military lines in Revolutionary War, 31; makes first long religious journey, 32; visits Nine Partners, Vermont, etc., 34; visits New England, 35; visits Philadelphia and Baltimore Yearly Meetings, 36; first sermon against slavery, 36; letter from Easton, Md., 37; visit to states south of New York, 38; visit to Canada, 40; visit New England meetings, 42; goes to Ohio, 43; at Baltimore Y. M., 44; starts on last long religious journey, 46; meets opposition at Westland, 47; experience at Brownsville, 47; at Mt. Pleasant, O., 48-49; attends Ohio Y. M., 49-50; disturbance at Flushing, O., 50; attends Indiana Y. M., 52; trouble at West Grove, Pa., 53; extent of his travels, 56; ideas about the ministry, 57; speaks of his own ministry, 58; against premeditation, 59; measuring the ministry, 60-61; imitates court crier, 62; advice touching meetings and ministry, 63; is frequently indisposed, 64; his Jericho property, 69; statement about his wife, 71; as a father, 72; letters to his wife, 76-83; on the slavery question, 84-94; various opinions, 95; on the joys of labor, 97; ideas regarding railroads, 98; ideas about Thanksgiving, 102; opposes Freemasonry, 103; some points of doctrine, 107-120; has trouble in Philadelphia, 126-128; writes letter to Philadelphia elders, 132; in the time of unsettlement, 139-151; three sermons reviewed, 152-160; is visited by Anna Braithwaite, 162; writes to Dr. Atlee, 164; writes to Anna Braithwaite, 169; in Dutchess County with Ann Jones, 171-176; contact with T. Shillitoe, 184-185; at Mt. Pleasant and Short Creek, O., 186-187; disowned by Westbury and Jericho Monthly Meeting, 189; ideas about disownment, 193-194; at Rose and Hester Streets, New York, 195; remarks on reception by Friends, 196; assumes the humorous role, 196; received by Friends after long western trip, 197; death of wife, 198; visits Dutchess County, 199; preaches in statehouse, Albany, 200; letter to Johnson Legg, 201; his dying testimony, 204; critics of, 202-210; a logical thinker, 211; his kindness to poor, 213-214; deals with corn thief, 214; his dying testimony against slavery, 214; sufferings for peace principles, 215-216; helps organize charity society, 216-217; putting off harness, 218-225; his last traveling minute, 220; attends his last monthly meeting, 220-221; suffers stroke of paralysis, 221; his death, 221; his funeral, 221; last letter to Hugh Judge, 222 Hicks, Elias, Jr., son of E. H., 73 Hicks, Elizabeth, daughter of E. H., 72; picture of, facing, 97 ... Hicks, Sir Ellis, reference to, 17 Hicks Family, the, 71 Hicks, Jonathan, son of E. H., 73 Hicks, John, son of E. H., 72 Hicks, Jemima, wife of E. H., estimate of, 74-75; letters to, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82; death of, 198; funeral of, 198-199 Hicks, Martha, daughter of E. H., 72; picture of, facing, 97 Hicks, Sarah, daughter of E. H., 72 Hicks, Judge Thomas, great-grandfather E. H., 18; befriends S. Bownas, 18 Hicksville, reference to, 66 Hicks, Valentine, son-in-law of E. H., reference to, 66; President Long Island Railroad, 100; picture of, facing, 97 Hodgson, W., reference to E. H.'s sentiments, 206 Home at Jericho, the, 66 Hopper, Isaac T., reference to disownment of, 87 Humor, E. H. indulges in, 196 Immortality, E. H. on, 112-114 Indiana Y. M., E. H. attends, 51 Inquirer, The Christian (note), 102 Introduction, 11 Jackson, Halliday, arrested at Ohio Y. M., 49; statement about (note), 49 Jericho, home at, 66 Jericho Monthly Meeting, members at time of "separation," 188; E. H. advises, 200 Jesus, death and resurrection of, 118-120 Johnson, Oliver, on abolition claims of Friends, 88 Jones, Ann, in Dutchess County, 171; extracts from sermons, 171-172 Jones, George, reference to, 174-176 Judge, Hugh, sketch of (note), 221-222; reference to, 221; E. H.'s letter to, 222-225 Keith, George, sketch of (note), 19 Kennett Monthly Meeting, extract from minutes, 88 Kingston, Canada, E. H. writes letter from, 40 Labor, ideas about, 96-98 Lamb, blood of, 155 Lewis, Evan (note), 89 Liberator, the, quotations from, 87-88 Lloyd, Isaac, statement by, 154 Lost condition, reference to, 23 Lundy, Benjamin, sketch of (note), 86 Manchester Conference, proceedings of (note), 208; quotation from, 208 Marriage of E. H., 25 Marriott, Charles, his disownment, 87 Meeting ministers and elders, a visiting committee, 36 Meeting for Sufferings, to control membership, 150 Merritt, Jesse, travels with E. H., 54; is homesick, 54 Mifflin, Daniel, emancipates slaves, 84 Mifflin, Warner, emancipates slaves, 84; presents memorial to Congress, 84; reference to, 85 Mind, effect on body, 100 Minister, E. H. recorded as, 30 Ministry, E. H.'s first appearance in, 28; ideas about, 57; speaks of his own, 58; measuring the, 60-61 Minute, E. H.'s last traveling, 220 Miraculous conception, the, 114, 194 Monthly Meeting, E. H. attends his last, 220-221 Mosheim's Ecclesiastical History, reference to, 105 Mott, Adam (note), 35 Mott, James, Sr., reference to (note), 35; writes E. H., 123; criticises E. H., 205 Mott, James and Lucretia, reference to, 35 Mt. Pleasant, O., disturbance in meeting at, 48-49; Yearly Meeting 1828 at, 49-50; E. H. and T. Shillitoe at, 186 New England Y. M. visited by E. H., 35; attended by English Friends, 183 New Jersey, Friends in, approve E. H., 196 New York Y. M., attended by English Friends, 183; by T. Shillitoe, 1828, 183; extract from minute of, 183; T. Shillitoe objects to visitors in, 183 Nine Partners, sermon at, 123 Ohio Y. M. attended by E. H., 48-49, 186 Osborn, Charles, prays and preaches two hours, 50 Paine, Thomas, referred to, 117; E. H. on, 117; E. H. compared with, 167 Parker's, Hicks's sermons, extracts from, 92-93 Philadelphia Elders write E. H., 130-131 Philadelphia Meeting for Sufferings starts charge of E. H.'s unsoundness, 129; issues statement of doctrine, 139-143 Pine Street Monthly Meeting offers affront to E. H., 126-127 Property, E. H.'s views about, 95-96 Quakerism, type of, 7 Quaker," "The, extracts from, 91, 96 Quaker creed, a sort of, 139, 143 Railroad, E. H. opposes, 99; the Long Island, 99; Baltimore and Ohio, 98-99; the first (note), 99 Recollections, reminiscences and testimonies, 211-217 Religious journeys in 1828, 46 Routh, Martha, writes letter to E. H., 90 Roy, Rammouhan, sketch of (note), 206; writes E. H., 207 Salvation, universal, 108-109 Salvation, vital, 159 Satan, 116 Schools, public, ideas about, 101 Seaman, Gideon, reference to, 50, 182 Seaman, Jemima, reference to, 24; marries E. H., 25 Seaman, Captain John, moves to Long Island, 26 Seaman, Jonathan, father of Jemima, 26 Seaman, Lazarus, Puritan divine, 26 Sermons, length of, 65 Shillitoe, Thomas, reference to, 47; sketch of (note), 181; declines to visit E. H., 182; refers to his traveling minute, 183-184; goes west, 184; converses with ferry keeper, 186; at Mt. Pleasant, 186 Sin and transgression, 107 Singing, reference to, 20 Slavery, first sermon against, 36 Slavery question, the, 84-94; Friends on, 85-94; pamphlet by E. H. on, 93 Southern Q. M. members of, on E. H., 133-136 Stabler, Deborah and James, sketch of (note), 98 Tallack, William, refers to E. H.'s assertions, 206 Thanksgiving, E. H. on, 102-103 Thomas, Philip E., reference to, 98; sketch of (note), 98 Three sermons reviewed, 152 Time of unsettlement, 139 Titus, Daniel, traveling companion of E. H., 40 Turner, Frederick Storrs, reference to, 122; on E. H., 203-204 Unitarianism, E. H. on, 117; in New England, 121 Unsoundness, charge of, 146 War, Revolutionary, E. H. passes military lines, 31; E. H.'s "sufferings" during, 215-216 Westbury Monthly Meeting, members at the time of "separation," 188 Westbury and Jericho Monthly Meeting (note), 50; orders E. H. home, 50; reference to, 188; membership of, 188; disowns E. H., 189 Wharton, William, reference to, 207 Wheat, E. H. sells at low price, 14 Whitall, Joseph, reports E. H. unsound, 128 White, George F., influential in disownment of Isaac T. Hopper, 87; on slave labor, 87; attacks various organizations, 87 Whitman, Walt, estimation of E. H., 205; reference to, 218-219; hears E. H. preach, 219; describes E. H.'s preaching, 213 Willets, Deborah (note), 178; extract from letter, 179-180 Willets, Jacob (note), 178; statement about division in meetings, 178 Willets, Joshua, son-in-law of E. H., 70 Willis, Edmund, traveling companion of E. H., 38 Willis, John, traveling companion of E. H., 32 Willis, Mary, reference to, 212; her recollections of E. H., 212-213 Willis, Thomas and Phebe, oppose E. H., 124; dealt with by Jericho Monthly Meeting, 125; reference to, 182 Women, equality of, 15 Woolman, John, on slavery, 84 World, the, against mixing with, 103-104 APPENDIX. A, Descendants of Elias Hicks, 226-228 B, Letter to Dr. Atlee, 229-233 C, The Portraits, 234 D, The Death Mask, 234 E, A Bit of Advertising, 235 F, Acknowledgment, 235 G, Sources of Information, 236-237 TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE. Alphabetization has been fixed in the index and page order in the List of Illustrations was also fixed; however no content was changed, and the changes are not noted in the detailed changes. Archaic, unusual and inconsistent spellings have been maintained as in the original. Obvious typos have been fixed, as detailed below. Page 4: Transcriber's Note Added to Table of Contents by Transcriber. Page 25: "At a monthly meeting held in the meeting house Originally: "At a monthly meting held in the meeting house Page 25: appearing to obstruct their proceedings in Originally: appearing to obestruct their proceedings in Page 29: kept sweet and clean, consistent with Originally: kept sweet and clean, consitent with Page 36: some present who were slaveholders were Originally: some present who were slave-holders were Page 53: which had divided the Society of Friends. Originally: which had divided the Soicety of Friends. Page 65: his willingness to "famish the people from words," Originally: his willingess to "famish the people from words," Page 66: from cellar wall to ridge-pole Originally: from celler wall to ridge-pole Page 72: She passed away in 1871. Originally: She passed away in 1781. Page 76: one wishes for more description, relating to the Originally: one wishes for more discription, relating to the Page 86: Of this Address, Horace Greeley says, Originally: Of this Address, Horace Greely says, Page 97: more delightful and profitable instruction Originally: more delightful and profitable instructtion Page 101: Observation, he said, led him to believe Originally: Observation, he said, lead him to believe Page 106 (note): "Ante-Nicene Fathers," Vol. II, p. 305. Originally: "Anti-Nicene Fathers," Vol. II, p. 305. Page 122: from change in Zion. Originally: from change in zion Page 128: in the early part of Twelfth month, Originally: in the early part of Twefth month, Page 129: believing that Elias succeeded in measurably Originally: believing that Elias succeeded in measureably Page 131: who made the above statements which Originally: who made the above statments which Page 131: "THOMAS WISTAR." Originally: "THOMAS WISTER." Page 133: within the bounds of Philadelphia Quarterly Meeting Originally: within the bounds of Philadelphia Quartely Meeting Page 141: satisfactory sacrifice and not otherwise. Originally: satisfactory sacrifice and no otherwise. Page 160: is to be to the children of men Originally: is to be the children of men Page 165: the propitiatory sacrifice of our Lord and Saviour Originally: the propitiatory sacrifice of our Lord and Savious Page 171 (note): Taken in short-hand by Henry Hoag, p. 20. Originally: Taken in shorthand by Henry Hoag, p. 20. Page 173: The blood of Christ that is immortal Originally: The blood of Chirst that is immortal Page 179: acquainted with their manoeuvring Originally the oe ligature was used. Page 206: many of Elias Hicks' assertions are too blasphemous Originally: many of Elias Hick's assertions are too blasphemous Page 206 (note): and incurred the enmity of his family. Originally: and incurred the emnity of his family. Page 209: from the amoeba to the man Originally the oe ligature was used. Page 224: his disciples, John 14:16-17; Originally: his diciples, John 14:16-17; Page 231: the Spirit given to every man if it not to profit by; Originally: the Spirit given to every man if it it not to profit by; Page 233: undertake to pry into his secret Originally: undertake to prey into his secret Page 235: Acknowledgment. Originally: Acknowledgement. Page 240: Marriott, Charles, his disownment, 87 Originally: Marriot, Charles, his disownment, 87 Page 241: Mosheim's Ecclesiastical History, reference to, 105 Originally: Mosheim's Ecclesiatical History, reference to, 105 Page 241: Tallack, William, refers to E. H.'s assertions, 206 Originally: Tallock, William, refers to E. H.'s assertions, 206 Page 242: E, A Bit of Advertising, 235 Originally: E, A Bit of Advertisting, 235 Page 242: G, Sources of Information, 236-237 Originally omitted from index. 
31406	----	CUDJO'S CAVE. BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE AUTHOR OF "NEIGHBOR JACKWOOD," "THE DRUMMER BOY," ETC. BOSTON: J. E. TILTON AND COMPANY. 1864. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by J. T. TROWBRIDGE, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY THE BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY, 4 SPRING LANE. CONTENTS. I. The Schoolmaster in Trouble II. Penn and the Ruffians III. The Secret Cellar IV. The Search for the Missing V. Carl and his Friends VI. A Strange Coat for a Quaker VII. The Two Guests VIII. The Rover IX. Toby's Patient has a Caller X. The Widow's Green Chest XI. Southern Hospitality XII. Chivalrous Proceedings XIII. The Old Clergyman's Nightgown has an Adventure XIV. A Man's Story XV. An Anti-Slavery Document on Black Parchment XVI. In the Cave and on the Mountain XVII. Penn's Foot Knocks Down a Musket XVIII. Condemned to Death XIX. The Escape XX. Under the Bridge XXI. The Return into Danger XXII. Stackridge's Coat and Hat get Arrested XXIII. The Flight of the Prisoners XXIV. The Dead Rebel's Musket XXV. Black and White XXVI. Why Augustus did not Propose XXVII. The Men with the Dark Lantern XXVIII. Beauty and the Beast XXIX. In the Burning Woods XXX. Refuge XXXI. Lysander Takes Possession XXXII. Toby's Reward XXXIII. Carl Makes an Engagement XXXIV. Captain Lysander's Joke XXXV. The Moonlight Expedition XXXVI. Carl finds a Geological Specimen XXXVII. Carl Keeps his Engagement XXXVIII. Love in the Wilderness XXXIX. A Council of War XL. The Wonders of the Cave XLI. Prometheus Bound XLII. Prometheus Unbound XLIII. The Combat XLIV. How Augustus Finally Proposed XLV. Master and Slave Change Places XLVI. The Traitor XLVII. Bread on the Waters XLVIII. Conclusion L'Envoy CUDJO'S CAVE. I. _THE SCHOOLMASTER IN TROUBLE._ Carl crept stealthily up the bank, and, peering through the window, saw the master writing at his desk. In his neat Quaker garb, his slender form bent over his task, his calm young face dimly seen in profile, there he sat. The room was growing dark; the glow of a March sunset was fading fast from the paper on which the swift pen traced these words:-- "Tennessee is getting too hot for me. My school is nearly broken up, and my farther stay here is becoming not only useless, but dangerous. There are many loyal men in the neighborhood, but they are overawed by the reckless violence of the secessionists. Mobs sanctioned by self-styled vigilance committees override all law and order. As I write, I can hear the yells of a drunken rabble before my school-house door. I am an especial object of hatred to them on account of my northern birth and principles. They have warned me to leave the state, they have threatened me with southern vengeance, but thus far I have escaped injury. How long this reign of terror is to last, or what is to be the end----" A rap on the window drew the writer's attention, and, looking up, he saw, against the twilight sky, the broad German face of the boy Carl darkening the pane. He stepped to raise the sash. "What is it, Carl?" The lad glanced quickly around, first over one shoulder, then the other, and said, in a hoarse whisper,-- "Shpeak wery low!" "Was it you that rapped before?" "I have rapped tree times, not loud, pecause I vas afraid the men would hear." "What men are they?" "The Wigilance Committee's men! They have some tar in a kettle. They have made a fire unter it, and I hear some of 'em say, 'Run, boys, and pring some fedders.'" "Tar and feathers!" The young man grew pale. "They have threatened it, but they will not dare!" "They vill dare do anything; but you shall prewent 'em! See vat I have prought you!" Carl opened his jacket, and showed the handle of a revolver. "Stackridge sent it." "Hide it! hide it!" said the master, quickly. "He offered it to me himself. I told him I could not take it." "He said, may be when you smell tar and see fedders, you vill change your mind," answered Carl. The schoolmaster smiled. The pallor of fear which had surprised him for an instant, had vanished. "I believe in a different creed from Mr. Stackridge's, honest man as he is. I shall not resist evil, but overcome evil with good, if I can; if I cannot, I shall suffer it." "You show you vill shoot some of 'em, and they vill let you go," said Carl, not understanding the nobler doctrine. "Shooting vill do some of them willains some good!" his placid blue eyes kindling, as if he would like to do a little of the shooting. "You take it?" "No," said the young man, firmly. "Such weapons are not for me." "Wery vell!" Carl buttoned his jacket over the revolver. "Then you come mit me, if you please. Get out of the vinder and run. That is pest, I suppose." "No, no, my lad. I may as well meet these men first as last." "Then I vill go and pring help!" suddenly exclaimed, the boy; and away he scampered across the fields, leaving the young man alone in the darkening school-room. It was not a very pleasant situation to be in, you may well believe. As he closed the sash, a faint odor of tar was wafted in on the evening breeze. The voices of the ruffians at the door grew louder and more menacing. He knew they were only waiting for the tar to heat, for the shadows of night to thicken, and for him to make his appearance. He returned to his desk, but it was now too dark to write. He could barely see to sign his name and superscribe the envelope. This done, he buttoned his straight-fitting brown coat, put on his modest hat, and stood pondering in his mind what he should do. A young man scarcely twenty years old, reared in the quiet atmosphere of a community of Friends, and as unaccustomed, hitherto, to scenes of strife and violence as the most innocent child,--such was Penn Hapgood, teacher of the "Academy" (as the school was proudly named) in Curryville. This was the first great trial of his faith and courage. He had not taken Carl's advice, and run, because he did not believe that he could escape the danger in that way. And as for fighting, that was not in his heart any more than it was in his creed. But to say he did not dread to meet his foes at the door, that he felt no fear, would be speaking falsely. He was afraid. His entire nature, delicate body and still more delicate soul, shrank from the ordeal. He went to the outer door, and laid his hand on the bolt, but could not, for a long time, summon resolution to open it. As he hesitated, there came a loud thump on one of the panels which nearly crushed it in, and filled the hollow building with ominous echoes. "Make ready in thar, you hound of a abolitionist!" shouted a brutal voice; "we're about ready fur ye!" Penn's hand drew back. I dare say it trembled, I dare say his face turned white again, as he felt the danger so near. How could he confront, with his sensitive spirit, those merciless, coarse men? "I'll wait a little," he thought within himself. "Perhaps Carl _will_ bring help." There were good sturdy Unionists in the place, men who, unlike the Pennsylvania schoolmaster, believed in opposing evil with evil, force by force. Only last night, one of them entered this very school-room, bolted the door carefully, and sat down to unfold to the young master a scheme for resisting the plans of the secessionists. It was a league for circumventing treason; for keeping Tennessee in the Union; for preserving their homes and families from the horrors of the impending civil war. The conspirators had arms concealed; they met in secret places; they were watching for the hour to strike. Would the schoolmaster join them? Strange to say, they believed in him as a man who had abilities as a leader, "an undeveloped fighting man"--he, Penn Hapgood, the Quaker! Penn smiled, as he declined the farmer's offer of a commission in the secret militia, and refused to accept the weapon of self-defence which the same earnest Unionist had proffered him again, through Carl, the German boy, this night. Penn thought of these men now, and hoped that Carl would haste and bring them to the rescue. Then immediately he blushed at his own cowardly inconsistency; for something in his heart said that he ought not to wish others to do for him what he had conscientious scruples against doing for himself. "I'll go out!" he said, sternly, to his trembling heart. But he would first make a reconnoissance through the keyhole. He looked, and saw one ruffian stirring the fire under the tar kettle, another displaying a rope, and two others alternately drinking from a bottle. He started back, as the thundering on the panel was repeated, and the same voice roared out, "You kin be takin' off them clo'es of yourn; the tar is about het!" "I'll wait a few minutes longer for Carl!" said Penn to himself, with a long breath. Unfortunately, Carl was not just now in a situation to render much assistance. Although he had arrived unseen at the window, he did not retire undiscovered. He had run but a short distance when a gruff voice ordered him to stop. He had a way, however, of misunderstanding English when he chose, and interpreted the command to mean, run faster. Receiving it in that sense, he obeyed. Somebody behind him began to run too. In short, it was a chase; and Carl, glancing backwards, saw long-legged Silas Ropes, one of the ringleaders of the mob, taking appalling strides after him, across the open field. There were some woods about a quarter of a mile away, and Carl made for them, trusting to their shelter and the shades of night to favor his escape. He was fifteen years old, strong, and an excellent runner. He did not again look behind to see if Silas was gaining on him, but attended strictly to his own business, which was, to get into the thickets as soon as possible. His success seemed almost certain; a few rods more, and the undergrowth would be reached; and he was congratulating himself on having thus led away from the schoolmaster one of his most desperate enemies, when he rushed suddenly almost into the arms of two men,--or rather, into a feather-bed, which they were fetching by the corner of the wood lot. "Ketch that Dutchman!" roared Silas. And they "ketched" him. "What's the Dutchman done?" said one of the men, throwing himself lazily on the feather-bed, while his companion held Carl for his pursuer. "I don't know," said Carl, opening his eyes with placid wonder. "I tought he vas vanting to run a race mit me." "A race, you fool!" said Silas, seizing and shaking him. "Didn't you hear me tell ye to stop?" "Did you say _shtop_?" asked Carl, with a broad smile. "It ish wery queer! Ven it sounded so much as if you said _shtep_! so I _shtepped_ just as fast as I could." "What was you thar at the winder fur?" "Vot vinder?" said Carl. "Of the Academy," said Silas. "O! to pe sure! I vas there," said Carl. "Pecause I left my books in there last week, and I vas going to get 'em. But I saw somebody in the house, and I vas afraid." "Wasn't it the schoolmaster?" "I shouldn't be wery much surprised if it vas the schoolmaster," said Carl, with blooming simplicity. "You lying rascal! what did you say to him through the winder?" Carl looked all around with an expression of mild wonder, as if expecting somebody else to answer. "Why don't you speak?" And Silas gave his arm a fierce wrench. "Vat did you say?" "I said, you lying rascal!----" "That is not my name," said Carl, "and I tought you vas shpeaking to somebody else. I tought you vas conwersing mit this man," pointing at the fellow on the bed. "Dan Pepperill!" said Silas, turning angrily on the recumbent figure, "what are you stretching your lazy bones thar fur? We're waiting fur them feathers, and you'll git a coat yourself, if you don't show a little more of the sperrit of a gentleman! You don't act as if your heart was in this yer act of dooty we're performin', any more'n as if you was a northern mudsill yourself!" "Wal, the truth is," said Dan Pepperill, reluctantly getting up from the bed, and preparing to shoulder it, "the schoolmaster has allus treated me well, and though I hate his principles,----" "You don't hate his principles, neither! You're more'n half a abolitionist yourself! And I swear to gosh," said Silas, "if you don't do your part now----" "I will! I'm a-going to!" said Dan, with something like a groan. "Though, as I said, he has allus used me well----" "Shet up!" Silas administered a kick, which Dan adroitly caught in the bed. Mr. Ropes got his foot embarrassed in the feathers, lost his balance, and fell. Dan, either by mistake or design, fell also, tumbling the bed in a smothering mass over the screaming mouth and coarse red nose of the prostrate Silas. The third man, who was guarding Carl, began to laugh. Carl laughed too, as if it was the greatest joke in the world; to enhance the fun of which, he gave his man a sudden push forwards, tripped him as he went, and so flung him headlong upon the struggling heap. This pleasant feat accomplished, he turned to run; but changed his mind almost instantly; and, instead of plunging into the undergrowth, threw himself upon the accumulating pile. There he scrambled, and kicked, with his heels in the air, and rolled over the topmost man, who rolled over Mr. Pepperill, who rolled over the feather-bed, which rolled again over Mr. Ropes, in a most lively and edifying manner. At this interesting juncture Carl's reason for changing his mind and remaining, became manifest. Two more of the chivalry from the tar kettle came rushing to the spot, and would speedily have seized him had he attempted to get off. So he staid, thinking he might be helping the master in this way as well as any other. And now the miscellaneous heap of legs and feathers began to resolve itself into its original elements. First Carl was pulled off by one of the new comers; then Dan and the man Carl had sent to comfort him fell to blows, clinched each other, and rolled upon the earth; and lastly, Mr. Silas Ropes arose, choked with passion and feathers, from under the rent and bursting bed. The two squabbling men were also quickly on their feet, Mr. Pepperill proving too much for his antagonist. "What did you pitch into me fur?" demanded Silas, threatening his friend Dan. "What did Gad pitch into me fur?" said the irate Dan, shaking his fist at Gad. "What did you push and jump on to me fur?" said Gad, clutching Carl, who was still laughing. Thus the wrath of the whole party was turned against the boy. "Pless me!" said he, staring innocently, "I tought it vas all for shport!" The furious Mr. Ropes was about to convince him, by some violent act, of his mistake, when cries from the direction of the school-house called his attention. "See what's there, boys!" said Silas. "Durn me," said Mr. Pepperill, looking across the field as he brushed the feathers from his clothes, "if it ain't the master himself!" In fact, Penn had by this time summoned courage to slip back the bolt, throw open the school-house door, and come out. The gentlemen who were heating the tar and drinking from the bottle were taken by surprise. They had not expected that the fellow would come out at all, but wait to be dragged out. Their natural conclusion was, that he was armed; for he appeared with as calm and determined a front as if he had been perfectly safe from injury himself, while it was in his power to do them some fatal mischief. They could not understand how the mere consciousness of his own uprightness, and a sense of reliance on the arm of eternal justice, could inspire a man with courage to face so many. "My friends," said Penn, as they beset him with threats and blasphemy, "I have never injured one of you, and you will not harm me." And as if some deity held an invisible shield above him, he passed by; and they, in their astonishment, durst not even lay their hands upon him. "I've hearn tell he was a Quaker, and wouldn't fight," muttered one; "but I see a revolver under his coat!" "Where's Sile? Where's Sile Ropes?" cried others, who, though themselves unwilling to assume the responsibility of seizing the young master, would have been glad to see Silas attempt it. Great was the joy of Carl when he saw Mr. Hapgood walking through the guard of ruffians untouched. But, a moment after, he uttered an involuntary groan of despair. It was Penn's custom to cross the fields in going from the Academy to the house where he boarded, and his path wound by the edge of the woods, where Silas and his accomplices were at this moment gathering up the spilt feathers. "All right!" said Mr. Ropes, crouching down in order to remain concealed from Penn's view. "This is as comf'table a place to do our dooty by him as any to be found. Keep dark, boys, and let him come!" II. _PENN AND THE RUFFIANS_. Penn traversed the field, followed by the gang from the school-house. As he approached the woods, Silas and his friends rose up before him. He was thus surrounded. "Thought you'd come and meet us half way, did ye?" said Mr. Ropes, striding across his path. "Very accommodating in you, to be shore!" And he laughed a brutal laugh, which was echoed by all his friends except Dan. "I have not come to meet you," replied Penn, "but I am going about my own private business, and wish to pass on." "Wal, you can't pass on till we've settled a small account with you that's been standing a little too long a'ready. Bring that tar, some on ye! Come, Pepperill! show your sperrit!" This Pepperill was a ragged, lank, starved-looking man, whose appearance was on this occasion rendered ludicrous by the feathers sticking all over him, and by an expression of dejection which _would_ draw down the corners of his miserable mouth and roll up his piteous eyes, notwithstanding his efforts to appear, what Silas termed, "sperrited." "You, too, among my enemies, Daniel!" said Penn, reproachfully. It was a look of grief, not of anger, which he turned on the wretched man. Poor Pepperill could not stand it. "I own, I own," he stammered forth, a picture of mingled fear and contrition, "you've allus used me well, Mr. Hapgood,--but," he hastened to add, with a scared glance at Silas, "I hate your principles!" "Look here, Dan Pepperill!" remarked Mr. Ropes, with grim significance, "you better shet your yaup, and be a bringin' that ar kittle!" Dan groaned, and departed. Penn smiled bitterly. "I have always used him well; and this is the return I get!" He thought of another evening, but little more than a week since, when, passing by this very path, he heard a deeper groan than that which the wretch had just uttered. He turned aside into the edge of the woods, and there beheld an object to excite at once his laughter and compassion. What he saw was this. Dan Pepperill, astride a rail; his hands tied together above it, and his feet similarly bound beneath. The rail had been taken from a fence a mile away, and he had been carried all that distance on the shoulders of some of these very men. They had taken turns with him, and when, tired at last, had placed the rail in the crotches of two convenient saplings, and there left him. The crotch in front was considerably higher than that behind, which circumstance gave him the appearance of clinging to the back of an animal in the act of rearing frightfully, and exposed a delicate part of his apparel that had been sadly rent by contact with splinters. And there the wretch was clinging and groaning when Penn came up. "For the love of the Lord!" said Dan, "take me down!" "Why, what is the matter? How came you here?" "I'm a dead man; that's the matter! I've been wipped to death, and then rode on a rail; that's the way I come here!" "Whipped! what for?" said Penn, losing no time in cutting the sufferer's bonds. "Ye see," said Dan, when taken down and laid upon the ground, "the patrolmen found Combs's boy Pete out t'other night without a pass, and took him and tied him to a tree, and licked him." The "boy Pete" was a negro man upwards of fifty years old, owned by the said Combs. "Wal, ye see, jest cause I found him, and took him home with me, and washed his back fur him, and bound cotton on to it, and kep' him over night, and gin him a good breakfast, and a drink o' suthin' strong in the morning, and then went home with him, and talked with his master so'st he wouldn't git another licking,--just for that, Sile Ropes and his gang took me and served me wus'n ever they served him!" And the broken-spirited man cried like a child at the recollection of his injuries. He was one of the "white trash" of the south, whom even the negroes belonging to good families look down upon; a weak, degraded, kind-hearted man, whose offence was not simply that he had shown mercy to the "boy Pete," after his flogging, but that he associated on familiar terms with such negroes as were not too proud to cultivate his acquaintance, and secretly sold them whiskey. After repeated warnings, he had been flogged, and treated to a ride on a three-cornered rail, and hung up to reflect upon his ungentlemanly conduct and its sad consequences. At sight of him, Penn, who knew nothing of his selling whiskey to the blacks, or of any other offence against the laws or prejudices of the community, than that of befriending a beaten and bleeding slave, felt his indignation roused and his sympathies excited. "It's a dreadful state of society in which such outrages are tolerated!" he exclaimed. "_I_ say, dreadful!" sobbed Mr. Pepperill. "The good Samaritan himself would be in danger of a beating here!" said Penn. "I don't know what good smart 'un you mean," replied the weeping Dan, whose knowledge of Scripture was extremely limited, "but I bet he'd git some, ef he didn't keep his eyes peeled!" And he wiped his nose with his sleeve. Penn smiled at the man's ignorance, and said, as he lifted him up,-- "Friend Daniel, do you know that it is partly your own fault that this deplorable state of things exists?" "How's it my fault, I'd like to know?" whimpered Daniel. "Come, I'll help thee home, and tell thee what I mean, by the way," said Penn, using the idiom of his sect, into which familiar manner of speech he naturally fell when talking confidentially with any one. "I am stiff as any old spavined hoss!" whined the poor fellow, straightening his legs, and attempting to walk. Penn helped him home as he promised, and comforted him, and said to him many things, which he little supposed were destined to be brought against him so soon, and by this very Daniel Pepperill. This was the way of it. When it was known that Penn had befriended the friend of the blacks, Silas Ropes paid Dan a second visit, and by threats of vengeance, on the one hand, and promises of forgiveness and treatment "like a gentleman," on the other, extorted from him a confession of all Penn had said and done. "Now, Dan," said Mr. Ropes, patronizingly, "I'll tell ye what you do. You jine with us, and show yourself a man of sperrit, a payin' off this yer abolitionist for his outrageous interference in our affairs." "Sile," interrupted Dan, earnestly, "what 'ge mean I'm to do? Turn agin' him?" "Exactly," replied Mr. Ropes. "Sile," said Dan, excitedly, "I be durned if I do!" "Then, I swear to gosh!" said Sile, spitting a great stream of tobacco juice across Mrs. Pepperill's not very clean floor, "you'll have a dose yourself before another sun, which like as not'll be your last!" This terrible menace produced its desired effect; and the unwilling Dan was here, this night, one of Penn's persecutors, in consequence. It was not enough that he had shown his "sperrit" by fetching the victim's own bed from his boarding-house, telling his landlady, the worthy Mrs. Sprowl, that Sile said she must "charge it to her abolition boarder." He must now show still more "sperrit" by bringing the tar. A well-worn broom had been borrowed of Mrs. Pepperill, by those who knew best how the tar in such cases should be applied: the handle of this was thrust by one of the men, named Griffin, through the bail of the kettle, and Dan was ordered to "ketch holt o' t'other eend," and help carry. Dan "ketched holt" accordingly. But never was kettle so heavy as that; its miserable weight made him groan at every step. Suddenly the broom-handle slipped from his hand, and down it went. No doubt his laudable object was to spill the tar, in order to gain time for his benefactor, and perhaps postpone the tarring and feathering altogether. But Griffin grasped the kettle in time to prevent its upsetting, and the next instant flourished the club over Dan's head. "I didn't mean tu! it slipped!" shrieked the terrified wretch. After which he durst no more attempt to thwart the chivalrous designs of his friends, but carried the tar like a gentleman. "This way!" said Silas, getting the escaped feathers into a pile with his foot. "Thar! set it down. Now, sir," throwing away his own coat, "peel off them clo'es o' yourn, Mr. Schoolmaster, mighty quick, if you don't want 'em peeled off fur ye!" Penn gave no sign of compliance, but fixed his eye steadfastly upon Mr. Ropes. "I insist," said he,--for he had already made the request while the men were bringing the tar,--"on knowing what I have done to merit this treatment." "Wal, that I don't mind tellin' ye," said Silas, "for we've all night for this yer little job before us. Dan Pepperill, stand up here!" Dan came forward, appearing extremely low-spirited and weak in the knees. "Is it you, Daniel, who are to bear witness against me?" said Penn, in a voice of singular gentleness, which chimed in like a sweet and solemn bell after the harsh clangor of Silas's ruffian tones. Dan rolled up his eyes, hugged his tattered elbows, and gave a dismal groan. "Come!" said Silas, bestowing a slap on his back which nearly knocked him down, "straighten them knees o' yourn, and be a man. Yes, Mr. Schoolmaster, Dan is a-going to bear witness agin' you. He has turned from the error of his ways, and now his noble southern heart is a-burnin' to take vengeance on all the enemies of his beloved country. Ain't it, Dan?--say yes," he hissed in his ear, giving him a second slap, "or else--you know!" "O Lord, yes!" ejaculated Dan, with a start of terror. "What Mr. Ropes says is perfectly--perfectly--jes' so!" "Your heart is a-burnin', ain't it?" said Silas. "Ye--yes! I be durned if it ain't!" said Dan. "This man," continued Ropes, who prided himself on being a great orator, with power to "fire the southern heart," and never neglected an occasion to show himself off in that capacity,--"this individgle ye see afore ye, gentlemen,"--once more hitting Dan, this time with the toe of his boot, gently, to indicate the subject of his remarks,--"was lately as low-minded a peep as ever you see. He had no more conscience than to 'sociate with niggers, and sell 'em liquor, and even give 'em liquor when they couldn't pay fur't; and you all know how he degraded himself by takin' Combs's Pete into his house and doin' for him arter he'd been very properly licked by the patrol. All which, I am happy to say, the deluded man sincerely repents of, and promises to behave more like a gentleman in futur'. Don't you, Dan?" As Dan, attempting to speak, only gasped, Ropes administered a sharp poke in his ribs, whispering fiercely,-- "Say you do, mighty quick, or I'll----!" "O! I repents! I--I be durned if I don't!" said Dan. "And now, as to you!" Silas turned on the schoolmaster. "Your offence in gineral is bein' a northern abolitionist. Besides which, your offences in partic'ler is these. Not contented with teachin' the Academy, which was well enough, since it is necessary that a few should have larnin', so the may know how to govern the rest,--not contented with that, you must run the thing into the ground, by settin' up a evenin' school, and offerin' to larn readin', writin', and 'rithmetic, free gratis, to whosomever wanted to 'tend. Which is contrary to the sperrit of our institootions, as you have been warned more 'n oncet. That's charge Number Two. Charge Number Three is, that you stand up for the old rotten Union, and tell folks, every chance you git, that secession, that noble right of southerners, is a villanous scheme, that'll ruin the south, if persisted in, and plunge the whole nation into war. Your very words, I believe. Can you deny it?" "Certainly, I have said something very much like that, and it is my honest conviction," replied Penn, firmly. "Gentlemen, take notice!" said Mr. Ropes. "We will now pass on to charge Number Four, and be brief, for the tar is a-coolin'. Suthin' like eight days ago, when the afore-mentioned Dan Pepperill was in the waller of his degradation, some noble-souled sons of the sunny south"--the orator smiled with pleasant significance--"lifted him up, and hung him up to air, in the crotches of two trees, jest by the edge of the woods here, and went home to supper, intending to come back and finish the purifying process begun with him later in the evenin'. But what did you do, Mr. Schoolmaster, but come along and take him down, prematoorely, and go to corruptin' him agin with your vile northern principles! Didn't he, Dan?" "I--I dun know" faltered Dan. "Yes, you do know, too! Didn't he corrupt you?" These words being accompanied by a severe hint from Sile's boot, Mr. Pepperill remembered that Penn _did_ corrupt him. "And if I hadn't took ye in season, you'd have returned to your base-born mire, wouldn't you?" "I suppose I would," the miserable Dan admitted. "Wal! now!"--Sile spread his palm over the tar to see if it retained its temperature,--"hurry up, Dan, and tell us all this northern agitator said to you that night." "O Lord!" groaned Pepperill, "my memory is so short!" "Bring that rope, boys! and give him suthin' to stretch it!" said Silas, growing impatient. Dan, knowing that stretching his memory in the manner threatened, implied that his neck was to be stretched along with it, made haste to remember. "My friends," said Penn, interrupting the poor man's forced and disconnected testimony, "let me spare him the pain of bearing witness against me. I recall perfectly well every thing I said to him that night. I said it was a shame that such outrages as had been committed on him should be tolerated in a civilized society. I told him it was partly his own fault that such a state of things existed. I said, 'It is owing to the ignorance and degradation of you poor whites that a barbarous system is allowed to flourish and tyrannize over you.' I said----" But here Penn was interrupted by a violent outcry, the majority of the persons present coming under the head of "poor whites." "Let him go on! let him perceed!" said Silas. "What did you mean by 'barbarous system'?" "I meant," replied Penn, all fear vanishing in the glow of righteous indignation which filled him,--"I meant the system which makes it a crime to teach a man to read--a punishable offence to befriend the poor and down-trodden, or to bind up wounds. A system which makes it dangerous for one to utter his honest opinions, even in private, to a person towards whom he is at the same time showing the mercy which others have denied him." He looked at Dan, who groaned. "A system----" "Wal, I reckon that'll do fur one spell," broke in Silas Ropes. "You've said more 'n enough to convict you, and to earn a halter 'stead of a mild coat of tar and feathers." "I am well aware," said Penn, "that I can expect no mercy at your hands; so I thought I might as well be plain with you." "And plain enough you've been, I swear to gosh!" said Silas. "Boys, strip him!" "Wait a moment!" said Penn, putting them off with a gesture which they mistook for an appeal to some deadly weapon in his pocket. "What I have said has been to free my mind, and to save Daniel trouble. Now, allow me to speak a few words in my own defence. I have committed no crime against your laws; if I have, why not let the laws punish me?" "We take the laws into our hands sech times as these," said the man called Gad. "You're an abolitionist, and that's enough," said another. "If I do not believe slavery to be a good thing, it is not my fault; I cannot help my belief. But one thing I will declare. I have never interfered with your institution in any way at all dangerous to you, or injurious to your slaves. I have not rendered them discontented, but, whenever I have had occasion, I have counselled them to be patient and faithful to their masters. I came among you a very peaceable man, a simple schoolmaster, and I have tried to do good to everybody, and harm to no one. With this motive I opened an evening school for poor whites. How many men here have any education? How many can read and write? Not many, I am sure." "What's the odds, so long as they're men of the true sperrit?" interrupted Silas Ropes. "I can read for one; and as for the rest, what good would it do 'em to be edecated? 'Twould only make 'em jes' sech low, sneakin', thievin' white slaves, like the greasy mechanics at the north." "The white slaves are not at the north," said Penn. "Education alone makes free men. If you, who threaten me with violence here to-night, had the common school education of the north, you would not be engaged in such business; you would be ashamed of assaulting a peaceable man on account of his opinions; you would know that the man who comes to teach you is your best friend. If you were not ignorant men, you, who do not own slaves, would know that slavery is the worst enemy of your prosperity, and you would not be made its willing tools." The firm dignity of the youth, assisted by the illusion that prevailed concerning a revolver in his pocket, had kept his foes at bay, and gained him a hearing. He now attempted to pass on, when the man Gad, stepping behind him, raised the broom-handle, and dealt him a stunning blow on the back of the head. "Down with him!" "Strip him!" "Give him a thrashing first!" "Hang him!" And the ruffians threw themselves furiously upon the fallen man. "Whar's that Dutch boy?" cried Silas. "I meant he should help Dan lay on the tar." But Carl was nowhere to be seen, having taken advantage of the confusion and darkness to escape into the woods. III. _THE SECRET CELLAR._ No sooner did the lad feel himself safe from pursuit, than he made his way out of the woods again, and ran with all speed to Mr. Stackridge's house. To his dismay he learned that that stanch Unionist was absent from home. "Is he in the willage?" said the breathless Carl. "I reckon he is," said the farmer's wife; adding in a whisper,--for she guessed the nature of Carl's business,--"inquire for him down to barber Jim's." And she told him what to say to the barber. Barber Jim was a colored man, who had demonstrated the ability of the African to take care of himself, by purchasing first his own freedom of his mistress, buying his wife and children afterwards, and then accumulating a property as much more valuable than all Silas Ropes and his poor white minions possessed, as his mind was superior to their combined intelligence. Jim had accomplished this by uniting with industrious habits a natural shrewdness, which enabled him to make the most of his labor and of his means. He owned the most flourishing barber-shop in the place, and kept in connection with it (I am sorry to say) a bar, at which he dealt out to his customers some very bad liquors at very good prices. Had Jim been a white man, he would not, of course, have stooped to make money by any such low business as rum-selling--O, no! but being only a "nigger," what else could you expect of him? Well, on this very evening Jim's place began to be thronged almost before it was dark. A few came in to be shaved, while many more passed through the shop into the little bar-room beyond. What was curious, some went in who appeared never to come out again; Mr. Stackridge among the number. It was not to get shaved, nor yet to get tipsy, that this man visited Jim's premises. The moment they were alone together in the bar-room, he gave the proprietor a knowing wink. "Many there?" "I reckon about a dozen," said Jim. "Go in?" Stackridge nodded; and with a grin Jim opened a private door communicating with some back stairs, down which his visitor went groping his way in the dark. Customers came and went; now and then one disappeared similarly down the back stairs; many remained in the barber's shop to smoke, and discuss in loud tones the exciting question of the day--secession; when, lastly, a boy of fifteen came rushing in. His face was flushed with running, and he was quite out of breath. "What's wanting, Carl?" said the barber. "A shave?" This was one of Jim's jokes, at which his customers laughed, to the boy's confusion, for his cheeks were as smooth as a peach. "I vants to find Mishter Stackridge," said the lad. "He ain't here," said Jim, looking around the room. "It is something wery partic'lar. One of his pigs have got choked mit a cob, and he must go home and unchoke him." This was what Carl had been directed by the farmer's wife to say to the barber, in case he should profess ignorance concerning her husband. "Pity about the pig," said Jim. "Mabby Stackridge'll be in bime-by. Any thing else I can do for ye?" Carl stepped up to the barber, and said in a hoarse whisper, loud enough to be heard by every body,-- "A mug of peer, if you pleashe." "I got some that'll make a Dutchman's head hum!" said Jim, leading the way into the little grog room. "That's Villars's Dutch boy," said one of the smokers in the barber-shop. "Beats all nater, how these Dutch will swill down any thing in the shape of beer!" This elegant observation may have had a grain of truth in it, as we who have Teutonic friends may have reason to know. However, the man had mistaken the boy this time. "It is not the peer I vants, it is Mr. Stackridge," whispered Carl, when alone with the proprietor. Jim regarded him doubtfully a moment, then said, "I reckon I shall have to open a cask in the suller. You jest tend bar for me while I am gone." He descended the stairs, closing the door after him. Carl, who thought of the schoolmaster in the hands of the mob, felt his heart swell and burn with anxiety at each moment's delay. Jim did not keep him long waiting. "This way, Carl, if you want some of the right sort," said the negro from the stairs. Carl went down in the darkness, Jim taking his hand to guide him. They entered a cellar, crowded with casks and boxes, where there was a dim lamp burning; but no human being was visible, until suddenly out of a low, dark passage, between some barrels, a stooping figure emerged, giving Carl a momentary start of alarm. "What's the trouble, Carl?" "O! Mishter Stackridge! is it you?" said Carl, as the figure stood erect in the dim light,--sallow, bony, grim, attired in coarse clothes. "The schoolmaster--that is the trouble!" and he hastily related what he had seen. "Wouldn't take the pistol? the fool!" muttered the farmer. "But I'll see what I can do for him." He grasped the boy's collar, and said in a suppressed but terribly earnest voice, "Swear never to breathe a word of what I'm going to show you!" "I shwear!" said Carl. "Come!" Stackridge took him by the wrist, and drew him after him into the passage. It was utterly dark, and Carl had to stoop in order to avoid hitting his head. As they approached the end of it, he could distinguish the sound of voices,--one louder than the rest giving the word of command. "_Order--arms!_" The farmer knocked on the head of a cask, which rolled aside, and opened the way into a cellar beyond, under an old storehouse, which was likewise a part of Barber Jim's property. The second cellar was much larger and better lighted than the first, and rendered picturesque by heavy festoons of cobwebs hanging from the dark beams above. The rays of the lamps flashed upon gun-barrels, and cast against the damp and mouldy walls gigantic shadows of groups of men. Some were conversing, others were practising the soldiers' drill. "Neighbors!" said Stackridge, in a voice which commanded instant attention, and drew around him and Carl an eager group. "It's just as I told you,--Ropes and his gang are lynching Hapgood!" "It's the fellow's own fault," said a stern, dark man, the same who had been drilling the men. "He should have taken care of himself." "Young Hapgood's a decent sort of cuss," said another whom Carl knew,--a farmer named Withers,--"and I like him. I believe he means well; but he ain't one of us." "I've been deceived in him," said a third. "He always minded his own business, and kept so quiet about our institutions, I never suspected he was anti-slavery till I talked with him t'other day about joining us--then he out with it." "He thinks we're all wrong," said a bigoted pro-slavery man named Deslow. "He says slavery's the cause of the war, and it's absurd in us to go in for the Union and slavery too!" For these men, though loyal to the government, and bitterly opposed to secession, were nearly all slaveholders or believers in slavery. "May be the fellow ain't far wrong there," said he who had been drilling his comrades. "I think myself slavery's the cause of the war, and that's what puts us in such a hard place. The time may come when we will have to take a different stand--go the whole figure with the free north, or drift with the cotton states. But that time hain't come yet." "But the time _has_ come," said Stackridge, impatiently, "to do something for Hapgood, if we intend to help him at all. While we are talking, he may be hanging." "And what can we do?" retorted the other. "We can't make a move for him without showing our hand, and it ain't time for that yet." "True enough, Captain Grudd," said Stackridge. "But three or four of us, with our revolvers, can happen that way, and take him out of the hands of Ropes and his cowardly crew without much difficulty. I, for one, am going." "Hapgood don't even believe in fighting!" observed Deslow, with immense disgust; "and blast me if I am going to fight _for_ him!" Carl was almost driven to despair by the indifference of these men and the time wasted in discussion. He could have hugged the grim and bony Stackridge when he saw him make a decided move at last. Three others volunteered to accompany them. The cask was once more rolled away from the entrance, and one by one they crept quickly through the passage into the first cellar. Stackridge preceded the rest, to see that the way was clear. There was no one at the bar; the door leading into the shop was closed; and Carl, following the four men, passed out by a long entry communicating with the street, the door of which was thrown open to the public on occasions when there was a great rush to Jim's bar, but which was fastened this night by a latch that could be lifted only from the inside. IV. _A SEARCH FOR THE MISSING._ The academy was situated in a retired spot, half a mile out of the village. Stackridge and his party were soon pushing rapidly towards it along the dark, unfrequented road. Carl ran on before, leading the way to the scene of the lynching. The place was deserted and silent. Only the cold wind swept the bleak wood-side, making melancholy moans among the trees. Overhead shone the stars, lighting dimly the desolation of the ground. "Now, where's yer tar-and-feathering party?" said Stackridge. "See here, Dutchy! ye hain't been foolin' us, have ye?" "I vish it vas notting but fooling!" said Carl, full of distress, fearing the worst. "We have come too late. The willains have took him off." "Feathers, men!" muttered Stackridge, picking up something from beneath his feet. "The boy's right! Now, which way have they gone?--that's the question." "Hark!" said Carl. "I see a man!" Indeed, just then a dim figure arose from the earth, and appeared slowly and painfully moving away. "Hold on there!" cried Stackridge. "Needn't be afeared of us. We're your friends." The figure stopped, uttering a deep groan. "Is it you, Hapgood?" "No," answered the most miserable voice in the world. "It's me." "Who's _me_?" "Pepperill--Dan Pepperill; ye know me, don't ye, Stackridge?" "You? you scoundrel!" said the farmer. "What have ye been doing to the schoolmaster? Answer me this minute, or I'll----" "O, don't, don't!" implored the wretch. "I'll answer, I'll tell every thing, only give me a chance!" "Be quick, then, and tell no lies!" The poor man looked around at his captors in the starlight, stooping dejectedly, and rubbing his bent knees. "I ain't to blame--I'll tell ye that to begin with. I've been jest knocked about, from post to pillar, and from pillar to post, till I don't know who's my friends and who ain't. I reckon more ain't than is!" added he, dismally. "That's neither here nor there!" said Stackridge. "Where's Hapgood? that's what I want to know." "Ye see," said Dan, endeavoring to collect his wits (you would have thought they were in his kneepans, and he was industriously rubbing them up), "Ropes sent me to tote the kittle home, and when I got back here, I be durned if they wasn't all gone, schoolmaster and all." "But what had they done to him?" "I don't know, I'm shore! That's what I was a comin' back fur to see. He let me down when I was hung up on the rail, and helped me home; and so I says to myself, says I, 'Why shouldn't I do as much by him?' so I come back, and found him gone." "What was in the kittle?" Stackridge took him by the throat. "O, don't go fur to layin' it to me, and I'll tell ye! Thar'd been tar in the kittle! It had been used to give him a coat. That's the fact, durn me if it ain't! They put it on with the broom--my broom--they made me bring my own broom, that's the everlastin' truth! made me do it myself, and spile my wife's best broom into the bargain!" And Pepperill sobbed. "You put on the tar?" "Don't kill me, and I'll own up! I did put on some on't, that's a fact. Ropes would a' killed me if I hadn't, and now you kill me fur doin' of it. He did knock me down, 'cause he said I didn't rub it on hard enough; and arter that he rubbed it himself." "What next, you scoundrel?" "Next, they rolled him in the feathers, and sent me, as I told ye, to tote the kittle home. Now don't, don't go fur to hang me, Mr. Stackridge! Help me, men! help me, Withers,--Devit! For he means to be the death of me, I'm shore!" Indeed, Stackridge was in a tremendous passion, and would, no doubt, have done the man some serious injury but for the timely interposition of Carl. "O, you're a good boy, Carl!" cried Dan, in an exstasy of terror and gratitude. "You know they druv me to it, don't ye? You know I wouldn't have gone fur to do it no how, if 't hadn't been to save my life. And as fur rubbing on the tar, I know'd they'd rub harder 'n I did; so I took holt, if only to do it more soft and gentle-like." Carl testified to Dan's apparent unwillingness to participate in the outrage; and Stackridge, finding that nothing more could be got out of the terror-stricken wretch, flung him off in great rage and disgust. "We must find what they have done with Hapgood," he said. "We're losing time here. We'll go to his boarding-place first." As Pepperill fell backwards upon some stones, and lay there helplessly, Carl ran to him to learn if he was hurt. "Wal, I be hurt some," murmured Dan; "a good deal in my back, and a durned sight more in my feelin's. As if I wan't sufferin' a'ready the pangs of death--wus'n death!--a thinkin' about the master, and what's been done to him, arter he'd been so kind to me--and thinkin' he'd think I'm the ongratefulest cuss out of the bad place!--and then to have it all laid on to me by Stackridge and the rest! that's the stun that hurts me wust of any!" Carl thought, if that was all, he could not assist him much; and he ran on after the men, leaving Pepperill snivelling like a whipped schoolboy on the stones. Penn's landlady, the worthy Mrs. Sprowl, lived in a lonesome house that stood far back in the fields, at least a dozen rods from the road. She was a widow, whose daughters were either married or dead, and whose only son was a rover, having been guilty of some crime that rendered it unsafe for him to visit his bereaved parent. Penn had chosen her house for his home, partly because she needed some such assistance in gaining a living, but chiefly, I think, because she did not own slaves. The other inmates of her solitary abode were two large, ferocious dogs, which she kept for the sake of their company and protection. But this night the house looked as if forsaken even by these. It was utterly dark and silent. When Stackridge shook the door, however, the illusion was dispelled by two fierce growls that resounded within. "Hello! Mrs. Sprowl!" shouted the farmer, shaking the door again, and knocking violently. "Let me in!" At that the growling broke into savage barks, which made Stackridge lay his hand on the revolver Carl had returned to him. A window was then cautiously opened, and a bit of night-cap exposed. "If it's you agin," said a shrill feminine voice, "I warn you to be gone! If you think I can't set the dogs on to you, because you've slep' in my house so long, you're very much mistaken. They'll tear you as they would a pa'tridge! Go away, go away, I tell ye; you've been the ruin of me, and I ain't a-going to resk my life a-harboring of you any longer." "Mrs. Sprowl!" answered the stern voice of the farmer. "Dear me! ain't it the schoolmaster?" cried the astonished lady. "I thought it was him come back agin to force his way into my house, after I've twice forbid him!" "Why forbid him?" "Is it you, Mr. Stackridge? Then I'll be free, and tell ye. I've been informed he's a dangerous man. I've been warned to shet my doors agin' him, if I wouldn't have my house pulled down on to my head." "Who warned you?" "Silas Ropes, this very night. He come to me, and says, says he, 'We've gin your abolition boarder a coat, which you must charge to his account;' for you see," added the head at the window, pathetically, "they took the bed he has slep' on, right out of my house, and I don't s'pose I shall see ary feather of that bed ever agin! live goose's feathers they was too! and a poor lone widder that could ill afford it!" "Where is the master?" "Wal, after Ropes and his friends was gone, he comes too, an awful lookin' object as ever you see! 'Mrs. Sprowl,' says he, 'don't be scared; it's only me; won't ye let me in?' for ye see, I'd shet the house agin' him in season, detarmined so dangerous a character should never darken my doors agin." "And he was naked!" "I 'spose he was, all but the feathers, and suthin' or other he seemed to have flung over him." "Such a night as this!" exclaimed Stackridge. "You're a heartless jade, Mrs. Sprowl!--I don't wonder the fellow hates slavery," he muttered to himself, "when it makes ruffians of the men and monsters even of the women!--Which way did he go?" "That's more'n I can tell!" answered the lady, sharply. "It's none o' my business where he goes, if he don't come here! That I won't have, call me what names you please!" And she shut the window. "Hang the critter! after all Hapgood has done for her!" said the indignant Stackridge,--for it was well-known that she was indebted to the gentle and generous Penn for many benefits. "But it's no use to stand here. We'll go to my house, men,--may be he's there." V. _CARL AND HIS FRIENDS._ Carl Minnevich was the son of a German, who, in company with a brother, had come to America a few years before, and settled in Tennessee. There the Minneviches purchased a farm, and were beginning to prosper in their new home, when Carl's father suddenly died. The boy had lost his mother on the voyage to America. He was now an orphan, destined to experience all the humiliation, dependence, and wrong, which ever an orphan knew. Immediately the sole proprietorship of the farm, which had been bought by both, was assumed by the surviving brother. This man had a selfish, ill-tempered wife, and a family of great boys. Minnevich himself was naturally a good, honest man; but Frau Minnevich wanted the entire property for her own children, hated Carl because he was in the way, and treated him with cruelty. His big cousins followed their mother's example, and bullied him. How to obtain protection or redress he knew not. He was a stranger, speaking a strange tongue, in the land of his father's adoption. Ah, how often then did he think of the happy fatherland, before that luckless voyage was undertaken, when he still had his mother, and his friends, and all his little playfellows, whom he could never see more! So matters went on for a year or two, until the boy's grievances grew intolerable, and he one day took it into his head to please Frau Minnevich for once in his life, if never again. In the night time he made up a little bundle of his clothes, threw it out of the window, got out himself after it, climbed down upon the roof of the shed, jumped to the ground, and trudged away in the early morning starlight, a wanderer. It has been necessary to touch upon this point in Carl's history, in order to explain why it was he ever afterwards felt such deep gratitude towards those who befriended him in the hour of his need. For many days and nights he wandered among the hills of Tennessee, looking in vain for work, and begging his bread. Sometimes he almost wished himself a slave-boy, for then he would have had a home at least, if only a wretched cabin, and friends, if only negroes,--those oppressed, beaten, bought-and-sold, yet patient and cheerful people, whose lot seemed, after all, so much happier than his own. Carl had a large, warm heart, and he longed with infinite longing for somebody to love him and treat him kindly. At last, as he was sitting one cold evening by the road-side, weary, hungry, despondent, not knowing where he was to find his supper, and seeing nothing else for him to do but to lie down under some bush, there to shiver and starve till morning, a voice of unwonted kindness accosted him. "My poor boy, you seem to be in trouble; can I help you?" Poor Carl burst into tears. It was the voice of Penn Hapgood; and in its tones were sympathy, comfort, hope. Penn took him by the arm, and lifted him up, and carried his bundle for him, talking to him all the time so like a gentle and loving brother, that Carl said in the depths of his soul that he would some day repay him, if he lived; and he prayed God secretly that he might live, and be able some day to repay him for those sweet and gracious words. Penn never quitted him until he had found him a home; neither after that did he forget him. He took him into his school, gave him his tuition, and befriended him in a hundred little ways beside. And now the time had arrived when Penn himself stood in need of friends. The evening came, and Carl was missing from his new home. "Whar's dat ar boy took hisself to, I'd like to know!" scolded old Toby. "I'll clar away de table, and he'll lose his supper, if he stays anoder minute! Debil take me, if I don't!" He had made the same threat a dozen times, and still he kept Carl's potatoes hot for him, and the table waiting. For the old negro, though he loved dearly to show his importance by making a good deal of bluster about his work, had really one of the kindest hearts in the world, and was as devoted to the boy he scolded as any indulgent old grandmother. "The 'debil' will take you, sure enough, I'm afraid, Toby, if you appeal to him so often," said a mildly reproving voice. It was Mr. Villars, the old worn-out clergyman; a man of seventy winters, pale, white-haired, blind, feeble of body, yet strong and serene of soul. He came softly, groping his way into the kitchen, in order to put his feet to Toby's fire. "Laws, massa," said old Toby, grinning, "debil knows I ain't in 'arnest! he knows better'n to take me at my word, for I speaks his name widout no kind o' respec', allus, I does. Hyar's yer ol' easy char fur ye, Mass' Villars. Now you jes' make yerself comf'table." And he cleared a place on the stove-hearth for the old man's feet. "Thank you, Toby." With his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, his hands folded thoughtfully before his breast, and his beautiful old face smiling the kindness which his blind eyes could not _look_, Mr. Villars sat by the fire. "Where is Carl to-night, Toby?" "Dat ar's de question; dat's de pint, massa. Mos' I can say is, he ain't whar he ought to be, a eatin' ob his supper. Chocolate's all a bilin' away to nuffin! ketch dis chile tryin' to keep tings hot for his supper anoder time!" And Toby added, in a whisper expressive of great astonishment at himself, "What I eber took dat ar boy to keep fur's one ob de mysteries!" For Toby, though only a servant (indeed, he had formerly been a slave in the family), had had his own way so long in every thing that concerned the management of the household, that he had come to believe himself the proprietor, not only of the house and land, and poultry and pigs, but of the family itself. He owned "ol' Mass Villars," and an exceedingly precious piece of property he considered him, especially since he had become blind. He was likewise (in his own exalted imagination) sole inheritor and guardian-in-chief of "Miss Jinny," Mr. Villars's youngest daughter, child of his old age, of whom Mrs. Villars said, on her death-bed, "Take always good care of my darling, dear Toby!"--an injunction which the negro regarded as a sort of last will and testament bequeathing the girl to him beyond mortal question. There was, in fact, but one member of the household he did not exclusively claim. This was the married daughter, Salina, whose life had been embittered by a truant husband,--no other, in fact, than the erring son of the worthy Mrs. Sprowl. The day when the infatuated girl made a marriage so much beneath the family dignity, Toby, in great grief and indignation, gave her up. "I washes my hands ob her! she ain't no more a chile ob mine!" said the old servant, passionately weeping, as if the washing of his hands was to be literal, and no other fluid would serve his dark purpose but tears. And when, after Sprowl's desertion of her, she returned, humiliated and disgraced, to her father's house,--that is to say, Toby's house,--Toby had compassion on her, and took her in, but never set up any claim to her again. "Where is Carl? Hasn't Carl come yet?" asked a sweet but very anxious voice. And Virginia, the youngest daughter, stood in the kitchen door. "He hain't come yet, Miss Jinny; dat ar a fact!" said Toby. "'Pears like somefin's hap'en'd to dat ar boy. I neber knowed him stay out so, when dar's any eatin' gwine on,--for he's a master hand for his supper, dat boy ar! Laws, I hain't forgot how he laid in de vittles de fust night Massa Penn fetched him hyar! He was right hungry, he was, and he took holt powerful! 'I neber can keep dat ar boy in de world,' says I; 'he'll eat me clar out o' house an' home!' says I. But, arter all, it done my ol' heart good to see him put in, ebery ting 'peared to taste so d'effle good to him!" And Toby chuckled at the reminiscence. "My daughter," said Mr. Villars, softly. She was already standing behind his chair, and her trembling little hands were smoothing his brow, and her earnest face was looking pale and abstracted over him. He could not see her face, but he knew by her touch that the tender act was done some how mechanically to-night, and that she was thinking of other things. She started as he spoke, and, bending over him, kissed his white forehead. "I suspect," he went on, "that you know more of Carl than we do. Has he gone on some errand of yours?" "I will tell you, father!" It seemed as if her feelings had been long repressed, and it was a relief for her to speak at last. "Carl came to me, and said there was some mischief intended towards Penn. This was long before dark. And he asked permission to go and see what it was. I said, 'Go, but come right back, if there is no danger.' He went, and I have not seen him since." "Is this so? Why didn't you tell me before?" "Because, father, I did not wish to make you anxious. But now, if you will let Toby go----" "I'll go myself!" said the old man, starting up. "My staff, Toby! When I was out, I heard voices in the direction of the school-house,--I felt then a presentiment that something was happening to Penn. I can control the mob,--I can save him, if it is not too late." He grasped the staff Toby put into his hand. "O, father!" said the agitated girl; "are you able?" "Able, child? You shall see how strong I am when our friend is in danger." "Let me go, then, and guide you!" she exclaimed, glad he was so resolved, yet unwilling to trust him out of her sight. "No, daughter. Toby will be eyes for me. Yet I scarcely need even him. I can find my way as well as he can in the dark." The negro opened the door, and was leading out the blind old minister, when the light from within fell upon a singular object approaching the house. It started back again, like some guilty thing; but Toby had seen it. Toby uttered a shriek. "De debil! de debil hisself, massa!" and he pulled the old man back hurriedly into the house. "The devil, Toby? What do you mean?" demanded Mr. Villars. "O, laws, bress ye, massa, ye hain't got no eyes, and ye can't see!" said Toby, shutting the door in his fright, and rolling his eyes wildly. "It's de bery debil! he's come for dis niggah dis time, sartin'. Cos I, cos I 'pealed to him, as you said, massa! cos I's got de habit ob speakin' his name widout no kind o' respec'!" And he stood bracing himself, with his back against the door, as if determined that not even that powerful individual himself should get in. "You poor old simpleton!" said Mr. Villars, "there is no fiend except in your own imagination. Open the door!" "No, no, massa! He's dar! he's dar! He'll cotch old Toby, shore!" And the terrified black held the latch and pushed with all his might. "What did he see, Virginia?" "I don't know, father! There was certainly somebody, or something,--I could not distinguish what." "It's what I tell ye!" gibbered Toby. "I seed de great coarse har on his speckled legs, and de wings on his back, and a right smart bag in his hand to put dis niggah in!" "It might have been Carl," said Virginia. "No, no! Carl don't hab sech legs as dem ar! Carl don't hab sech great big large ears as dem ar! O good Lord! good Lord!" the negro's voice sank to a terrified whisper, "he's a-knockin' for me now!" "It's a very gentle rap for the devil," said Mr. Villars, who could not but be amused, notwithstanding the strange interruption of his purpose, and Toby's vexatious obstinacy in holding the door. "It's some stranger; let him in!" "No, no, no!" gasped the negro. "I won't say nuffin, and you tell him I ain't to home! Say I'se clar'd out, lef', gone you do'no' whar!" "Toby!" was called from without. "Dat's his voice! dat ar's his voice!" said Toby. And in his desperate pushing, he pushed his feet from under him, and fell at full length along the floor. "It's the voice of Penn Hapgood!" exclaimed the old minister. "Arise, quick, Toby, and open!" Toby rubbed his head and looked bewildered. "Are ye sartin ob dat, massa? Bress me, I breeve you're right, for oncet! It _ar_ Mass' Penn's voice, shore enough!" He opened the door, but started back again with another shriek, convinced for an instant that it was, after all, the devil, who had artfully borrowed Penn's voice to deceive him. But no! It was Penn himself, his hat and clothes in his hand, smeared with black tar and covered with feathers from head to foot; not even his features spared, nor yet his hair; on his cheeks great clumps of gray goose plumes, suggestive of diabolical ears, and with no other covering but this to shield him from the night wind, save the emptied bed-tick, which he had drawn over his shoulders, and which Toby had mistaken for Satanic wings. VI. _A STRANGE COAT FOR A QUAKER._ Now, Virginia Villars was the very last person by whom Penn would have wished to be seen. He was well aware how utterly grotesque and ludicrous he must appear. But he was not in a condition to be very fastidious on this point. Stunned by blows, stripped of his clothing (which could not be put on again, for reasons), cruelly suffering from the violence done him, exposed to the cold, excluded from Mrs. Sprowl's virtuous abode, he had no choice but to seek the protection of those whom he believed to be his truest friends. In the little sitting-room of the blind old minister he had always been gladly welcomed. Such minds as his were rare in Curryville. His purity of thought, his Christian charity, his ardent love of justice, and (quite as much as any thing) his delight in the free and friendly discussion of principles, whether moral, political, or theological, made him a great favorite with the lonely old man. His coming made the winter evenings bloom. Then the aged clergyman, deprived of sight, bereft of the companionship of books, and of the varied consolations of an active life, felt his heart warmed and his brain enlivened by the wine of conversation. He and Penn, to be sure, did not always agree. Especially on the subject of _non-resistance_ they had many warm and well-contested arguments; the young Quaker manifesting, by his zeal in the controversy, that he had an abundance of "fight" in him without knowing it. Nor to Mr. Villars alone did Penn's visits bring pleasure. They delighted equally young Carl and old Toby. And Virginia? Why, being altogether devoted to her blind parent, for whose happiness she could never do enough, she was, of course, enchanted with the attentions she saw Penn pay _him_. That was all; at least, the dear girl thought that was all. As for Salina, forsaken spouse of the gay Lysander Sprowl, she too, after sulkily brooding over her misfortunes all day, was glad enough to have any intelligent person come in and break the monotony of her sad life in the evening. Such were Penn's relations with the family to whom alone he durst apply for refuge in his distress. Others might indeed have ventured to shelter him; but they, like Stackridge, were hated Unionists, and any mercy shown to him would have brought evil upon themselves. Mr. Villars, however, blind and venerated old man, had sufficient influence over the people, Penn believed, to serve as a protection to his household even with him in it. So hither he came--how unwillingly let the proud and sensitive judge. For Penn, though belonging to the meekest of sects, was of a soul by nature aspiring and proud. He had the good sense to know that the outrage committed on him was in reality no disgrace, except to those guilty of perpetrating it. Yet no one likes to appear ridiculous. And the man of elevated spirit instinctively shrinks from making known his misfortunes even to his best friends; he is ashamed of that for which he is in no sense to blame, and he would rather suffer heroically in secret, than become an object of pity. Most of all, as I have said, Penn dreaded the pure Virginia's eyes. Mr. Villars could not see him, and for Salina he did not care much--singularly enough, for she alone was of an acrid and sarcastic temper. What he devoutly desired was, to creep quietly to the kitchen door, call out Carl if he was there, or secretly make known his condition to old Toby, and thus obtain admission to the house, seclusion, and assistance, without letting Virginia, or her father even, know of his presence. How this honest wish was thwarted we have seen. When the door was first opened, he had turned to fly. But that was cowardly; so he returned, and knocked, and called the negro by name, to reassure him. And the door was once more opened, and Virginia saw him--recognized him--knew in an instant what brutal deed had been done, and covered her eyes instinctively to shut out the hideous sight. But it was no time to indulge in feelings of false modesty, if she felt any. It was no time to be weak, or foolish, or frightened, or ashamed. "It is Penn!" she exclaimed in a burst of indignation and grief. "Toby! Toby! you great stupid----! what are you staring for? Take him in! why don't you? O, father!" And she threw herself on the old man's bosom, and hid her face. "What has happened to Penn?" asked the old man. "I have been tarred-and-feathered," answered Penn, entering, and closing the door behind him. "And I have been shut out of Mrs. Sprowl's house. This is my excuse for coming here. I must go somewhere, you know!" "And where but here?" answered the old man. He had suppressed an outburst of feeling, and now stood calm, compassionating, extending his hands,--his staff fallen upon the floor. "I feared it might come to this! Terrible times are upon us, and you are only one of the first to suffer. You did well to come to us. Are you hurt?" "I hardly know," replied Penn. "I beg of you, don't be alarmed or troubled. I hope you will excuse me. I know I am a fearful object to look at, and did not intend to be seen." He stood holding the bed-tick over him, and his clothes before him, to conceal as much as possible his hideous guise, suffering, in that moment of pause, unutterable things. Was ever a hero of romance in such a dismal plight? Surely no writer of fiction would venture to show his hero in so ridiculous and damaging an aspect. But this is not altogether a romance, and I must relate facts as they occurred. "Do not be sorry that I have seen you," said Virginia, lifting her face again, flashing with tears. "I see in this shameful disguise only the shame of those who have so cruelly treated you! Toby will help you. And there is Carl at last!" She retreated from the room by one door just as Carl and Stackridge entered by the other. Poor Penn! gentle and shrinking Penn! it was painful enough for him to meet even these coarser eyes, friendly though they were. The shock upon his system had been terrible; and now, his strength and resolution giving way, his bewildered senses began to reel, and he swooned in the farmer's arms. VII. _THE TWO GUESTS._ Virginia entered the sitting-room--the same where so many happy evenings had been enjoyed by the little family, in the society of him who now lay bruised, disfigured, and insensible in Toby's kitchen. She walked to and fro, she gazed from the windows out into the darkness, she threw herself on the lounge, scarce able to control the feelings of pity and indignation that agitated her. For almost the first time in her life she was fired with vindictiveness; she burned to see some swift and terrible retribution overtake the perpetrators of this atrocious deed. Mr. Villars soon came out to her. She hastened to lead him to a seat. "How is he?--much injured?" she asked. "He has been brutally used," said the old man. "But he is now in good hands. Where is Salina?" "I don't know. I had been to look for her, when I came and found you in the kitchen. I think she must have gone out." "Gone out, to-night? That is very strange!" The old man mused. "She will have to be told that Penn is in the house. But I think the knowledge of the fact ought to go no farther. Mr. Stackridge is of the same opinion. Now that they have begun to persecute him, they will never cease, so long as he remains alive within their reach." "And we must conceal him?" "Yes, until this storm blows over, or he can be safely got out of the state." "There is Salina now!" exclaimed the girl, hearing footsteps approach the piazza. "If it is, she is not alone," said the old man, whose blindness had rendered his hearing acute. "It is a man's step. Don't be agitated, my child. Much depends on our calmness and self-possession now. If it is a visitor, you must admit him, and appear as hospitable as usual." It was a visitor, and he came alone--a young fellow of dashy appearance, handsome black hair and whiskers, and very black eyes. "Mr. Bythewood, father," said Virginia, showing him immediately into the sitting-room. "I entreat you, do not rise!" said Mr. Bythewood, with exceeding affability, hastening to prevent that act of politeness on the part of the blind old man. "Did you not bring my daughter with you?" asked Mr. Villars. "Your daughter is here, sir;" and he of the handsome whiskers gave Virginia a most captivating bow and smile. "He means my sister," said Virginia. "She has gone out, and we are feeling somewhat anxious about her." She thought it best to say thus much, in order that, should the visitor perceive any strangeness or abstraction on her part, he might think it was caused by solicitude for the absent Salina. "Nothing can have happened to her, certainly," remarked Mr. Bythewood, seating himself in an attitude of luxurious ease, approaching almost to indolent recklessness. "We are the most chivalrous people in the world. There is no people, I think, on the face of the globe, among whom the innocent and defenceless are so perfectly secure." Virginia thought of the hapless victim of the mob in the kitchen yonder, and smiled politely. "I have no very great fears for her safety," said the old man. "Yet I have felt some anxiety to know the meaning of the noises I heard in the direction of the academy, an hour ago." Bythewood laughed, and stroked his glossy mustache. "I don't know, sir. I reckon, however, that the Yankee schoolmaster has been favored with a little demonstration of southern sentiment." "How! not mobbed?" "Call it what you please, sir," said Bythewood, with an air of pleasantry. "I think our people have been roused at last; and if so, they have probably given him a lesson he will never forget." "What do you mean by 'our people'?" the old man gravely inquired. "He means," said Virginia, with quiet but cutting irony, "the most chivalrous people in the world! among whom the innocent and defenceless are more secure than any where else on the globe!" "Precisely," said Mr. Bythewood, with a placid smile. "But among whom obnoxious persons, dangerous to our institutions, cannot be tolerated. As for this affair,"--carelessly, as if what had happened to Penn was of no particular consequence to anybody present, least of all to him,--"I don't know anything about it. Of course, I would never go near a popular demonstration of the kind. I don't say I approve of it, and I don't say I disapprove of it. These are no ordinary times, Mr. Villars. The south is already plunged into a revolution." "Indeed, I fear so!" "Fear so? I glory that it is so! We are about to build up the most magnificent empire on which the sun has ever shone!" "Cemented with the blood of our own brethren!" said the old man, solemnly. "There may be a little bloodshed, but not much. The Yankees won't fight. They are not a military people. Their armies will scatter before us like chaff before the wind. I know you don't think as I do. I respect the lingering attachment you feel for the old Union--it is very natural," said Bythewood, indulgently. The old man smiled. His eyes were closed, and his hands were folded before him near his breast, in his favorite attitude. And he answered,-- "You are very tolerant towards me, my young friend. It is because you consider me old, and helpless, and perhaps a little childish, no doubt. But hear my words. You are going to build up a magnificent empire, founded on--slavery. But I tell you, the ruin and desolation of our dear country--that will be your empire. And as for the institution you mean to perpetuate and strengthen, it will be crushed to atoms between the upper and nether millstones of the war you are bringing upon the nation." He spoke with the power of deep and earnest conviction, and the complacent Bythewood was for a moment abashed. "I was well aware of your opinions," he remarked, rallying presently. "It is useless for us to argue the point. And Virginia, I conceive, does not like politics. Will you favor us with a song, Virginia?" "With pleasure, if you wish it," said Virginia, with perfect civility, although a close observer might have seen how repulsive to her was the presence of this handsome, but selfish and unprincipled man. He was their guest; and she had been bred to habits of generous and self-sacrificing hospitality. However detested a visitor, he must be politely entertained. On this occasion, she led the way to the parlor, where the piano was,--all the more readily, perhaps, because it was still farther removed from the kitchen. Bythewood followed, supporting, with an ostentatious show of solicitude, the steps of the feeble old man. Bythewood named the pieces he wished her to sing, and bent graciously over the piano to turn the music-leaves for her, and applauded with enthusiasm. And so she entertained him. And all the while were passing around them scenes so very different! There was Penn, heroically stifling the groans of a wounded spirit, within sound of her sweet voice, and Bythewood so utterly ignorant of his presence there! A little farther off, and just outside the house, a young woman was even then parting, with whispers and mystery, from an adventurous rover. Still a little farther, in barber Jim's back room, Silas Ropes was treating his accomplices; and while these drank and blasphemed, close by, in the secret cellar, Stackridge's companions were practising the soldier's drill. Salina parted from the rover, and came into the house while Virginia was singing, throwing her bonnet negligently back, as she sat down. "Why, Salina! where have you been?" said Virginia, finishing a strain, and turning eagerly on the piano stool. "We have been wondering what had become of you!" "You need never wonder about me," said Salina, coldly. "I must go out and walk, even if I don't have time till after dark." She drummed upon the carpet with her foot, while her upper lip twitched nervously. It was a rather short lip, and she had an unconscious habit of hitching up one corner of it, still more closely, with a spiteful and impatient expression. Aside from this labial peculiarity (and perhaps the disproportionate prominence of a very large white forehead), her features were pretty enough, although they lacked the charming freshness of her younger sister's. Virginia knew well that the pretence of not getting time for her walk till after dark was absurd, but, perceiving the unhappy mood she was in, forbore to say so. And she resumed her task of entertaining Bythewood. VIII. _THE ROVER._ Meanwhile the nocturnal acquaintance from whom Salina had parted took a last look at the house, and shook his envious head darkly at the room where the light and the music were; then, thrusting his hands into his pockets, with a swaggering air, went plodding on his lonely way across the fields, in the starlight. The direction he took was that from which Penn had arrived; and in the course of twenty minutes he approached the door of the solitary house with the dark windows and the dogs within. He walked all around, and seeing no light, nor any indication of life, drew near, and rapped softly on a pane. The dogs were roused in an instant, and barked furiously. Nothing daunted, he waited for a lull in the storm he had raised, and rapped again. "Who's there?" creaked the stridulous voice of good Mrs. Sprowl. "_You know!_" said the rover, in a suppressed, confidential tone. "One who has a right." Now, the excellent relict of the late lamented Sprowl reflected, naturally, that, if anybody had a right there, it was he who paid her for his board in advance. "You, agin, after all, is it!" she exclaimed, angrily. "Couldn't you find nowhere else to go to? But if you imagine I've thought better on't, and will let you in, you're grandly mistaken! Go away this instant, or I'll let the dogs out!" "Let 'em out, and be----!" No matter about the last word of the rover's defiant answer. It was a very irritating word to the temper of the good Mrs. Sprowl. This was the first time (she thought) she had ever heard the mild and benignant schoolmaster swear; but she was not much surprised, believing that it was scarcely in the power of man to endure what he had that night endured, and not swear. "Look out for yourself then, you sir! for I shall take you at your word!" And there was a sound of slipping bolts, followed by the careful opening of the door. Out bounced the dogs, and leaped upon the intruder; but, instead of tearing him to pieces, they fell to caressing him in the most vivacious and triumphant manner. "Down, Brag! Off, Grip! Curse you!" And he kicked them till they yelped, for their too fond welcome. "How dare you, sir, use my dogs so!" screamed the lady within, enraged to think they had permitted that miserable schoolmaster to get the better of them. "I'll kick them, and you too, for this trick!" muttered the man. "I'll learn ye to shut me out, and make a row, when I'm coming to see you at the risk of my----" She cut him short, with a cry of amazement. "Lysander! is it you!" "Hold your noise!" said Lysander, pressing into the house. "Call my name again, and I'll choke you! Where's your schoolmaster? Won't he hear?" "Dear me! if it don't beat everything!" said Mrs. Sprowl in palpitating accents. "Don't you know I took you for the master!" "No, I didn't know it. This looks more like a welcome, though!" Lysander began to be mollified. "There, there! don't smother a fellow! One kiss is as good as fifty. The master is out, then? Anybody in the house?" "No, I'm so thankful! It seems quite providential! O, dearie, dearie, sonny dearie! I'm so glad to see you agin!" "Come! none of your sonny dearies! it makes me sick! Strike a light, and get me some supper, can't you?" "Yes, my boy, with all my heart! This is the happiest day I've seen----" "Ah, what's happened to-day?" said Lysander, treating with levity his mother's blissful confession. "I mean, this night! to have you back again! How could I mistake you for that dreadful schoolmaster!" Here her trembling fingers struck a match. "Draw the curtains," said Lysander, hastily executing his own order, as the blue sputter kindled up into a flame that lighted the room. "It ain't quite time for me to be seen here yet." "Where did you come from? What are you here for? O, my dear, dear Lysie!" (she gazed at him affectionately), "you ain't in no great danger, be you?" "That depends. Soon as Tennessee secedes, I shall be safe enough. I'm going to have a commission in the Confederate army, and that'll be protection from anything that might happen on account of old scores. I'm going to raise a company in this very place, and let the law touch me if it can!" He tossed his cap into a corner, and sprawled upon a chair before the stove, at which his devoted mother was already blowing her breath away in the endeavor to kindle a blaze. She stopped blowing to gape at his good news, turning up at him her low, skinny forehead, narrow nose, and close-set, winking eyes. "There! I declare!" said she. "I knowed my boy would come back to me some day a gentleman!" "A gentleman? I'm bound to be that!" said the man, with a braggart laugh and swagger. "I tell ye, mar, we're going to have the greatest confederacy ever was!" "Do tell if we be!" said the edified "mar." "Six months from now, you'll see the Yankees grovelling at our feet, begging for admission along with us. We'll have Washington, and all of the north we want, and defy the world!" "I want to know now!" said Mrs. Sprowl, overcome with admiration. "The slave-trade will be reopened, Yankee ships will bring us cargoes of splendid niggers, not a man in the south but'll be able to own three or four, they'll be so cheap, and we'll be so rich, you see," said Lysander. "You don't say, re'lly!" "That's the programme, mar! You'll see it all with your own eyes in six months." "Why, then, why _shouldn't_ the south secede!" replied "mar," hastening to put on the tea-kettle, and then to mix up a corn dodger for her son's supper. "I'm sure, we ought all on us to have our servants, and live without work; and I knowed all the time there was another side to what Penn Hapgood preaches (for he's dead set agin' secession), though I couldn't answer him as _you_ could, Lysie dear!" "Wal, never mind all that, but hurry up the grub!" said "Lysie dear," putting sticks in the stove. "I hain't had a mouthful since breakfast." "You hain't seen _her_, of course," observed Mrs. Sprowl, mysteriously. "Her? who?" "Salina!" in a whisper, as if to be overheard by a mouse in the wall would have been fatal. "Wal, I have seen _her_, I reckon! Not an hour ago. By appointment. I wrote her I was coming, got a woman to direct the letter, and had a long talk with her to-night. What I want just now is, a little money, and she's got to raise it for me, and what she can't raise I shall look to you for." "O dear me! don't say money to me!" exclaimed the widow, alarmed. "Partic'larly now I've lost my best feather-bed and my boarder!" "What is it about your boarder? Out with it, and stop this hinting around!" Thus prompted, Mrs. Sprowl, who had indeed been waiting for the opportunity, related all she knew of what had happened to Penn. Lysander kindled up with interest as she proceeded, and finally broke forth with a startling oath. "And I can tell you where he has gone!" he said. "He's gone to the house I can't get into for love nor money! She refused me admission to-night--refused me money! but he is taken in, and their money will be lavished on him!" "But how do you know, my son,----" "How do I know he's there? Because, when I was with her in the orchard, we saw an object--she said it was some old nigger to see Toby--go into the kitchen. Then in a little while a man--it must have been Stackridge, if you say he was looking for him--went in with Carl, and didn't come out again, as I could see. I staid till the light from the kitchen went up into the bedroom, in the corner of the house this way. There's yer boarder, mar, I'll bet my life! But he won't be there long, I can tell ye!" laughed Lysander, maliciously. IX. _TOBY'S PATIENT HAS A CALLER._ Mr. Bythewood had now taken his departure; Salina had been intrusted with the secret; and Penn had been put to bed (as the rover correctly surmised) in the corner bedchamber. He had been diligently plucked; as much of the tar had been removed as could be easily taken off by methods known to Stackridge and Toby, and his wounds had been dressed. And there he lay, at last, in the soothing linen, exhausted and suffering, yet somehow happy, thinking with gratitude of the friends God had given him in his sore need. "Bress your heart, dear young massa!" said old Toby, standing by the bed (for he would not sit down), and regarding him with an unlimited variety of winks, and nods, and grins, expressive of satisfaction with his work; "ye're jest as comf'table now as am possible under de sarcumstances. If dar's anyting in dis yer world ye wants now, say de word, and ol' Toby'll jump at de chance to fetch 'em fur ye." "There is nothing I want now, good Toby, but that you and Carl should rest. You have done everything you can--and far more than I deserve. I will try to thank you when I am stronger." "Can't tink ob quittin' ye dis yer night, nohow, massa! Mr. Stackridge he's gone; Carl he can go to bed,--he ain't no 'count here, no way. But I'se took de job o' gitt'n you well, Mass' Penn, and I'se gwine to put it frew 'pon honor,--do it up han'some!" And notwithstanding Penn's remonstrances, the faithful black absolutely refused to leave him. Indeed, the most he could be prevailed upon to do for his own comfort, was to bring his blanket into the room, and promise that he would lie down upon it when he felt sleepy. Whether he kept his word or not, I cannot say; but there was no time during the night when, if Penn happened to stir uneasily, he did not see the earnest, tender, cheerful black face at his pillow in an instant, and hear the affectionate voice softly inquire,-- "What can I do fur ye, massa? Ain't dar nuffin ol' Toby can be a doin' fur ye, jes' to pass away de time?" Sometimes it was water Penn wanted; but it did him really more good to witness the delight it gave Toby to wait upon him, than to drink the coolest and most delicious draught fresh from the well. At length Penn began to feel hot and stifled. "What have you hung over the window, Toby?" "Dat ar? 'Pears like dat ar's my blanket, sar. Ye see, 'twouldn't do, nohow, to let nary a chink o' light be seen from tudder side, 'cause dat 'ud make folks s'pec' sumfin', dis yer time o' night. So I jes' sticks up my ol' blanket--'pears like I can sleep a heap better on de bar floor!" "But I must have some fresh air, you dear old hypocrite!" said Penn, deeply touched, for he knew that the African had deprived himself of his blanket because he did not wish to disturb him by leaving the room for another. "I'll fix him! Ill fix him!" said Toby. And he seemed raised to the very summit of happiness on discovering that there was something, requiring the exercise of his ingenuity, still to be done for his patient. After that Penn slept a little. "Tank de good Lord," said the old negro the next morning, "you're lookin' as chirk as can be! I'se a right smart hand fur to be nussin' ob de sick; and sakes! how I likes it! I'se gwine to hab you well, sar, 'fore eber a soul knows you'se in de house." Yet Toby's words expressed a great deal more confidence than he felt; for, though he had little apprehension of Penn's retreat being discovered, he saw how weak and feverish he was, and feared the necessity of sending for a doctor. Penn now insisted strongly that the old servant should not neglect his other duties for him. "Now you jes' be easy in yer mind on dat pint! Dar's Carl, tends to out-door 'rangements, and I'se got him larnt so's't he's bery good, bery good indeed, to look arter my cow, and my pigs, and sech like chores, when I'se got more 'portant tings on hand myself. And dar's Miss Jinny, she's glad enough to git de breakfust herself dis mornin'; only jes' I kind o' keeps an eye on her, so she shan't do nuffin wrong. She an' Massa Villars come to 'quire bery partic'lar 'bout you, 'fore you was awake, sar." These simple words seemed to flood Penn's heart with gratitude. Toby withdrew, but presently returned, bringing a salver. "Nuffin but a little broff, massa. And a toasted cracker." "O, you are too kind, Toby! Really, I can't eat this morning." "Can't eat, sar? I declar, now!" (in a whisper), "how disappinted she'll be!" "Who will be disappointed?" "Who? Miss Jinny, to be sure! She made de broff wid her own hands. Under my d'rections, ob course! But she would make 'em herself, and took a heap ob pains to hab 'em good, and put in de salt wid her own purty fingers, and looked as rosy a stirrin' and toastin' ober de fire as eber you see an angel, sar!" For some reason Penn began to think better of the broth, and, to Toby's infinite satisfaction, he consented to eat a little. Toby soon had him bolstered up in bed, and held the salver before him, and looked a perfect picture of epicurean enjoyment, just from seeing his patient eat. "It is delicious!" said Penn; at which brief eulogium the whole rich, exuberant, tropical soul of the unselfish African seemed to expand and blossom forth with joy. "I shall be sure to get well and strong soon, under such treatment. You must let Carl go to Mrs. Sprowl's and fetch my clothes; I shall want some of them when I get up." "Bress you, sar! you forgets nobody ain't to know whar you be! Mass' Villars he say so. You jes' lef' de clo'es alone, yit awhile. Wouldn't hab dat ar Widder Sprowl find out you'se in dis yer house, not if you'd gib me----" Rap, rap, at the chamber door; two light, hurried knocks. "Miss Jinny herself!" said old Toby, forgetting Mrs. Sprowl in an instant. And setting down the salver, he ran to the door. Penn heard quick whispers of consultation; then Toby came back, his eyes rolling and his ivory shining with a ludicrous expression of wrath and amazement. "It's de bery ol' hag herself! Speak de debil's name and he's allus at de door!" "Who? Mrs. Sprowl?" "Yes, sar! and I wish she was furder, sar! She's a 'quirin' fur you,--says she knows you'se in de house, and it's bery 'portant she must see ye. But, tank de Lord, massa!" chuckled the old negro, "Carl's forgot his English, and don't know nuffin what she wants! he, he, he! Or if she makes him und'stan' one ting, den he talks Dutch, and _she_ don't und'stan.' And so dey'se habin' it, fust one, den tudder, while Miss Jinny she hears 'em and comes fur to let us know. But how de ol' critter eber found you out, dat am one ob de mysteries!" "She merely guesses I am here," said Penn. "I'm only afraid Carl will overdo his part, and confirm her suspicions." "'Sh!" hissed Toby in sudden alarm. "She's a comin! She's a comin' right up to dis yer door!" And he flew to fasten it. He had scarcely done so when a hand tried the latch, and a voice called,-- "Come! ye needn't, none of ye, try to impose on me! I know you're in this very room, Penn Hapgood, and you'll let me in, old friends so, I'm shore! I've bothered long enough with that stupid Dutch boy, and now Virginny wants to keep me, and talk with me; but I've nothing to do with nobody in this house but _you_!" Mrs. Sprowl had not been on amicable terms with her daughter-in-law's family since Salina and her husband separated; and this last declaration she made loud enough for all in the house to hear. Penn motioned for Toby to open the door, believing it the better way to admit the lady and conciliate her. But Toby shook his head--and his fist with grim defiance. "Wal!" said Mrs. Sprowl, "you can do as you please about lettin' a body in; but I'll give ye to understand one thing--I don't stir a foot from this door till it's opened. And if you want it kept secret that you're here, it'll be a great deal better for you, Penn Hapgood, to let me in, than to keep me standin' or settin' all day on the stairs." The idea of a long siege struck Toby with dismay. He hesitated; but Penn spoke. "I am very weak, and very ill, madam. But I have learned what it is to be driven from a door that should be opened to welcome me; and I am not willing, under any circumstances, to treat another as you last night treated me." This was spoken to the lady's face; for Toby, seeing that concealment was at an end, had slipped the bolt, and she had come in. "Wal! now! Mr. Hapgood!" she began, with a simper, which betrayed a little contrition and a good deal of crafty selfishness,--"you mustn't go to bein' too hard on me for that. Consider that I'm a poor widder, and my life war threatened, and I _had_ to do as I did." "Well, well," said Penn, "I certainly forgive you. Give her a chair, Toby." Toby placed the chair, and widow Sprowl sat down. "I couldn't be easy--old friends so--till I had come over to see how you be," she said, folding her hands, and regarding Penn with a solemn pucker of solicitude. "I know, 'twas a dreadful thing; but it's some comfort to think it's nothing I'm any ways to blame fur. It's hard enough for me to lose a boarder, jest at this time,--say nothing about a friend that's been jest like one of my own family, and that I've cooked, and washed, and ironed fur, as if he war my own son!" And Mrs. Sprowl wiped her eyes, while she carefully watched the effect of her words. "I acknowledge, you have cooked, washed, and ironed for me very faithfully," said Penn. "And I thought," said she,--"old friends so,--may be you wouldn't mind making me a present of the trifle you've paid over and above what's due for your board; for I'm a poor widder, as you know, and my only son is a wanderer on the face of the 'arth." Penn readily consented to make the present--perhaps reflecting that it would be equally impossible for him ever to board it out, or get her to return the money. "Then there's that old cloak of yourn," said Mrs. Sprowl, sympathizingly. "I believe you partly promised it to me, didn't you? I can manage to get me a cape out on't." "Yes, yes," said Penn, "you can have the cloak;" while Toby glared with rage behind her chair. "And I considered 'twouldn't be no more'n fair that you should pay for the----I don't see how in the world I can afford to lose it, bein' a poor widder, and live geeses' feathers at that, and my only son----" She hid her face in her apron, overcome with emotion. "What am I to pay for?" asked Penn. "Fur, you know," she said, "I never would have parted with it fur any money, and it will take at least ten dollars to replace it, which is hard, bein' a poor widder, and as strong a linen tick as ever you see, that I made myself, and that my blessed husband died on, and helped me pick the geese with his own hands; and I never thought, when I took you to board, that ever _that_ bed would be sacrificed by it,--for 'twas on your account, you are ware, it was took last night and done for." "And you think I ought to pay for the bed!" said Penn, as much astonished as if Silas Ropes had sent in his bill, "To 1 coat tar and feathers, $10.00." "They said I must look to you," whined the visitor; "and if you don't pay fur't, I don't know who will, I'm shore! for none of them have sot at my board, and drinked of my coffee, and e't of my good corn dodgers, and slep' in my best bed, all for four dollars fifty a week, washing and ironing throwed in, and a poor widder at that!" "Mrs. Sprowl," said Penn, laughing, ill as he was, "have the kindness not to tell any one that I am here, and as soon as I am able to do so, I will pay you for your excellent feather-bed." "Thank you,--very good in you, I'm shore!" said the worthy creature, brightening. "And if there's anything else among your things you can spare." "I'll see! I'll see!" said Penn, wearily. "Leave me now, do!" "But if you had a few dollars, this morning, towards the bed," she insisted, "for my son----" She almost betrayed herself; being about to say that Lysander had arrived, and must have money; but she coughed, and added, in a changed voice, "is a wanderer on the face of the 'arth." Penn, however, reflecting that she would have more encouragement to keep his secret if he held the reward in reserve, replied, that he could not possibly spare any money before collecting what was due him from the trustees of the Academy. Her countenance fell on hearing this; and, reluctantly abandoning the object of her mission, she took her leave, and went home to her hopeful son. X. _THE WIDOW'S GREEN CHEST._ Mr. Villars had spoken truly when he said Penn's persecutors would not rest here. In fact, Mr. Ropes, and three of his accomplices, were even now on the way to Mrs. Sprowl's abode, to make inquiries concerning the schoolmaster. That lone creature had scarcely reached her own door when she saw them coming. Now, though Penn was not in the house, her son was. Great, therefore, was her trepidation at the sight of visitors; and she evinced such eagerness to assure them that the object of their pursuit was not there, and appeared altogether so frightened and guilty, that Ropes winked knowingly at his companions, and said,-- "He's here, boys, safe enough." So they forced their way into the house; her increased tremor and confusion serving only to confirm them in their suspicions. "Not that we doubt your word in the least, Mrs. Sprowl,"--Ropes smiled sarcastically. "But of course you can't object to our searching the premises, for we're in the performance of a solemn dooty. Any whiskey in the house, widder?" The obliging lady went to find a bottle. She was gone so long, however, that the visitors became impatient. Ropes accordingly stationed two of his men at the doors, and with the third went in pursuit of Mrs. Sprowl, whom they met coming down stairs. "Keep your liquor up there, do ye?" said Ropes, significantly. "I--I thought--" Mrs. Sprowl gasped for breath before she could proceed--"the master had some in his room. But I can't find it. You are at liberty to--to look in his room, if you wants to." "Wal, it's our dooty to, I suppose. Meantime, you can be bringing the whiskey. Give some to the boys outside, then bring the bottle up to us. That's the way, Gad," said Silas, as she unwillingly obeyed; "allus be perlite to the sex, ye know." "Sartin! allus!" said Gad. It was evident these men fancied themselves polite. "But he ain't here," said Silas, just glancing into Penn's room, "or else she wouldn't have been so willing for us to search. Le's begin at the top of the house, and look along down." They entered a low-roofed, empty garret. "As we can't perceed without the whiskey, we'll wait here. Meantime, I'll tell you what you wanted to know." They sat down on a little old green chest, and Ropes, producing a plug of tobacco, gave his friend a bite, and took a bite himself. "What I'm going to say is in perfect confidence, between friends;" chewing and crossing his legs. Gad chewed, and crossed his legs, and said, "O, of course! in perfect confidence!" "Wal, then, I'll tell ye whar the money fur our job comes from. It comes from Gus Bythewood." "Sho!" said Gad, looking surprised at Silas. "Fact!" said Silas, looking wise at Gad. "But what's he so dead set agin' the master fur?" "I'll tell ye, Gad." And Mr. Ropes rested a finger confidingly on his friend's knee. "Fur as I kin jedge, Gus has a sneakin' notion arter that youngest Villars gal; Virginny, ye know." "Don't blame him!" chuckled Gad. "But ye see, thar's that Hapgood; he's a great favoryte with the Villarses, and Gus nat'rally wants to git him out of the way. It won't do, though, for him to have it known he has any thing to do with our operations. He pays us, and backs us up with plenty of cash if we get into trouble; but he keeps dark, you understand." "The master ought to be hung for his abolitionism!" said Gad, by way of self-excuse for being made a jealous man's tool. "That ar's jest my sentiment," replied Silas. "But then he's allus been a peaceable sort of chap, and held his tongue; so he might have been let alone some time yet, if it hadn't been for----What in time!" Ropes started, and changed color, glancing first at Gad, then down at the chest. "He's in it!" whispered Gad. Both jumped up, and, facing about, looked at the green lid, and at each other. The chest was so small it had not occurred to them that a man could get into it. Lysander had got into it, however, and there he lay, so cramped, and stifled, and compressed, that he could not endure the torture without an effort to ease it by moving a little. He had stirred; then all was still again. "Think he's heerd us?" said Silas. "Must have heerd something," said Gad. "Then he's as good as a dead man!" Silas drew his pistol, resolved to sacrifice the schoolmaster on the altar of secrecy. But as he was about to fire into the chest at a venture (for your cowardly assassin does not like to face his victim), the lid flew open, the chivalry stepped hastily back, and up rose out of the chest--not the schoolmaster, but--Lysander Sprowl. Silas had struck his head against a rafter, and was quite bewildered for a moment by the shock, the multitude of meteors that rushed across his firmament, and the sudden apparition. Gad, at the same time, stood ready to take a plunge down the stairs in case the schoolmaster should show fight. "Gentlemen," said the "wanderer on the face of the 'arth," straightening his limbs, and saluting with a reckless air, "I hope I see ye well. Never mind about shooting an old friend, Sile Ropes. I reckon we're about even; and I'll keep your secret, if you'll keep mine." "That's fair," said Ropes, recovering from the falling stars, and putting up his weapon. "Lysander, how are ye? Good joke, ain't it?" And they shook hands all around. "But whar's the schoolmaster?" And Silas rubbed his head. "I know all about the schoolmaster," said Lysander, stepping out of the chest; "he ain't in this house, but I know just where he is. And I reckon 'twill be for the interest of me and Gus Bythewood if we can have a little talk together, tell him. If he's got money to spare, that'll be to my advantage; and what I know will be to his advantage." So saying, Lysander closed the chest, and coolly invited the chivalry to resume their seats. They did so, much to the amazement of Mrs. Sprowl, who came up stairs with the whiskey, and found the "wanderer on the face of the 'arth" conversing in the most amicable manner with Gad and Silas. XI. _SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY._ If what Silas Ropes had said of his patron, Augustus Bythewood, was true, great must have been the chagrin of that chivalrous young gentleman when an interview was brought about between him and Lysander, and he learned that Penn, instead of being driven from the state, had found refuge in the family of Mr. Villars--that he was there even at the moment when he made his delightful little evening call, and was entertained so charmingly by Virginia. Bythewood gave Sprowl money, and Sprowl gave Bythewood information and advice. It was in accordance with the programme decided upon by these two worthies, that Mr. Ropes at the head of his gang presented himself the next night at Mr. Villars's door. Virginia, by her father's direction, admitted them. They crowded into the sitting-room, where the old man rose to receive them, with his usual urbanity. "Virginia, have chairs brought for all our friends. I cannot see to recognize them individually, but I salute them all." "No matter about the cheers," said Silas. "We can do our business standing. Sorry to trouble you with it, sir, but it's jest this. We understand you're harboring a Yankee abolitionist, and we've called to remind you that sech things can't be allowed in a well-regulated community." The old man, holding himself still erect with punctilious politeness,--for his guests were not seated,--and smiling with grand and venerable aspect, made reply in tones full of dignity and sweetness: "My friends, I am an old man; I am a native of Virginia, and a citizen of Tennessee; and all my life long I have been accustomed to regard the laws of hospitality as sacred." "My sentiments exactly. I won't hear a word said agin' southern horsepitality, or southern perliteness." Mr. Ropes illustrated his remark by spitting copious tobacco-juice on the floor. "Horsepitality I look upon as one of the stable institootions of our country." "No doubt it is so," said Mr. Villars, smiling at the unintentional pun. "That's one thing," added Silas; "but harboring a abolitionist is another. That's the question we've jest took the liberty to call and have a little quiet talk about, to-night." "Sit down, dear father, do!" entreated Virginia, remaining at his side in spite of her dread and abhorrence of these men. Holding his hand, and regarding him with pale and anxious looks, she endeavored with gentle force to get him into his chair. "My father is very feeble," she said, appealing to Silas, "and I beg you will have some consideration for him." "Sartin, sartin," said Silas. "Keep yer settin', keep yer settin', Mr. Villars." But the old man still remained upon his feet,--his tall, spare form, bent with age, his long, thin locks of white hair, and his wan, sightless, calm, and beautiful countenance presenting a wonderful contrast to the blooming figure at his side. It was a picture which might well command the respectful attention of Silas and his compeers. "My friends," he said, with a grave smile, "we men of the south are rather boastful of our hospitality. But true hospitality consists in something besides eating and drinking with those whose companionship is a sufficient recompense for all that we do for them. It clothes the naked, feeds the hungry, shelters the distressed. With the Arabs, even an enemy is sacred who happens to be a guest. Shall an old Virginian think less of the honor of his house than an Arab?" Silas looked abashed, silenced for a moment by these noble words, and the venerable and majestic mien of the blind old clergyman. It would not do, however, to give up his mission so; and after coughing, turning his quid, and spitting again, he replied,-- "That'll do very well to talk, Mr. Villars. But come to the pint. You've got a Yankee abolitionist in your house--that you won't deny." "I have in my house," said the old man, "a person whose life is in danger from injuries received at your hands last night. He came to us in a condition which, I should have thought, would excite the pity of the hardest heart. Whether or not he is a Yankee abolitionist, I never inquired. It was enough for me that he was a fellow-creature in distress. He is well known in this community, where he has never been guilty of wrong towards any one; and, even if he were a dangerous person, he is not now in a condition to do mischief. Gentlemen, my guest is very ill with a fever." "Can't help that; you must git red of him," said Silas. "I'm a talking now for your own good as much as any body's, Mr. Villars. You're a man we all respect; but already you've made yourself a object of suspicion, by standing up fur the old rotten Union." "When I can no longer befriend my guests, or stand up for my country, then I shall have lived long enough!" said the old man, with impressive earnestness. "The old Union," said Gad, coming to the aid of Silas, "is played out. We couldn't have our rights, and so we secede." "What rights couldn't you have under the government left to us by Washington?" "That had become corrupted," said Mr. Ropes. "How corrupted, my friend?" "By the infernal anti-slavery element!" "You forget," said Mr. Villars, "that Washington, Jefferson, and indeed all the wisest and best men who assisted to frame the government under which we have been so prospered, were anti-slavery men." "Wal, I know, some on 'em hadn't got enlightened on the subject," Mr. Ropes admitted. "And do you know that if a stranger, endowed with all the virtues of those patriots, should come among you and preach the political doctrines of Washington and Jefferson, you would serve him as you served Penn Hapgood last night?" "Shouldn't wonder the least mite if we should!" Silas grinned. "But that's nothing to the purpose. We claim the right to carry our slaves into the territories, and Lincoln's party is pledged to keep 'em out, and that's cause enough for secession." "How many slaves do you own, Mr. Ropes?" Mr. Villars, still leaning on his daughter's arm, smiled as he put this mild question. "I--wal--truth is, I don't own nary slave myself--wish I did!" said Silas. "How many friends have you with you?" "'Lev'n," said Gad, rapidly counting his companions. "Well, of the eleven, how many own slaves?" "I do!" "I do!" spoke up two eager voices. "How many slaves do you own?" "I've got as right smart a little nigger boy as there is anywheres in Tennessee!" said the first, proudly. "How old is he?" "He'll be nine year' old next grass, I reckon." "Well, how many negroes has your friend?" "I've got one old woman, sir." "How old is she?" "Wal, plaguy nigh a hunderd,--old Bess, you know her." "Yes, I know old Bess; and an excellent creature she is. So it seems that you eleven men own two slaves. And these you wish to take into some of the territories, I suppose." The men looked foolish, and were obliged to own that they had never dreamed of conveying either the nine-year-old lad or the female centenarian out of the state of Tennessee. "Then what is the grievance you complain of?" asked the old man. They could not name any. "O, now, my friends, look you here! I believe in the right of revolution when a government oppresses a people beyond endurance. But in this case it appears, by your own showing, that not one of you has suffered any wrong, and that this is not a revolution in behalf of the poor and oppressed. If anybody is to be benefited by it, it is a few rich owners of slaves, who are prosperous enough already, and have really no cause of complaint. It is a revolution precipitated by political leaders, who wish to be rulers; and what grieves me at the heart is, that the poor and ignorant are thus permitting themselves to be made the tools of this tyranny, which will soon prove more despotic than it was possible for the dear old government ever to become. God bless my country! God bless my poor distracted country!" As he finished speaking, the old man sank down overcome with emotion upon his chair, clasping his daughter's hand, while tears ran down his cheeks. His argument was so unanswerable that nothing was left for Silas but to get angry. "I see you're not only a Unionist, but more'n half a Yankee abolitionist yourself! We didn't come here to listen to any sech incendiary talk. Kick out the schoolmaster, if you wouldn't git into trouble,--I warn you! That's the business we've come to see to, and you must tend to't." "Pity him--spare him!" cried Virginia, shielding her aged father as Ropes approached him. "He cannot turn a sick man out of his house, you know he cannot!" "You're partic'larly interested in the young man, hey?" said Ropes, grinning insolently. "I am interested that no harm comes either to my father or to his guests," said the girl. "Go, I implore you! As soon as Mr. Hapgood is able to leave us, he will do so,--he will have no wish to stay,--this I promise you." "I'll give him three days to quit the country," said Silas. "Only three days. He'd better be dead than found here at the end of that time. Gentlemen, we've performed this yer painful dooty; now le's adjourn to Barber Jim's and take a drink." With these words Mr. Ropes retired. While, however, he was treating his men to whiskey and cigars with Augustus Bythewood's money, advanced for the purpose, one of the eleven, separating himself from the rest, hurried back to the minister's house. He had taken part in the patriotic proceedings of his friends with great reluctance, as appeared from the manner in which he shrank from view in corners and behind the backs of his comrades, and drew down his woe-begone mouth, and rolled up his dismal eyes, during the entire interview. And he had returned now, at the risk of his life, to do Penn a service. He crept to the kitchen door, and knocked softly. Carl opened it. There stood the wretched figure, terrified, panting for breath. "Vat is it?" said Carl. "I've come fur to tell ye!" said the man, glancing timidly around into the darkness to see if he was followed. "They mean to kill him! They told you they'd give him three days, but they won't. I heard them saying so among themselves. They may be back this very night, for they'll all git drunk, and nothing will stop 'em then." Carl stared, as these hoarsely whispered words were poured forth rapidly by the frightened man at the door. "Come in, and shpeak to Mishter Willars." "No, no! I'll be killed if I'm found here!" But Carl, sturdy and resolute, had no idea of permitting him to deliver so hasty and alarming a message without subjecting him to a cross-examination. He had already got him by the collar, and now he dragged him into the house, the man not daring to resist for fear of outcry and exposure. "What is it?" asked Mr. Villars. "A wisitor!" said Carl. And he repeated Dan's statement, while Dan was recovering his breath. "Is this true, Mr. Pepperill?" asked the old man, deeply concerned. "Yes, I be durned if it ain't!" said Dan. Virginia clung to her father's chair, white with apprehension. Toby was also present, having left his patient an instant to run down stairs, and learn what was the cause of this fresh disturbance. "He's a lyin' to ye, Mass' Villars; he's a lyin' to ye! White trash can't tell de troof if dey tries! Don't ye breeve a word he says, massa." Yet it was evident from the consternation the old negro's face betrayed that he believed Dan's story,--or at least feared it would prove true if he did not make haste and deny it stoutly; for Toby, like many persons with whiter skins, always felt on such occasions a vague faith that if he could get the bad news sufficiently denounced and discredited in season, all would be well. As if simply setting our minds against the truth would defeat it! "But they spoke of fittin' yer neck to a noose too!" "Mine? Ah, if nobody but myself was in danger, I should be well content! What do you think we ought to do, Mr. Pepperill?" "The master has done me a good turn, and I'll do him one, if I swing fur't!" said Dan, straightening himself with sudden courage. "Get him out 'fore they suspect what you're at, and I'll take him to my house and hide him, I be durned if I won't!" "It is a kind offer, and I thank you," said the old man. "But how can I resolve to send a guest from my house in this way? Not to save my own life would I do it!" "But to save his, father!" "It is only of him I am thinking, my child. Would it be safe to move him, Toby?" "Safe to move Massa Penn!" ejaculated the old negro, choking with wrath and grief. "Neber tink o' sech a ting, massa! He'd die, shore, widout I should go 'long wid him, and tote him in my ol' arms on a fedder-bed jes' like I would a leetle baby, and den stay and nuss him arter I got him dar. For dem 'ar white trash, what ye s'pose day knows 'bout takin' keer ob a sick gemman like him? It's a bery 'tic'lar case. He's got de delirimum a comin' on him now, and I can't be away from him a minute. I mus' go back to him dis bery minute!" And Toby departed, having suddenly conceived an idea of his own for hiding Penn in the barn until the danger was over. He had been absent from the room but a moment, however, when those remaining in it heard a wild outcry, and presently the old negro reappeared, inspired with superstitious terror, his eyes starting from their sockets, his tongue paralyzed. "What's the matter, Toby?" cried Virginia, perceiving that something really alarming had happened. The negro tried to speak, but his throat only gurgled incoherently, while the whites of his eyes kept rolling up like saucers. "Penn--has anything happened to Penn?" said Mr. Villars. "O, debil, debil, Lord bress us!" gibbered Toby. "Dead?" cried Virginia. "Gone! gone, missis!" Struck with consternation, but refusing to believe the words of the bewildered black, Virginia flew to the sick man's chamber. Then she understood the full meaning of Toby's words. Penn was not in his bed, nor in the room, nor anywhere in the house. He had disappeared suddenly, strangely, totally. XII. _CHIVALROUS PROCEEDINGS._ Thus the question of what should be done with his guest, which Mr. Villars knew not how to decide, had been decided for him. Great was the mystery. There was the bed precisely as Penn had left it a minute since. There was the candle dimly burning. The medicines remained just where Toby had placed them, on the table under the mirror. But the patient had vanished. What had become of him? It was believed that he was too ill to leave his bed without assistance. And, even though he had been strong, it was by no means probable that one so uniformly discreet in his conduct, and ever so regardful of the feelings of others, would have quitted the house in this abrupt and inexplicable manner. In vain the premises were searched. Not a trace of him could be anywhere discovered. Neither were there any indications of a struggle. Yet it was Toby's firm conviction that the ruffians had entered the house, and seized him; that Pepperill was in the plot, the object of whose visit was merely a diversion, while Ropes and the rest accomplished the abduction. This could not, of course, have been done without the aid of magic and the devil; but Toby believed in magic and the devil. The fact that Dan had taken advantage of the confusion to escape, appeared to the Ethiopian mind conclusive. Nor was the negro alone in his bewilderment. Carl was utterly confounded. The old clergyman, usually so calm, was deeply troubled; while Virginia herself, pierced with the keenest solicitude, could scarce keep her mind free from horrible and superstitious doubts. The doors between the sitting-room and back stairs were all wide open, and it seemed impossible that any one could have come in or gone out that way without being observed. On the other hand, to have reached the front stairs Penn must have passed through Salina's room. But Salina, who was in her room at the time, averred that she had not been disturbed, even by a sound. "He has got out the vinder," said Carl. But the window was fifteen feet from the ground. Thus all reasonable conjecture failed, and it seemed necessary to accept Toby's theory of the ruffians, magic, and the devil. Only one thing was certain: Penn was gone. And, as if to add to the extreme and painful perplexity of his friends, the clothes, which had been stripped from him by the lynchers, which he had brought away in his hands, and which had been hung up in his room by Toby, were left hanging there still, untouched. The family had not recovered from the dismay his disappearance occasioned, when they had cause to rejoice that he was gone. Ropes and his crew returned, as Pepperill had predicted. They were intoxicated and bloodthirsty. They had brought a rope, with which to hang their victim before the old clergyman's door. They were furious on finding he had eluded them, and searched the house with oaths and uproar. Virginia, on her knees, clung to her father, praying that he might not be harmed, and that Penn, whom all had been so anxious just now to find, might be safe from discovery. Exasperated by their unsuccessful search, the villains hesitated about laying violent hands on the blind old man, and concluded to wreak their vengeance on Toby. That he was a freed negro, was alone a sufficient offence in their eyes to merit a whipping. But he had done more; he had been devoted to the schoolmaster, and they believed he had concealed him. So they seized him, dragged him from the house, bared his back, and tied him to a tree. As long as the mob had confined itself to searching the premises, Mr. Villars had held his peace. But the moment his faithful old servant was in danger, he roused himself. He rushed to the door, bareheaded, his white hair flowing, his staff in his hand. Both his children accompanied him,--Salina, who was really not void of affection, appearing scarcely less anxious and indignant than her sister. There, in the light of a wood-pile to which fire had been set, stood the old negro, naked to the waist, lashed fast to the trunk, writhing with pain and terror; his brutal tormentors grouped around him in the glare of the flames, preparing, with laughter, oaths, and much loose, leisurely swaggering, to flay his flesh with rods. "My friends!" cried the old clergyman, with an energy that startled them, "what are you about to do?" "We're gwine to sarve this nigger," said the man Gad, "jest as every free nigger'll git sarved that's found in the state three months from now." "Free niggers is a nuisance," added Ropes, now very drunk, and very much inclined to make a speech on a barrel which his friends rolled out for him. "A nuisance!" he repeated, with a hiccough, steadying himself on his rostrum by holding a branch of the tree. "And let me say to you, feller-patriots, that one of the glorious fruits of secession is, that every free nigger in the state will either be sold for a slave, or druv out, or hung up. I tell you, gentlemen, we're a goin' to have our own way in these matters, spite of all the ministers in creation!" The men cheered, and one of them struck Toby a couple of preliminary blows, just to try his hand, and to add the poor old negro's howls to the chorus. "No doubt,"--the old clergyman's voice rose above the tumult,--"you will have your way for a season. You will commit injustice with a high hand. You will glut your cruelty upon the defenceless and oppressed. But, as there is a God in heaven,"--he lifted up his blind white face, and with his trembling hands shook his staff on high, like a prophet foretelling woe,--"as there is a God of justice and mercy who beholds this wickedness,--just so sure the hour of your retribution will come! so sure the treason you are breathing, and the despotism you are inaugurating, will prove a snare and a destruction to yourselves! Unbind that man! leave my house in peace! go home, and learn to practise a little of the mercy of which you will yourselves soon stand in need." His venerable aspect, and the power and authority of his words, awed even that drunken crew. But Silas, vain of his oratorical powers, was enraged that anybody should dispute his influence with the crowd. Holding the branch with one hand, and gesticulating violently with the other, he exclaimed,-- "Who is boss here? Who ye goin' to mind? that old traitor, or me? I say, lick the nigger! We're a goin' to have our way now, and we're a goin' to have our way to the end of the 'arth, sure as I am a gentleman standing on this yer barrel!" To emphasize his declaration, he stamped with his foot; the head of the cask flew in, and down went orator, cask, and all, in a fashion rendered all the more ridiculous by the climax of oratory it illustrated. "Just so sure will your hollow and inhuman schemes fail from under your feet!" exclaimed Mr. Villars, as soon as he learned what had happened. "So surely and so suddenly will you fall." This incident occurred as Toby's flogging was about to begin in earnest. Virginia had instinctively covered her eyes to shut out the terrible sight, her ears to shut out the sounds of the beating and the poor old fellow's groans. Luckily, Silas had fallen partly in the barrel, and partly across the sharp edge of it, and being too tipsy to help himself, had been seriously hurt, and was now helpless. The ruffians hastened to extricate him, and raise him up. Carl, who, with an open knife concealed in his sleeve, had been waiting for an opportunity, darted at the tree, cut the negro's bonds in a twinkling, and set him free. Both took to their heels without an instant's delay. But the trick was discovered. They were pursued immediately. Carl was lively on his legs, as we know; but poor old Toby, never a good runner, and now stiff and decrepit with age, was no match even for the slowest of their pursuers. They ran straight into the orchard, hoping to lose themselves among the shadows. The glare of the burning wood-pile flickered but faintly and unsteadily among the trees. Carl might easily have escaped; but he thought only of Toby, and kept faithfully at his side, assisting him, urging him. A fence was near--if they could only reach that! But Toby was wheezing terribly, and the hand of the foremost ruffian was already extended to seize him. "Jump the vence over!" was Carl's parting injunction to the old negro, who made a last desperate effort to accomplish the feat; while Carl, turning sharp about, tripped the foot of him of the extended hand, and sent him headlong. The second pursuer he grappled, and both rolled upon the ground together. Favored by this diversion, Toby reached the fence, climbed it, and without looking how, he leaped, jumped down upon--a human figure, stretched there upon the ground! Notwithstanding his own danger, Toby thought of his patient, and stopped. "Is it you, massa?" The man rose slowly to his feet. It was not Penn; it was, on the contrary, the worst of Penn's enemies, who had stationed himself here, in order to observe, unseen, and from a safe distance, the operations of Silas Ropes and his band of patriots. "O, Massa Bythewood!" ejaculated Toby, inspired with sudden joy and hope; "help a poor old niggah! Help! De Villarses will remember it ob ye de longest day you live, if you on'y will." "Why, what's the matter, Toby?" said Augustus, full of rage at having been thus discovered, yet assuming a gracious and patronizing manner. Toby did not make a very coherent reply; but probably the young gentleman was already sufficiently aware of what was going on. He had no especial regard for Toby, yet his credit with Virginia and her father was to be sustained. And so Toby was saved. Augustus met and rebuked his pursuers, released Carl, who was suffering at the hands of his antagonist, and led the way back to the house. There he expressed to Mr. Villars and his daughters the utmost regret and indignation for what had occurred, and took Mr. Ropes aside to remonstrate with him for such violent proceedings. His influence over that fallen orator was extraordinary. Ropes excused himself on the plea of his patriotic zeal, and called off his men. "How fortunate," said Augustus, conducting the old man, with an excessive show of deference and politeness, back into the sitting-room,--"how extremely fortunate that I happened to be walking this way! I trust no serious harm has been done, my dear Virginia?" Bythewood no doubt thought himself entitled to use this affectionate term, after the service he had rendered the family. After he was gone, Toby, having recovered from his fright and the fatigue of running, and got his clothes on again, rushed into the presence of his master and the young ladies. "I've seed Mass' Penn!" he said. "Arter Bythewood done got up from under de fence whar I jumped on him, I seed anoder man a crawlin' away on his hands and knees jest a little ways off. 'Twas Mass' Penn! I know 'twas Mass' Penn." But Toby was mistaken. The second figure he had seen was Mr. Lysander Sprowl, now the confidential adviser and secret companion of Augustus. XIII. _THE OLD CLERGYMAN'S NIGHTGOWN HAS AN ADVENTURE._ Where, then, all this time, was Penn? He was himself almost as profoundly ignorant on that subject as anybody. For two or three hours he had been lost to himself no less than to his friends. When he recovered his consciousness he found that he was lying on the ground, in the open air, in what seemed a barren field, covered with rocks and stunted shrubs. How he came there he did not know. He had nothing on but his night-dress,--a loan from the old clergyman,--besides a blanket wrapped about him. His feet were bare, and he now perceived that they were painfully aching. Almost too weak to lift a hand to his head, he yet tried to sit up and look around him. All was darkness; not a sign of human habitation, not a twinkling light was visible. The cold night wind swept over him, sighing drearily among the leafless bushes. Chilled, shivering, his temples throbbing, his brain sick and giddy, he sat down again upon the rocks, so ill and suffering that he could scarcely feel astonishment at his situation, or care whether he lived or died. Where had he been during those hours of oblivion? He seemed to have slept, and to have had terrible dreams. Could he have remembered these dreams, it seemed to him that the whole mystery of his removal to this desolate spot would be explained. And he knew that it required but an effort of his will to remember them. But his soul was too weak: he could not make the effort. To get upon his feet and walk was impossible. What, then, was left him but to perish here, alone, uncared for, unconsoled by a word of love from any human being? Death he would have welcomed as a relief from his sufferings. Yet when he thought of his home far away, in the peaceful community of Friends, of his parents and sisters now anxiously expecting his return,--and again when he remembered the hospitable roof under which he lay, so tenderly nursed, but a little while ago, and thought of the blind old clergyman, of Virginia fresh as a rose, of kind-hearted Carl, and the affectionate old negro,--he was stung with the desire to live, and he called feebly,-- "Toby! Toby!" Was his cry heard? Surely, there were footsteps on the rocks! And was not that a human form moving dimly between him and the sky? It passed on, and was lost in the shadows of the pines. Was it some animal, or only a phantom of his feverish brain? "Toby!" he called again, exerting all his force. But only the wailing wind answered him, and, overcome by the effort, he sunk into a swoon. In that swoon it seemed to him that Toby had heard his voice, and that he came to him. Hands, gentle human hands, groped on him, felt the blanket, felt his bare feet, and his head, pillowed on stones. Then there seemed to be two Tobys, one good and the other evil, holding a strange consultation over him, which he heard as in a dream. "We can't leave him dying here!" said the good Toby. "What dat to me, if him die, or whar him die?" said the other Toby. "Straight har!" He seemed to be feeling Penn's locks, in order to ascertain to which race he belonged. "Dat's nuff fur me! Lef him be, I tell ye, and come 'long!" "Straight hair or curly, it's all the same," said Toby the Good. "Take hold here; we must save him!" "Hyah-yah! ye don't cotch dis niggah!" chuckled Toby the Bad, maliciously. "Nuff more ob his kind, in all conscience! Reckon we kin spar' much as one! Hyah-yah!" Something like a quarrel ensued, the result of which was, that Toby the Good finally prevailed upon Toby the Malevolent to assist him. Then Penn was dreamily aware of being lifted in the strong arms of this double individual, and borne away, over rocks, and among thickets, along the mountain side; until even this misty ray of consciousness deserted him, and he fell into a stupor like death. And what was this he saw on awaking? Had he really died, and was this unearthly place a vestibule of the infernal regions? Days and nights of anguish, burning, and delirium, relieved at intervals by the same death-like stupor, had passed over him; and here he lay at length, exhausted, the terrible fever conquered, and his soul looking feebly forth and taking note of things. And strange enough things appeared to him! He was in an apartment of prodigious and uncouth architecture, dimly lighted from one side by some opening invisible to him, and by a blazing fire in a little fireplace built on the broad stone floor. The fireplace was without chimney, but a steady draught of air, from the side where the opening seemed to be, swept the smoke away into sombre recesses, where it mingled with the shadows of the place, and was lost in gloom which even the glare of the flames failed to illumine. Such a cavernous room Penn seemed to have seen in his dreams. The same irregular, rocky roof started up from the wall by his bed, and stretched away into vague and obscure distance. All was familiar to him, but all was somehow mixed up with frightful fantasies which had vanished with the fever that had so recently left him. The awful shapes, the struggles of demoniac men, the processions of strange and beautiful forms, which had visited him in his delirious visions,--all these were airy nothings; but the cave was real. Here he lay, on a rude bed constructed of four logs, forming the ends and sides, with canvas stretched across them, and secured with nails. Under him was a mattress of moss, over him a blanket like that which he remembered to have had wrapped about him last night in the field. Last night! Poor Penn was deeply perplexed when he endeavored to remember whether his mysterious awaking in the open air occurred last night, or many nights ago. He moved his head feebly to look for Toby. Which Toby? for all through his sufferings the same two Tobys, one good and the other evil, who had taken him from the field, had appeared still to attend him, and he now more than half expected to see the faithful old negro duplicated, and waiting upon him with two bodies and four hands. But neither the better nor even the worse half of that double being was near him now. Penn was alone, in that subterranean solitude. There burned the fire, the shadows flickered, the smoke floated away into the depths of the dark cavern, in such loneliness and silence as he had never experienced before. He would have thought himself in some grotto of the gnomes, or some awful cell of enchantment, whose supernatural fire never went out, and whose smoke rolled away into darkness the same perpetually,--but for the sound of the crackling flames, and the sight of piles of wood on the floor, so strongly suggestive of human agency. On one side was what appeared to be an artificial chamber built of stones, its door open towards the fire. Ranged about the cave, in something like regular order, were several massy blocks of different sizes, like the stools of a family of giants. But where were the giants? Ah, here came Toby at last, or, at any rate, the twin of him. He approached from the side where the daylight shone, bearing an armful of sticks, and whistling a low tune. With his broad back turned towards Penn, he crouched before the fire, which he poked and scolded with malicious energy, his grotesque and gigantic shadow projected on the wall of the cave. "Burn, ye debil! K-r-r-r! sputter! snap! git mad, why don't ye?" Then throwing himself back upon a heap of skins, with his heels at the fire, and his long arms swinging over his head, in a savage and picturesque attitude, he burst into a shout, like the cry of a wild beast. This he repeated several times, appearing to take delight in hearing the echoes resound through the cavern. Then he began to sing, keeping time with his feet, and pausing after each strain of his wild melody to hear it die away in the hollow depths of the cave. "De glory ob de Lord, it am comin', it am comin', De glory ob de Lord, let it come! De angel ob de Lord, hear his trumpet, hear his trumpet, De angel ob de Lord, he ar come!" At the last words, "_He ar come!_" a shadow darkened the entrance, and Penn looked, almost expecting to see a literal fulfilment of the prophecy. A form of imposing stature appeared. It was that of a negro upwards of six feet in height, magnificently proportioned, straight as a pillar, and black as ebony. He wore a dress of skins, carried a gun in his hand, and had an opossum slung over his shoulder. "Hush your noise!" he said to the singer, in a tone of authority. "Haven't I told you not to _wake him_?" "No fear o' dat!" chuckled the other. "Him's past dat! Ki! how fat he ar!" seizing the opossum, and beginning to dress him on the spot. "Past waking! I tell you he's asleep, and every thing depends on his waking up right. But you set up a howl that would disturb the dead!" "Howl! dat's what ye call singin'; me singin', Pomp." "Well, keep your singing to yourself till he is able to stand it, you unfeeling, ungrateful fellow!" "What dat ye call dis nigger?" cried the singer, jumping up in a passion, with his blood-stained knife in his hand. "Ongrateful! Say dat ar agin, will ye?" "Yes, Cudjo, as often as you please," said Pomp, calmly placing his gun in the artificial chamber. "You are an unfeeling, ungrateful fellow." He turned, and stood regarding him with a proud, lofty, compassionating smile. Cudjo's anger cooled at once. Penn had already recognized in them the twin Tobys of his dreams. And what a contrast between the two! There was Toby the Good, otherwise called Pomp, dignified, erect, of noble features; while before him cringed and grimaced Toby the Malign, alias Cudjo, ugly, deformed, with immensely long arms, short bow legs resembling a parenthesis, a body like a frog's, and the countenance of an ape. "You know," said Pomp, "you would have left this man to die there on the rocks, if it hadn't been for me." "Gorry! why not?" said Cudjo. "What's use ob all dis trouble on his 'count?" "He has had trouble enough on our account," said Pomp. "On our 'count? Hiyah-yah!" laughed Cudjo, getting down on his knees over the opossum; "how ye make dat out, by?" "Pay attention, Cudjo, while I tell ye," said Pomp, stooping, and laying his finger on the deformed shoulder. Cudjo looked up, with his hands and knife still in the opossum's flesh. "This is the way of it, as I heard last night from Pepperill himself, who got into trouble, as you know, by befriending old Pete after his licking. And you know, don't you, how Pete came by his licking?" "Bein' out nights, totin' our meal and taters to de mountains,--dough I reckon de patrol didn't know nuffin' 'bout dat ar, or him wouldn't got off so easy!" said Cudjo. "Well, it was by befriending Pepperill, who had befriended Pete, who brings us meal and potatoes, that this man got the ill will of those villains. Do you understand?" "Say 'em over agin, Pomp. How, now? Lef me see! Dat ar's old Pete," sticking up a finger to represent him. "Dat ar's Pepperill," sticking up a thumb. "Now, yonder is dis yer man, and here am we. Now, how is it, Pomp?" Pomp repeated his statement, and Cudjo, pointing to his long, black finger when Pete was alluded to, and tapping his thumb when Pepperill was mentioned, succeeded in understanding that it was indirectly in consequence of kindness shown to himself that Penn had come to grief. "Dat so, Pomp?" he said, seriously, in a changed voice. "Den 'pears like dar's two white men me don't wish dead as dis yer possom! Pepperills one, and him's tudder." Pomp, having made this explanation, walked softly to the bedside. He had not before perceived that Penn, lying so still there, was awake. His features lighted up with intelligence and sympathy on making the discovery, and finding him free from feverish symptoms. "Well, how are you getting on, sir?" he said, feeling Penn's pulse, and seating himself on one of the giant's stools near the bedstead. "Where am I?" was Penn's first anxious question. "I fancy you don't know very well where you are, sir," said the negro, with a smile; "and you don't know me either, do you?" "I think--you are my preserver--are you not?" "That's a subject we will not talk about just now, sir; for you must keep very quiet." "I know," said Penn, not to be put off so, "I owe my life to you!" "Dat's so! dat ar am a fac'!" cried Cudjo, approaching, and wrapping the warm opossum skin about his naked arm as he spoke. "Gorry! me sech a brute, me war for leavin' ye dar in de lot. But, Pomp, him wouldn't; so we toted you hyar, and him's doctored you right smart eber sence. He ar a great doctor, Pomp ar! Yah!" And Cudjo laughed, showing two tremendous rows of ivory glittering from ear to ear; capering, swinging the opossum skin over his head, and, on the whole, looking far more like a demon of the cave than a human being. "Go about your business, Cudjo!" said Pomp. "You mustn't mind his freaks, sir," turning to Penn. "You are a great deal better; and now, if you will only remain quiet and easy in your mind, there's no doubt but you will get along." Many questions concerning himself and his friends came crowding to Penn's lips; but the negro, with firm and gentle authority, silenced him. "By and by, sir, I will tell you everything you wish to know. But you must rest now, while I see to making you a suitable broth." And nothing was left for Penn but to obey. XIV. _A MAN'S STORY._ Three days longer Penn lay there on his rude bed in the cave, helpless still, and still in ignorance. Pomp repeatedly assured him that all was well, and that he had no cause for anxiety, but refused to enlighten him. The negro's demeanor was well calculated to inspire calmness and trust. There was something truly grand and majestic, not only in his person, but in his character also. He was a superb man. Penn was never weary of watching him. He thought him the most perfect specimen of a gentleman he had ever seen; always cheerful, always courteous, always comporting himself with the ease of an equal in the presence of his guest. His strength was enormous. He lifted Penn in his arms as if he had been an infant. But his grace was no less than his vigor. He was, in short, a lion of a man. Cudjo was more like an ape. His gibberings, his grimaces, his antics, his delight in mischief, excited in the mind of the convalescent almost as much surprise as the other's princely deportment. For hours together he would lie watching those two wonderfully contrasted beings. Petulant and malicious as Cudjo appeared, he was completely under the control of his noble companion, who would often stand looking down at his tricks and deformity, with composedly folded arms and an air of patient indulgence and compassion beautiful to witness. Meanwhile Penn gradually regained his strength, so that on the fourth day Pomp permitted him to talk a little. "Tell me first about my friends," said Penn. "Are they well? Do they know where I am?" "I hope not, sir," said the negro, with a significant smile, seating himself on the giant's stool. "I trust that no one knows where you are." "What, then, must they think?" said Penn. "How did I leave them?" "That is what they are very much perplexed to find out, sir." "You have heard from them, then?" "O, yes; we have a way of getting news of people down there. Toby has nearly gone distracted on your account. He is positive that you are dead, for he believes you could never have got well out of his hands." "And Miss--Mr. Villars----?" "They have been so much disturbed about you, that I would have been glad to inform them of your safety, if I could. But not even they must know of this place." "Where am I, then?" "You are, as you perceive, in a cave. But I suppose you know so little how you came here that you would find some difficulty in tracing your way to us again?" This was spoken interrogatively, with an intelligent smile. "I am so ignorant of the place," said Penn, "that it may be in the planet Mars, for aught I know." "That is well! Now, sir," continued the negro, "since you have several times expressed your obligations to us for preserving your life, I wish to ask one favor in return. It is this. You are welcome to remain here as long as you find your stay beneficial; but when you conclude to go, we desire the privilege of conducting you away. That is not an unreasonable request?" "Far from it. And I pledge you my word to make no movement without your sanction, and to keep your secret sacredly. But tell me--will you not?--how you came to inhabit this dreadful place?" "Dreadful? There are worse places, my friend, than this. Is it gloomy? The house of bondage is gloomier. Is it damp? It is not with the cruel sweat and blood of the slave's brow and back. Is it cold? The hearts of our tyrants are colder." "I understand you," said Penn, whose suspicion was thus confirmed that these men were fugitives. "And I am deeply interested in you. How long have you lived here?" "Would you like to hear something of my story?" said the negro, the expression of his eyes growing deep and stern,--his black, closely curling beard stirring with a proud smile that curved his lips. "Perhaps it will amuse you." "Amuse me? No!" said Penn. "I know by your looks that it will not amuse: it will absorb me!" "Well, then," said Pomp, bearing his head upon his massy and flexible neck of polished ebony like a king, yet speaking in tones very gentle and low,--and he had a most mellow, musical, deep voice,--"you are talking with one who was born a slave." "You know what I think of that!" said Penn. "Even such a birth could not debase the manhood of one like you." "It might have done so under different circumstances. But I was so fortunate as to be brought up by a young master who was only too kind and indulgent to me, considering my station. We were playmates when children; and we were scarcely less intimate when we had both grown up to be men. He went to Paris to study medicine, and took me with him. I passed for his body servant, but I was rather his friend. He never took any important step in life without consulting me; and I am happy to know," added Pomp, with grand simplicity, "that my counsel was always good. He acknowledged as much on his death-bed. 'If I had taken your advice oftener,' said he, 'it would have been better for me. I always meant to reward you. You are to have your freedom--your freedom, my dear boy!'" The negro knitted his brows, his breath came thick, and there was a strange moisture in his eye. "I loved my master," he continued, with simple pathos. "And when I saw him troubled on my account, when he ought to have been thinking of his own soul, I begged him not to let a thought of me give him any uneasiness. My free papers had not been made out, and he was for sending at once for a notary. But his younger brother was with him--he who was to be his heir. 'Don't vex yourself about Pomp, Edwin,' said he. 'I will see that justice is done him.' "'Ah, thank you, brother!' said Edwin. 'You will set him free, and give him a few hundred dollars to begin life with. Promise that, and I will rest in peace.' For you must know Edwin had neither wife nor child, and I was the only person dependent on his bounty. He was not rich; he had spent a good part of his fortune abroad, and had but recently established himself in a successful practice in Montgomery. Yet he left enough so that his brother could have well afforded to give me my freedom, and a thousand dollars." "And did he not promise to do so?" "He promised readily enough. And so my master died, and was buried, and I--had another master. For a few days nothing was said about free papers; and I had been too much absorbed in grief for the only man I loved to think much about them. But when the estate was settled up, and my new master was preparing to return to his home here in Tennessee, I grew uneasy. "'Master,' said I, taking off my hat to him one morning, 'there is nothing more I can do for him who is gone; so I am thinking I would like to be for myself now, if you please.' "'For yourself, you black rascal?' said my new master, laughing in my face. "I wasn't used to being spoken to in that way, and it cut. But I kept down that which swelled up in here"--Pomp laid his hand on his heart--"and reminded him, respectfully as I could, of the doctor's last words about me, and of his promise. "'You fool!' said he, 'do you think I was in earnest?' "'If you were not,' said I, 'the doctor was.' "'And do you think,' said he, 'that I am to be bound by the last words of a man too far gone to know his own mind in the matter?' "'He always meant I should have my freedom,' I answered him, 'and always said so.' "'Then why didn't he give it to you before, instead of requiring me to make such a sacrifice? Come, come, Pomp!' he patted my shoulder; 'you are altogether too valuable a nigger to throw away. Why, people say you know almost as much about medicine as my brother did. You'll be an invaluable fellow to have on a plantation; you can doctor the field hands, and, may be, if you behave yourself, get a chance to prescribe for the family. Come, my boy, you musn't get foolish ideas of freedom into your head; they're what spoil a nigger, and they'll have to be whipped out of you, which would be too bad for a fine, handsome darkey like you.' "He patted my shoulder again, and looked as pleasant and flattering as if I had been a child to be coaxed,--I, as much a man, every bit, as he!" said Pomp, with a gleam of pride. "I could have torn him like a tiger for his insolence, his heartless injustice. But I repressed myself; I knew nothing was to be gained by violence. "'Master,' said I, 'what you say is no doubt very flattering. But I want what my master gave me--what you promised that I should have--I shall be contented with nothing else.' "'What! you persist?' he said, kindling up. 'Let me tell you now, Pomp, once for all, you'll have to be contented with a good deal less; and never mention the word "freedom" to me again if you would keep that precious hide of yours whole!' "I saw he meant it, and that there was no help for me. Despair and fury were in me. Then, for the only time in my life, I felt what it was to wish to murder a man. I could have smitten the life out of that smiling, handsome face of his! Thank God I was kept from that. I concealed what was burning within. Then first I learned to pray,--I learned to trust in God. And so better thoughts came to me; and I said, 'If he uses me well, I will serve him; if not, I will run for my life.' "Well, he brought me here to Tennessee. Here he was managing his aunt's estate, which she, soon dying, bequeathed to him. Up to this time I had got on very well; but he never liked me; he often said I knew too much, and was too proud. He was determined to humiliate me; so one day he said to me, 'Pomp, that Nance has been acting ugly of late, and you permit her.' I was a sort of overseer, you see. 'Now I'll tell you what I am going to have done. Nance is going to be whipped, and you are the fellow that's going to whip her.' "'Pardon, master,' said I, 'that's what I never did--to whip a woman.' "'Then it's time for you to begin. I've had enough of your fine manners, Pomp, and now you have got to come down a little.' "'I will do any thing you please to serve your interests, sir,' said I. 'But whip a woman I never can, and never will. That's so, master.' "'You villain!' he shouted, seizing a riding whip, 'I'll teach you to defy my authority to my face!' And he sprang at me, furious with rage. "'Take care, sir!' I said, stepping back. ''Twill be better for both of us for you not to strike me!' "'What! you threaten, you villain?' "'I do not threaten, sir; but I say what I say. It will be better for both of us. You will never strike me twice. I tell you that.' "I reckon he saw something dangerous in me, as I said this, for, instead of striking, he immediately called for help. 'Sam! Harry! Nap! bind this devil! Be quick!' "'They won't do it!' said I. 'Woe to the man that lays a finger on me, be he master or be he slave!' "'I'll see about that!' said he, running into the house. He came out again in a minute with his rifle. I was standing there still, the boys all keeping a safe distance, not one daring to touch me. "'Master,' said I, 'hear one word. I am perfectly willing to die. Long enough you have robbed me of my liberty, and now you are welcome to what is less precious--my poor life. But for your own sake, for your dead brother's sake, let me warn you to beware what you do.' "I suppose the allusion to his injustice towards me maddened him. He levelled his piece, and pulled the trigger. Luckily the percussion was damp,--or else I should not be talking with you now. His aim was straight at my head. I did not give him time for a second attempt. I was on him in an instant. I beat him down, I trampled him with rage. I snatched his gun from him, and lifted it to smash his skull. Just then a voice cried, 'Don't, Pomp! don't kill master!' "It was Nance, pleading for the man who would have had her whipped. I couldn't stand that. Her mercy made me merciful. 'Good by, boys!' I said. They were all standing around, motionless with terror. 'Good by, Nance! I am off; live or die, I quit this man's service forever!' "So I left him," said Pomp, "and ran for the woods. I was soon ranging these mountains, free, a wild man whom not even their blood-hounds could catch. I took the gun with me--a good one: here it is." He removed the rifle from its crevice in the rocks. "Do you know that name? It is that of its former owner--the man who called himself my master. Do you think it was taking too much from one who would have robbed me of my soul?" He held the stock over the bed, so that Penn could make out the lettering. Delicately engraved on a surface of inlaid silver, was the well-known name,-- "_Augustus Bythewood._" XV. _AN ANTI-SLAVERY DOCUMENT ON BLACK PARCHMENT._ Penn was not surprised at this discovery. He had already recognized in Pomp the hero of a story which he had heard before. "But all this happened before I came to Tennessee, did it not? Have you lived in this cave ever since?" "It is three years since I took to the mountains. But I have spent but a little of that time here. Sometimes, for weeks together, I am away, tramping the hills, exploring the forests, sleeping on the ground in the open air, living on fish, game, and fruits. That is in the summer time. Winters I burrow here." "If you are so independent in your movements, why have you never escaped to the north?" "Would I be any better off there? Does not the color of a negro's skin, even in your free states, render him an object of suspicion and hatred? What chance is there for a man like me?" "Little--very true!" said Penn, sadly, contemplating the form of the powerful and intelligent black, and thinking with indignation and shame of the prejudice which excludes men of his race from the privileges of free men, even in the free north. "These crags," said the African, "do not look scornfully upon me because of the color of my skin. The watercourses sing for me their gladdest songs, black as I am. And the serious trees seem to love me, even as I love them. It is a savage, lonely, but not unhappy life I lead--far better for a man like me than servitude here, or degradation at the north. I have one faithful human friend at least. Cudjo, cunning and capricious as he seems, is capable of genuine devotion." "Have you two been together long?" "One day, a few weeks after I took to the mountains, I was watching for an animal which I heard rustling the foliage of a tree that grows up out of a chasm. I held my gun ready to fire, when I perceived that my animal was something human. It climbed the tree, ran out on one of the branches, leaped, like a squirrel, to some bushes that grew in the wall of the chasm, and soon pulled itself up to the top. Then I saw that it was a man--and a black man. He came towards the spot where I was concealed, sauntering along, chewing now and then a leaf, and muttering to himself; appearing as happy as a savage in his native woods, and perfectly unconscious of being observed. Suddenly I rose up, levelling my gun. He uttered a yell of terror, and started to cast himself again into the chasm. But with a threat I prevented him, and he threw himself at my feet, begging me to grant him his life, and not to take him back to his master. "'Who is your master?' said I. "'Job Coombs was my master,' said he, 'but I left him.' "'You are Cudjo, then!' said I,--for I had heard of him. He ran away from a tolerably good master on account of unmercifully cruel treatment from the overseer. But as he had been frightfully cut up the night before he disappeared, it was generally believed he had crawled into a hole in the rocks somewhere, and died, and been eaten by buzzards. But it seems that he had been concealed and cured by an old slave on the plantation named Pete." "Coombs's Pete!" exclaimed Penn. "You have good cause to remember the name!" said Pomp. "As soon as Cudjo was well enough to tramp, he took to the mountains. It was a couple of years afterwards that I met him. We soon came to an understanding, and he conducted me to his cave. Here he lived. He has always kept up a communication with some of his friends--especially with old Pete, who often brings us provisions to a certain place, and supplies us with ammunition. We give him game and skins, which he disposes of when he can, generally to such men as Pepperill. He was going to Pepperill's house, after meeting Cudjo, that night when the patrolmen discovered and whipped him. That led to Pepperill's punishment, and that led to your being here." "Does old Pete visit you since?" "No, but he has sent us a message, and I have seen Pepperill." "Not here!" "Nobody ever comes here, sir. We have a place where we meet our friends; and as for Pepperill, I went to his house." "That was bold in you!" "Bold?" The negro smiled. "What will you say then when I tell you I have been in Bythewood's house, since I left him? I wanted my medicine-case, and the bullet-moulds that belong with the rifle. I entered his room, where he was asleep. I stood for a long time and looked at him by the moonlight. It was well for him he didn't wake!" said Pomp, with a dancing light in his eye. "He did not; he slept well! Having got what I wanted, I came away; but I had changed knives with him, and left mine sticking in the bedstead over his head, so that he might know I had been there, and not accuse any one else of the theft." "The sight of that knife must have given him a shudder, when he woke, and saw who had been there, and remembered his wrongs towards you!" said Penn. "Well it might!" said Pomp. "Come here, Cudjo." Cudjo had just entered the cave, bringing some partridges which he had caught in traps. "It's allus 'Cudjo! Cudjo do dis! Cudjo do dat!' What ye want o' Cudjo?" Pomp paid no heed to the ill-natured response, but said calmly, addressing Penn,-- "I have told you my reasons for escaping out of slavery: now I will show you Cudjo's." The back of the deformed was stripped bare. Penn uttered a groan of horror at the sight. "Dem's what ye call lickins!" said Cudjo, with a hideous grin over his shoulder. "Dat ar am de oberseer's work." "Good Heaven!" said Penn, sick at the sight of the scars. "I can't endure it! Take him away!" "Don't be 'fraid!" said Cudjo. "Feel of 'em, sar!" And taking Penn's hand, he seemed to experience a vindictive joy in passing it over his lash-furrowed flesh. "Not much skin dar, hey? Rough streaks along dar, hey? Needn't pull your hand away dat fashion, and shet yer eyes, and look so white! It's all ober now. What if you'd seen dat back when 'twas fust cut up? or de mornin' arter? Shouldn't blame ye, if 't had made ye sick den!" "But what had you done to merit such cruelty?" exclaimed Penn, relieved when the back was covered. "What me done? De oberseer didn't hap'm to like me; dat's what me done. But he did hap'm to like my gal; dat's more what me done! So he cut me up wid his own hand,--said me sassy, and wouldn't work. Coombs, him's a good man 'nuff,--neber found no fault 'long wid him; but debil take dat ar Silas Ropes!" "Silas Ropes!" "Him was Coombs's oberseer dem times," said Cudjo. "Him gi' me de lickins; him got my gal--me owe him for dat!" And, with a ferocious grimace, clinching his hands together as if he felt his enemy's throat, he gave a yell of rage which resounded through the cavern. "Go about your work, Cudjo," said Pomp. "What do you think of that back, sir?" "It is the most powerful anti-slavery document I ever saw!" said Penn. "He is a native African," said Pomp. "He was brought to this country a young barbarian; and he has barely got civilized--hardly got Christianized yet! I will make him tell you more of his history some day. Then you will no longer wonder that his lessons in Christian love have not made a saint of him! Now you must rest, while I help him get dinner." The manner of cooking practised in the cave was exceedingly primitive. The partridges broiled over the fire, the potatoes roasted in the ashes, and the corn-cake baked in a kettle, the meal was prepared. The artificial chamber was Cudjo's pantry. One of the giant's stools, having a broad, flat surface, served as a table. On this were placed two or three pewter plates, and as many odd cups and saucers. Cudjo had an old coffee-pot, in which he made strong black coffee. He could afford, however, neither sugar nor milk. Penn's wants were first attended to. He picked the bones of a partridge lying in bed, and thought he had never tasted sweeter meat. "With how few things men can live, and be comfortable! and what simple fare suffices for a healthy appetite!" he said to himself, watching Pomp and Cudjo at their dinner. Pomp did not even drink coffee, but quenched his thirst with cold water dipped from a pool in the cave. XVI. _IN THE CAVE AND ON THE MOUNTAIN._ That afternoon, as Penn was alone, the mystery of his removal from Mr. Villars's house was suddenly revealed to him. "I remember it very distinctly now," he said to Pomp, who presently came in and sat by his bed. "Ropes and his crew had been to the house for me. Sick and delirious as I was, I knew the danger to my friends, and it seemed to me that I _must_ leave the house. So I watched my opportunity, and when Toby left me for a minute, I darted through his room over the kitchen, climbed down from the window to the roof of the shed, and from there descended by an apple tree to the ground. This is the dream I have been trying to recall. It is all clear to me now. But I do not remember any thing more. The delirium must have given me preternatural strength, if I walked all the distance to the spot where you found me." "That you did walk it, your bruised and bleeding feet were a sufficient evidence," said the negro. "You had just such delirious attacks afterwards, when it was as much as Cudjo and I wanted to do to hold you." "And the blanket--it is Toby's blanket, which I caught up as I fled," added Penn. He now became extremely anxious to communicate with his friends, to explain his conduct to them, and let them know of his safety. Besides, he was now getting sufficiently strong to sit up a little, and other clothing was necessary than the old minister's nightgown and Toby's blanket. "I have been thinking it all over," said Pomp, "and have concluded to pay your friends a visit." "No, no, my dear sir!" exclaimed Penn, with gratitude. "I can't let you incur any such danger on my account. I can never repay you for half you have done for me already!" And he pressed the negro's hand as no white man had ever pressed it since the death of his good master, Dr. Bythewood. Pomp was deeply affected. His great chest heaved, and his powerful features were charged with emotion. "The risk will not be great," said he. "I will take Cudjo with me, and between us we will manage to bring off your clothes." At night the two blacks departed, leaving Penn alone in the fire-lit cave, waiting for their return, picturing to himself all the difficulties of their adventure, and thinking with warm gratitude and admiration of Pomp, whose noble nature not even slavery could corrupt, whose benevolent heart not even wrong could embitter. It was late in the evening when the two messengers arrived at Mr. Villars's house. All was dark and still about the premises. But one light was visible, and that was in the room over the kitchen. "That is Toby's room," said Pomp. "Stay here, Cudjo, while I give him a call." "Stay yuself," said Cudjo, "and lef dis chil' go. Me know Toby; you don't." So Pomp remained on the watch while Cudjo climbed the tree by which Penn had descended, scrambled up over the shed-roof, reached the window, opened it, and thrust in his head. Toby, who was just going to bed, heard the movement, saw the frightful apparition, and with a shriek dove under the bed-clothes, where he lay in an agony of fear, completely hidden from sight, while Cudjo, grinning maliciously, climbed into the room. "See hyar, ye fool! none ob dat! none ob your playin' possum wid me!" said the visitor, rolling Toby over, while Toby held the clothes tighter and tighter, as if to show a lock of wool or the tip of an ear would have been fatal. "Me's Cudjo! don't ye know Cudjo? Me come for de gemman's clo'es!" "Hey? dat you, Cudjo?" said Toby, venturing at length to peep out. "Wha--wha--what de debil you want hyar?" "De gemman sent me. Dis yer letter's for your massy." "De gemman?" cried Toby, jumping up. "Not Mass' Penn? not Mass' Hapgood?" Immense was his astonishment on being assured that Penn was alive, recovering, and in need of garments. Carl, who had been awakened in the next room by the noise, now came in to see what was the matter. He recognized Penn's handwriting on the note, and immediately hastened with it to Virginia's room. A minute after she was reading it to her father at his bedside. It was written with a pencil on a leaf torn from a little blank book in which Pomp kept a sort of diary; but never had gilt-edged or perfumed billet afforded the blind old minister and his daughter such unalloyed delight. It was long past midnight when Pomp and Cudjo returned to the cave, bringing with them not only Penn's garments, but a goodly stock of provisions, which Cudjo had hinted to Toby would be acceptable, and, more precious still, a letter from Mr. Villars, written by his daughter's own hand. Penn now began to sit up a little every day. Gloomy as the cave was, it was not an unwholesome abode even for an invalid. The atmosphere was pure, cool, and bracing; the temperature uniform. Nor did Penn suffer inconvenience from dampness; though often, in the deep stillness of the night, he could hear the far-off, faint, and melancholy murmur of dropping water in the hollow recesses of the cavern beyond. One day, as soon as he was well enough for the undertaking, Pomp ordered Cudjo to light torches and show them the hidden wonders of his habitation. Cudjo was delighted with the honor. He ran on before, waving the flaring pine knots over his head, and shouting. Penn's astonishment was profound. Keen as had been his curiosity as to what was beyond the shadowy walls the fire dimly revealed, he had formed no conception of the extent and sublimity of the various galleries, chambers, glittering vaults, and falling waters, embosomed there in the mountain. "Dis yer all my own house!" Cudjo kept repeating, with fantastic grimaces of satisfaction. "Me found him all my own self. Nobody war eber hyar afore me; Pomp am de next; and you's de on'y white man eber seen dis yer cave." It grew light as they proceeded, Cudjo's torch paled, and the waters of a subterranean stream they were following caught gleams of the struggling day from another opening beyond. Climbing over fragments of huge tumbled rocks, and up an earthy bank, Penn found himself in the bottom of an immense chasm. It had apparently been formed by the sinking down of the roof of the cave, with a tremendous superincumbent weight of forest trees. There, on an island, so to speak, in the midst of the subterranean darkness, they were growing still, their lofty tops barely reaching the level of the mountain above. "It was out of this sink I saw the wild beast climbing, that turned out to be Cudjo," said Pomp. "Dat ar am de tree," said Cudjo. "No oder way but dat ar to get up out ob dis yer hole." "What a terrible place!" said Penn, little thinking at the time how much more terrible it was soon to become as a scene of deadly human conflict. Beyond the chasm the stream flowed on into still more remote parts of the cave. But Penn had seen enough for one day, and the torch-bearing Cudjo guided them back to the spot from which they had started. Penn had now completely won the confidence of the blacks, who no longer placed any restrictions on his movements. It had been their original purpose never to suffer him to leave the cave without being blindfolded. But now, having shown him one opening, they freely permitted him to pass out by the other. This was that by which he had been brought in, and which was used by the blacks themselves on all ordinary occasions. It was a mere fissure in the mountain, hidden from external view by thickets. Above rose steep ledges of rocks, thickly covered with earth and bushes. Below yawned an immense ravine, far down in the cool, dark depths of which a little streamlet flowed. Pomp piloted his guest through the thickets, and along a narrow shelf, from which the ascent to the barren ledges was easy. Upon these they sat down. It was a beautiful April day. This was Penn's first visit to the upper world since he was brought to the cave. The scene filled him with rapture; the loveliness of earth and sky intoxicated him. Here he was among the rugged ranges of the Cumberland Mountains, in the heart of Tennessee. On either hand they rolled away in tremendous billows of forest-crowned rocks. The ravines in their sides opened into little valleys, and these spread out into a broad and magnificent intervale, checkered with farms, streaked with roads, and dotted with dwellings. Spring seemed to have come in a night. It was chill March weather when Penn left the world, which was now warm with sweet south winds, and green with April verdure. "How beautiful, how beautiful!" said he, receiving, with the susceptibility of a convalescent, the exquisite impression made upon the senses by every sight and sound and odor. "O! and to think that all this divine loveliness is marred by the passions of men! Up here, what glory, what peace! Down yonder, what hatred, violence, and sin! No wonder, Pomp, you love the mountains so!" "It is doubtful if they leave the mountains in peace much longer," said Pomp. He had heard the night before that fighting had begun at Charleston, and the news had stirred his soul. "The country is all alive with excitement, and the waves of its fury will reach us here before long. Take this glass, sir: you can see soldiers marching through the streets." "They are marching past my school-house!" said Penn. He became very thoughtful. He knew that they were soldiers recruited in the cause of rebellion, although Tennessee had not yet seceded,--although the people had voted in February against secession: a dishonest governor, and a dishonest legislature, aided by reckless demagogues everywhere, being resolved upon precipitating the state into revolution, by fraud and force,--if not with the consent of the people, then without it. "I had hoped the storm would soon blow over, and that it would be safe for me to go peaceably about my business." "The storm," said Pomp, his soul dilating, his features kindling with a wild joy, "is hardly begun yet! The great problem of this age, in this country, is going to be solved in blood! This continent is going to shake with such a convulsion as was never before. It is going to shake till the last chain of the slave is shaken off, and the sin is punished, and God says, 'It is enough!'" He spoke with such thrilling earnestness that Penn regarded him in astonishment. "What makes you think so, Pomp?" "That I can't tell. The feeling rises up here,"--the negro laid his hand upon his massive chest,--"and that is all I know. It is strong as my life--it fills and burns me like fire! The day of deliverance for my race is at hand. That is the meaning of those soldiers down there, arming for they know not what." XVII. _PENN'S FOOT KNOCKS DOWN A MUSKET._ Weeks passed. But now every day brought to Penn increasing anxiety of mind with regard to his situation. His abhorrence of war was as strong as ever; and his great principle of non-resistance had scarcely been shaken. But how was he to avoid participating in scenes of violence if he remained in Tennessee? And how was his escape from the state to be effected? "You are welcome to a home with us as long as you will stay," said Pomp. "I shall miss you--even Cudjo will hate to see you go." Penn thanked him, fully appreciating their kindness; but his heart was yearning for other things. Day after day he lingered still, however. The difficulties in the way of escape thickened, instead of diminishing. In February, as I have said, the people had voted against secession. Not content with this, the governor called an extra session of the legislature, which proceeded to carry the state out of the Union by fraud. On the sixth of May an ordinance of separation was passed, to be submitted to the vote of the people on the eighth of June. But without waiting for the will of the people to be made manifest, the authors of this treason went on to act precisely as if the state had seceded. A league was formed with the confederate states, the control of all the troops raised in Tennessee was given to Davis, and troops from the cotton states were rushed in to make good the work thus begun. The June election, which took place under this reign of terror, resulted as was to have been expected. Rebel soldiers guarded the polls. Few dared to vote openly the Union ticket; while those who deposited a close ticket were "spotted." Thus timid men were frightened from the ballot-box; while soldiers from the cotton states voted in their places. Then, as it was charged, there were the grossest frauds in counting the votes. And so Tennessee "seceded." The state authorities had also achieved a politic stroke by disarming the people. Every owner of a gun was compelled to deliver it up, or pay a heavy fine. The arms thus secured went to equip the troops raised for the Confederacy; while the Union cause was left crippled and defenceless. Many firelocks were of course kept concealed: some were taken to pieces, and the pieces scattered,--the barrel here, the stock there, and the lock in still another place,--to come together again only at the will of the owner: but, as a general thing, the loyalists could not be said to have arms. It was in those times that the precaution of Stackridge and his fellow-patriots was justified. The secrecy with which they had conducted their night-meetings and drills, though seemingly unnecessary at first, saved them from much inconvenience when the full tide of persecution set in. They were suspected indeed, and it was believed they had arms; but they still met in safety, and the place where their arms were deposited remained undiscovered. All this time, Penn had no money with which to defray the expenses of travel. When his school was broken up, several hundred dollars were due him for his services. This sum the trustees of the Academy placed to his credit in the Curryville Bank; but, in consequence of a recent enactment, designed to rob and annoy loyal men, he could not draw the money without appearing personally, and first taking the oath of allegiance to the confederate government. This, of course, was out of the question. Meanwhile he learned to rough it on the mountain with the fugitives. Pomp taught him the use of the rifle, and he was soon able to shoot, dress, and cook his own dinner. He grew robust with the exercise and exposure. But every day his longing eyes turned towards the valley where the friends were whom he loved, and whom he resolved at all hazards to visit again, if for the last time. At length, one morning at breakfast, he informed Pomp and Cudjo of his intention to leave them,--to return secretly to the village, place himself under the protection of certain Unionists he knew, and attempt, with their assistance, to make his way out of the state. "Why go down there at all?" said Pomp. "If you are determined to leave us, let me be your guide. I will take you over the mountains into Kentucky, where you will be safe. It will be a long, hard journey; but you are strong now; we will take it leisurely, killing our game by the way." "You are very kind--and----" Penn blushed and stammered. The truth was, he was willing to risk his life to see Virginia once more; and the thought of quitting the state without bidding her good by was intolerable to him. "And what?" said Pomp, smiling intelligently. "And I may possibly be glad to accept your proposal. But I am determined to try the other way first." Both Pomp and Cudjo endeavored to dissuade him from the undertaking, but in vain. That evening he took his departure. The blacks accompanied him to the foot of the mountain. Notwithstanding the friendship and gratitude he had all along felt towards them, he had not foreseen how painful would be the separation from them. "I never quitted friends more reluctantly!" he said, choked with his emotion. "Never, never shall I forget you--never shall I forget those rambles on the mountains, those days and nights in the cave! Let me hope we shall meet again, when I can make you some return for your kindness." "We may meet again, and sooner than you suppose," said Pomp. "If you find escape too difficult, be sure and come back to us. Ah, I seem to foresee that you will come back!" With this prediction ringing in his ears, and filling him with vague forebodings, Penn went his way; while the negroes, having shaken hands with him in sorrowful silence, returned to their savage mountain home, which had never looked so lonely to them as now, since their beloved and gentle guest had departed. The night was not dark, and Penn, having been guided to a bridle-path that led to the town, experienced no difficulty in finding his way on alone. He approached the minister's house from the fields. Although late in the evening, the windows were still lighted. He was surprised to see men walking to and fro by the house, and to hear their footsteps on the piazza floor. He drew near enough to discern that they carried muskets. Then the truth flashed upon him: they were soldiers guarding the house. Whether they were there to protect the venerable Unionist from mob-violence, or to prevent his escape, Penn could only conjecture. In either case it would have been extremely indiscreet for him to enter the house. Bitter disappointment filled him, mingled with apprehensions for the safety of his friends, and remorse at the thought that he himself had, although unintentionally, been instrumental in drawing down upon them the vengeance of the secessionists. Penn next thought of Stackridge. It was indeed upon that sturdy patriot that he relied chiefly for aid in leaving the state. He took a last, lingering look at the minister's house,--the windows whose cheerful light had so often greeted him on his way thither, in those delightful winter evenings which were gone, never to return,--the soldiers on the piazza, symbolizing the reign of terror that had commenced,--and with a deep inward prayer that God would shield with his all-powerful hand the beleaguered family, he once more crossed the fields. By a circuitous route he came in sight of Stackridge's house. There were lights there also, although it must have been now near midnight. And as Penn discerned them, he became aware of loud voices engaged in angry altercation around the farmer's door. It was no time for him to approach. He stole away as noiselessly as he had come. In the still, quiet night he paused, asking himself what he should do. The Academy was not far off. He remembered that he had left there, among other things, a pocket Bible, a gift from his sister, which he wished to preserve. Perhaps it was there still; perhaps he could get in and recover it. At all events, he had plenty of leisure on his hands, and could afford to make the trial. He heard the mounted patrol pass by, and waited for the sound of hoofs to die in the distance. Then cautiously he drew near the gloomy and silent school-house. Not doubting but the door was locked,--for he still had the key with him which he had turned for the last time when he walked out in defiance of the lynchers,--he resolved not to unlock it, but to keep in the rear of the building, and enter, if possible, by a window. The window was unfastened, as it had ever remained since he had opened it, on that memorable occasion, to communicate with Carl. Softly he raised the sash, and softly he crept in. His foot, however, struck an object on the desk, and swept it down. It fell with a loud, rattling sound upon the floor. It was a musket; the owner of which bounded up on the instant from a bench where he was lying, and seized Penn by the leg. The school-house had been turned into a barrack-room for recruits, and the late master found that he had descended upon a squad of confederate soldiers. Lights were struck, and the sleepy sentinels, rubbing their eyes open, recognized, struggling in the arms of their companion, the unfortunate young Quaker. "I knowed 'twas him! I knowed 'twas him!" cried his overjoyed captor, who proved to be no other than Silas Ropes's worthy friend Gad. "I heern him gittin' inter the winder, but I kept dark till he knocked my gun down; then I grabbed him! He's a traitor, and this time will meet a traitor's doom!" "My friends," said Penn, recovering from the agitation of his first surprise and struggle, "I am in your power. It is perhaps the best thing that could happen to me; for I have committed no crime, and I cannot doubt but that I shall receive justice all the sooner for this accident. You need not take the trouble to bind me; I shall not attempt to escape." His captors, however, among whom he recognized with some uneasiness more than one of those who had been engaged in lynching him, persisted in binding him upon a bench, in no very comfortable position, and then set a guard over him for the remainder of the night. XVIII. _CONDEMNED TO DEATH._ Early the next morning Virginia Villars overheard the soldiers conversing on the piazza. The mention of a certain name arrested her attention. She listened: what they said terrified her. Penn Hapgood had been apprehended during the night, and his trial by drum-head court-martial was at that moment proceeding. "Mr. Pepperill!" she called, in a scarcely audible whisper; and, looking around, Daniel saw her alarmed face at the window. Daniel was one of the soldiers who had been detailed to guard the house. Strongly against his will, he had been compelled to enlist, in order to avoid the persecutions of his secession neighbors. Such was already becoming the fate of many whose hearts were not in the cause, whose sympathies were all with the government against which they were forced to rebel. "What, marm?" said Pepperill, meekly. "Is it true what that man is saying?" "About the schoolmaster? I--I'm afeard it ar true! They've cotched him, marm, and there's men that's swore the death of him, marm." Virginia flew to inform her father. The old man rose up instantly, forgetting his blindness, forgetting his own feebleness, and the danger into which he would have rushed, to go and plead Penn's cause. Fortunately, perhaps, for him, the guard crossed their muskets before him, refusing to let him pass. Their orders were, not only to defend the house, but also to prevent his leaving it. "Then I will go alone!" said Carl, who was to have been his guide. And scarcely waiting to receive instructions from Virginia and her father, he ran out, slipping between the soldiers, who had no orders to detain any person but the minister, and ran to the Academy. The mockery of a trial was over. The prisoner had been condemned. The penalty pronounced against him was death. Already the noose was dangling from a tree, and some soldiers were bringing from the school-house a table to serve as a scaffold. Silas Ropes, who had a feather stuck in his cap, and wore an old rusty scabbard at his side, and flourished a sword, enjoying the title of "lieutenant," obtained for him through Bythewood's influence; Lysander Sprowl, who had been honored with a captaincy from the same source, and who, though a forger, and late a fugitive from justice, now boldly defied the power of the civil authorities to arrest him, trusting to that atrocious policy of the confederate government which virtually proclaimed to the robber and murderer, "Become, now, a traitor to your country, and all other crimes shall be forgiven you;"--these, and other persons of like character, appeared chiefly active in Penn's case. That they had no right whatever to constitute themselves a court-martial, and bring him to trial, they knew perfectly well. They had not waited even for a shadow of authority from their commanding officer. What they were about to do was nothing more nor less than murder. Penn, with his hands tied behind him, and surrounded by a violent rabble, some armed, and others unarmed, was already mounted upon the table, when Carl arrived, and attempted to force his way through the crowd. "Feller-citizens and soldiers!" cried Lieutenant Ropes, standing on a chair beside the scaffold, "this here man has jest been proved to be a traitor and a spy, and he is about to expatiate his guilt on the gallus." Two men then mounted the table, passed the noose over Penn's neck, drew it close, and leaped down again. "Now," said Ropes, "if you've got any confession to make 'fore the table is jerked out from under ye, you can ease your mind. Only le' me suggest, if you don't mean to confess, you'd better hold yer tongue." Penn, pale, but perfectly self-possessed, expecting no mercy, no reprieve, made answer in a clear, strong voice,-- "I can't confess, for I am not guilty. I die an innocent man. I appeal to Heaven, before whose bar we must all appear, for the justice you deny me." In his shirt sleeves, his head uncovered, his feet bare, his naked throat enclosed by the murderous cord, his hands bound behind him, he stood awaiting his fate. Carl in the mean time struggled in vain to break through the ring of soldiers that surrounded the extemporized scaffold,--screamed in vain to obtain a hearing. "Let him go, and you may hang me in his place!" The soldiers answered with a brutal laugh,--as if there would be any satisfaction in hanging him! But the offer of self-sacrifice on the part of the devoted Carl touched one heart, at least. Penn, who had maintained a firm demeanor up to this time, was almost unmanned by it. "God bless you, dear Carl! Remember that I loved you. Be always honest and upright; then, if you die the victim of wrong, it will be your oppressors, not you, who will be most unhappy. Good by, dear Carl. Bear my farewell to those we love. Don't stay and see me die, I entreat you!" Yet Carl staid, sobbing with grief and rage. "Why don't you hurry up this business?" cried Lysander Sprowl, angrily, coming out of the school-house. "Somebody tie a handkerchief over his eyes, and get through some time to-day." "All right, cap'm," said Ropes. "Make ready now, boys, and take away this table in a hurry, when I give the word." "Hold on, there! What's going on?" cried an unexpected voice, and a recruiting officer from the village made his appearance, riding up on a white horse. The summary proceedings were stayed, and the case explained. The man listened with an air of grim official importance, his coarse red countenance betraying not a gleam of sympathy with the prisoner. Yet being the superior in rank to any officer present (Silas called him "kunnel"), besides being the only one of them all who had been regularly commissioned by the confederate government, this man held Penn's fate in his hands. "Hanging's too good for such scoundrels!" he said, frowning at the prisoner. "As for this particular case, there's only one thing to be said: his life shall be spared on only one condition." Carl's heart almost stood still, in his eagerness to listen. Even Penn felt a faint--a very faint--pulse of hope in his breast. The "kunnel" went on. "Let him take his choice--either to hang, or enlist. What do you say, youngster? Which do you prefer--the death of a traitor, or the glorious career of a soldier in the confederate army?" "It is impossible for me, sir," said Penn, in a voice of deep feeling and unalterable conviction--"it is impossible for me to bear arms against my country!" "But the Confederate States shall be your country, and a country to be proud of!" said the man. "I am a citizen of the United States; to the United States I owe allegiance," said Penn. "So far from being a traitor, I am willing to die rather than appear one." "Then you won't enlist?" "No, sir." "Not even to save your life?" "Not even to save my life!" "Then," growled the man, turning away, "if you will be such a fool, I've nothing more to say." So it only remained for Penn to submit quietly to his fate. The executioners laid hold of the table, and waited for the order to remove it. But just then Carl, breaking through the crowd, threw himself before the officer's horse. "O, Colonel Derring! hear me--von vord!" "Von vord!" repeated the officer, with a coarse laugh, mocking him. "What's that, you Dutchman?" "You vill let him go, and I shall wolunteer in his place!" said Carl. "You!" The officer regarded him critically. Carl, though so young, was very sturdy. "You offer yourself as a substitute, eh, if I will spare his life?" "Carl!" cried Penn, "I forbid you! You shall not commit that sin for me! Better a thousand times that I should die than that you should be a rebel in arms against your country." "I have no country," answered Carl, ingeniously excusing himself. "I am vot this man says, a Tuchman. I vill enlisht mit him, and he vill shpare your life." "Boy, it's a bargain," said Colonel Derring, whose passion for obtaining recruits overruled every other consideration. "Cut that fellow's cords, lieutenant, and let him go. Come along with me, Dutchy." Ropes obeyed, and Penn, bewildered, almost stunned, by the sudden change in his destiny, saw himself released, and beheld, as in a dream, poor Carl marching off as his substitute to the recruiting station. "Now let me give you one word of advice," said Captain Sprowl in his ear. "Don't let another night find you within twenty miles of that halter there, if you wouldn't have your neck in it again." "Will you give me a safe conduct?" said Penn, who thought the advice excellent, and would have been only too glad to act upon it. "I've no authority," said Sprowl. "You must take care of yourself." Penn looked around upon the ferocious, disappointed faces watching him, and felt that he might about as well have been despatched in the first place, as to be let loose in the midst of such a pack of wolves thirsting for his blood. He did not despair, however, but, putting on his clothes, determined to make one final and desperate effort to escape. XIX. _THE ESCAPE._ Walking off quickly across the field towards Mrs. Sprowl's house, he turned suddenly aside from the path and plunged into the woods. He soon perceived that he was followed. A man--only one--came through the undergrowth. Penn stopped. "God forgive me!" he said within himself; "but this is more than human nature can bear!" He had been, as it were, smitten on one cheek and on the other also: it was time to smite back. He picked up a club: his nerves became like steel as he grasped it: his eyes flashed fire. The man advanced; he was unarmed. Suddenly Penn dropped his club, and uttered a cry of joy. It was his friend Stackridge. "What! the Quaker will fight?" said the farmer, with a grim smile. "That shows," said Penn, bursting into tears as he wrung the farmer's hand, "that I have been driven nearly insane!" "It shows that some of the insanity has been driven out of you!" replied Stackridge, beginning to have hopes of him. "If you had taken my pistol and used it freely in the first place, or at least shown a good will to use it, you'd have proved yourself a good deal more of a man in my estimation, and been quite as well off." "Perhaps," murmured Penn, convinced that this passive submission to martyrdom was but a sorry part to play. "But now to business," said Stackridge. "You must get away as quickly and secretly as possible, unless you mean to stay and fight it out. I am here to help you. I have a horse in the woods here, at your disposal. I thought there might be such a thing as your slipping through their hands, and so I took this precaution. I will show you a bridle-road that will take you to the house of a friend of mine, who is a hearty Unionist. You can leave my horse with him. He will help you on to the house of some friend of his, who will do the same, and so you will manage to get out of the state. I advise you to travel by night, as a general thing; but just now it seems necessary that you should see a little hard riding by daylight. You'll find some luncheon in the saddlebags. When you get into some pretty thick woods, leave the road, and find a good place to tie up till night; then go on cautiously to my friend's house. I'll give you full directions, while we're finding the horse." They made haste to the spot where the animal was tied. "He has been well fed," said the farmer. "You will water him at the first brook you cross, and let him browse when you stop. Now just trade that coat for one that will make you look a little less like a Quaker schoolmaster." He had brought one of his own coats, which he made Penn put on, and then exchanged hats with him. Penn was admirably disguised. Brief, then, were the thanks he uttered from his overflowing heart, short the leave-takings. He was mounted. Stackridge led the horse through the bushes to the bridle-path. "Now, don't let the grass grow under your feet till you are at least five miles away. If you meet anybody, get along without words if you can; if you can't, let words come to blows as quick as you please, and then put faith in Dobbin's heels." Again, for the last time, he made Penn the offer of a pistol. There was no leisure for idle arguments on the subject. The weapon was accepted. The two wrung each other's hands in silence: there were tears in the eyes of both. Then Stackridge gave Dobbin a resounding slap, and the horse bounded away, bearing his rider swiftly out of sight in the woods. All this had passed so rapidly that Penn had scarcely time to think of any thing but the necessity of immediate flight. But during that solitary ride through the forest he had ample leisure for reflection. He thought of the mountain cave, whose gloomy but quiet shelter, whose dark but nevertheless humane and hospitable inmates he seemed to have quitted weeks ago, so crowded with experiences had been the few hours since last he shook Pomp and Cudjo by the hand. He thought of Virginia and her father, to visit whom for perhaps the last time he had incurred the risk of descending into the valley; whom now he felt, with a strangely swelling heart, that he might never see again. And he thought with grief, pity, and remorse of Carl, a rebel now for his sake. These things, and many more, agitated him as he spurred the farmer's horse along the narrow, shaded, lonesome path. He met an old man on horseback, with a bright-faced girl riding behind him on the crupper, who bade him a pleasant good morning, and pursued their way. Next came some boys driving mules laden with sacks of corn. At last Penn saw two men in butternut suits with muskets on their shoulders. He knew by their looks that they were secessionists hastening to join their friends in town. They regarded him suspiciously as he came galloping up. Penn perceived that some off-hand word was necessary in passing them. "Hurry on with those guns!" he cried; "they are wanted!" And he dashed away, as if his sole business was to hurry up guns for the confederate cause. He met with no other adventure that day. He followed Stackridge's directions implicitly, and at evening, leaving his horse tied in the woods, approached on foot the house to which he had been sent. He was cordially received by the same old man whom he had seen riding to town in the morning with a bright-faced girl clinging behind him. At a hint from Stackridge the man had hastily ridden home again, passing Penn at noon while he lay hidden in the woods; and here he was, honest, friendly, vigilant, to receive and protect his guest. "You did well," he said, "to turn off up the mountain; for I am not the only man that passed you there. You have been pursued. Three persons have gone on after you. I met them as I was going into town; they inquired of me if I had seen you, and when I got home I found they had passed here in search of you. They have not yet gone back." This was unpleasant news. Yet Penn was soon convinced that he had been extremely fortunate in thus throwing his pursuers off his track. It was far better that they should have gone on before him, than that they should be following close upon his heels. He staid with the farmer all night, and departed with him early the next morning to pursue his journey. It was not safe for him to keep the road, for he might at any moment meet his pursuers returning; accordingly, the old man showed him a circuitous route along the base of the mountains, which could be travelled only on foot, and by daylight. "Here I leave you," said his kind old guide, when they had reached the banks of a mountain stream. "Follow this run, and it will take you around to the road, about a mile this side of my brother's house. There's a bridge near which you can wait, when you get to it. If your pursuers go back past my house, then I will harness up and drive on to the bridge, and water my horse there. You will see me, and get in to ride, and I will take you to my brother's, and make some arrangement for helping you on still farther to night." So they parted; the lonely fugitive feeling that the kindness of a few such men, scattered like salt through the state, was enough to redeem it from the fate of Sodom, which otherwise, by its barbarism and injustice, it would have seemed to deserve. Following the stream in its windings through a wilderness of thickets and rocks, he reached the bridge about the middle of the afternoon. His progress had been leisurely. The day was warm, bright, and tranquil. The stream poured over ledges, or gushed among mossy stones, or tumbled down jagged rocks in flashing cascades. Its music filled him with memories of home, with love that swelled his heart to tears, with longings for peace and rest. Its coolness and beauty made a little Sabbath in his soul, a pause of holy calm, in the midst of the fear and tumult that lay before and behind him. During that long, solitary ramble he had pondered much the great question which had of late agitated his mind--the question which, in peaceful days, he had thought settled with his own conscience forever. But days of stern experience play sad havoc with theories not founded in experience. In all the ordinary emergencies of life Penn had found the doctrine of non-resistance to evil, of overcoming evil with good, beautiful and sublime. But had he not the morning before given way to a natural impulse, when he seized a club, firmly resolved to oppose force with force? The recollection of that incident had led him into a singular train of reasoning. "I know," he said, "that it is still the highest doctrine. But am I equal to it? Can I, under all circumstances, live up to it? I have seen something of the power and recklessness of the faction that would destroy my country. Would I wish to see my country submit? Never! Such submission would be the most unchristian thing it could do. It would be the abandonment of the cause of liberty; it would be to deliver up the whole land to the blighting despotism of slavery; it would postpone the millennium I hope for thousands of years. I see no other way than that the nation must resist; and what I would have the nation do I should be prepared, if called upon, to do myself. If this government were a Christian government I would have it use only Christian weapons, and no doubt those would be effectual for its preservation. But there never was a Christian government yet, and probably there will not be for an age or two. Governments are all founded on human policy, selfishness, and force. Or if _I_ was entirely a Christian, then _I_ would have no temptation, and no right, to use any but spiritual weapons. But until I attain to these, may I not use such weapons as I have?" These thoughts revolved slowly and somewhat confusedly in the young man's mind, when an incident occurred to bring form, sharply and suddenly, out of that chaos. He had reached the bridge. He looked up and down the road, and saw no human being. It was hardly time to expect the farmer yet; so he climbed down upon some dry stones in the bed of the stream, where he could watch for his coming, and be at the same time hidden from view and sheltered from the sun. He had not been long in that situation when he heard the sounds of hoofs. It was not his white-haired farmer whom he saw approaching, but two men on horseback. They were coming from the same direction in which he was looking for the old man. As they drew near, he discovered that one was a negro. The face of the other he recognized shortly afterwards. It was that of Mr. Augustus Bythewood, who was evidently taking advantage of the fine weather to make a little journey, accompanied by a black servant. Penn's heart contracted within him as he thought of his friend Pomp, and of the wrongs he had suffered at this man's hands. He thought of his own safety too, and crept under the bridge. He had time, however, before he disappeared, to catch a glimpse of three other horsemen coming from the north. His heart beat fast, for he knew in an instant that these were his pursuers returning. He had already prepared for himself a good hiding-place, in a cavity between the two logs that supported the bridge. Upon the butment, close under the trembling planks, he lay, when Bythewood and his man rode over. The dust rattled upon him through the cracks, and sifted down into the stream. The thundering and shaking of the planks ceased, but he listened in vain to hear the hoofs of the two horses clattering off in the distance. To his alarm he perceived that Bythewood and his man had halted on the other side of the bridge, and were going to water their horses in the bed of the stream. Clashing and rattling down the steep, stony banks, and plashing into the water, came the foam-streaked animals. The negro rode one, and led the other by the bridle. There he sat in the saddle, watching the eager drinking of the thirsty beasts, and pulling up their heads occasionally to prevent them from swallowing too fast or too much; all in full sight of the concealed schoolmaster. Bythewood, after dismounting, also walked down to the edge of the stream in full view. Such was the situation when the three horsemen from the north arrived. They all rode their animals down the bank into the water. Penn had not been mistaken as to their character and business. Two of them were the men who had adjusted the noose to his neck the day before. The third was no less a personage than Captain Lysander Sprowl. Penn lay breathless and trembling in his hiding-place; for those men were but a few yards from him, and all in such plain view that it seemed inevitable but they must discover him. "What luck?" said Bythewood, carelessly, seating himself on a rock and lighting a cigar. "The rascal has given us the slip," said Lysander, from his horse. "I believe we have passed him, and so, on our way back, we'll search the house of every man suspected of Union sentiments. He started off with Stackridge's horse, and we tracked him easy at first, but to-day we haven't once heard of him." "It's my opinion he don't intend to leave the state," said Bythewood, coolly smoking. "Sam, walk those horses up and down the road till I call you: I want a little private talk with the captain." The captain's attendants likewise took the hint, reined their horses up out of the water, rode over the shaking bridge and Penn's head under it, and proceeded to search the next house for him, while Sprowl was conversing with Augustus. "Let's go over the other side," said Bythewood, "where we can be in the shade. The sun is powerful hot." They accordingly walked over Penn's head a moment later, climbed down the same rocks he had descended, picked their way along the dry stones to the bridge, and took their seats in its shadow beneath him, and so near that he could easily have reached over and taken the captain's cap from his head! XX. _UNDER THE BRIDGE._ "The colonel wasn't aware of your sentiments," said Sprowl, "or he wouldn't have let him off for fifty substitutes." "Or if you and Ropes," retorted Bythewood, "had only put through the job with the celerity I had a right to expect of you, he would have been strung up before the colonel had a chance to interfere." And he puffed impatiently a cloud of smoke, whose fragrance was wafted to the nostrils of the listener under the planks. "Well," said Lysander, accepting a cigar from his friend, "if he gets out of the state,"--biting off the end of it,--"and never shows himself here again,"--rubbing a match on the stones,--"you ought to be satisfied. If he stays, or comes back,"--smoking,--"then we'll just finish the little job we begun." Penn lay still as death. What his thoughts were I will not attempt to say; but it must have given him a curious sensation to hear the question of his life or death thus coolly discussed by his would-be assassins over their cigars. "Where are you bound?" asked Lysander. "O, a little pleasure excursion," said Bythewood. "There's to be some lively work at home this evening, and I thought I'd better be away." "What's going on?" "The colonel is going to make some arrests. About fifteen or twenty Union-shriekers will find themselves snapped up before they think of it. Stackridge among the first. 'Twas he, confound him! that helped the schoolmaster off." "Has the colonel orders to make the arrests?" "No, but he takes the responsibility. It's a military necessity, and the government will bear him out in it. Every man that has been known to drill in the Union Club, and has refused to deliver up his arms, must be secured. There's no other way of putting down these dangerous fellows," said Augustus, running his jewelled fingers through his curls. "But why do you prefer to be away when the fun is going on?" "There may be somebody's name in the list on whose behalf I might be expected to intercede." "Not old Villars!" exclaimed Lysander. "Yes, old Villars!" laughed Augustus,--"if by that lively epithet you mean to designate your venerable father-in-law." "By George, though, Gus! ain't it almost too bad? What will folks say?" "Little care I! Old and blind as he is, he is really one of the most dangerous enemies to our cause. His influence is great with a certain class, and he never misses an opportunity to denounce secession. That he openly talks treason, and harbors and encourages traitors arming against the confederate government, is cause sufficient for arresting him with the others." "Really," said Sprowl, chuckling as he thought of it, "'twill be better for our plans to have him out of the way." "Yes," said Bythewood; "the girls will need protectors, and your wife will welcome you back again." "And Virginia," added Sprowl, "will perhaps look a little more favorably on a rich, handsome, influential fellow like you! I see! I see!" There was another who saw too,--a sudden flash of light, as it were, revealing to Penn all the heartless, scheming villany of the friendly-seeming Augustus. He grasped the Stackridge pistol; his eyes, glaring in the dark, were fixed in righteous fury on the elegant curly head. "If I am discovered, I will surely shoot him!" he said within himself. "The old man," suggested Sprowl, "won't live long in jail." "Very well," said Bythewood. "If the girls come to terms, why, we will secure their everlasting gratitude by helping him out. If they won't, we will merely promise to do everything we can for him--and do nothing." "And the property?" said Lysander, somewhat anxiously. "You shall have what you can get of it,--I don't care for the property!" replied Bythewood, with haughty contempt. "I believe the old man, foreseeing these troubles, has been converting his available means into Ohio railroad stock. If so, there won't be much for you to lay hold of until we have whipped the north." "That we'll do fast enough," said Lysander, confidently. "Well, I must be travelling," said Augustus. "And I must be looking for that miserable schoolmaster." So saying the young men arose from their cool seats on the stones,--Lysander placing his hand, to steady himself, on the edge of the butment within an inch of Penn's leg. Darkness, however, favored the fugitive; and they passed out from the shadow of the bridge without suspecting that they had held confidential discourse within arms' length of the man they were seeking to destroy. They ascended the bank, mounted their horses, and took leave of each other,--Bythewood and his black man riding north, while Sprowl hastened to rejoin his companions in the search for the schoolmaster. XXI. _THE RETURN INTO DANGER._ Trembling with excitement Penn got down from the butment, and peering over the bank, saw his enemies in the distance. What was to be done? Had he thought only of his own safety, his way would have been clear. But could he abandon his friends? forsake Virginia and her father when the toils of villany were tightening around them? leave Stackridge and his compatriots to their fate, when it might be in his power to forewarn and save them? How he, alone, suspected, pursued, and sorely in need of assistance himself, was to render assistance to others, he did not know. He did not pause to consider. He put his faith in the overruling providence of God. "With God's aid," he said, "I will save them or sacrifice myself." As for fighting, should fighting prove necessary, his mind was made up. The conversation of the villains under the bridge had settled that question. Instead, therefore, of waiting for the friend who was to help him on his journey, he leaped up from under the bridge, and set out at a fast walk to follow his pursuers back to town. He had travelled but a mile or two when he saw the farmer driving towards him in a wagon. "Are you lost? are you crazy?" cried the astonished old man. "You are going in the wrong direction! The men have been to my house, searched it, and passed on. Get in! get in!" "I will," said Penn; "but, Mr. Ellerton, you must turn back." He briefly related his adventure under the bridge. The old man listened with increasing amazement. "You are right! you are right!" he said. "We must get word to Stackridge, somehow!" And turning his wagon about, he drove back over the road as fast as his horse could carry them. It was sunset when they reached his house. There they unharnessed his horse and saddled him. The old man mounted. "I'll do my best," he said, "to see Stackridge, or some of them, in season. If I fail, may be you will succeed. But you'd better keep in the woods till dark." Ellerton rode off at a fast trot. Penn hastened to the woods, where Stackridge's horse was still concealed. The animal had been recently fed and watered, and was ready for a hard ride. The bridle was soon on his head, and Penn on his back, and he was making his way through the woods again towards home. As soon as it was dark, Penn came out into the open road; nor did he turn aside into the bridle-path when he reached it, because he wished to avoid travelling in company with Ellerton, who was to take that route. He also supposed that Sprowl's party would be returning that way. In this he was mistaken. Riding at a gallop through the darkness, his heart beating anxiously as the first twinkling lights of the town began to appear, he suddenly became aware of three horsemen riding but a short distance before him. They had evidently been drinking something stronger than water at the house of some good secessionist on the road, perhaps to console themselves for the loss of the schoolmaster,--for these were the excellent friends who were so eager to meet with him again! They were merry and talkative, and Penn, not ambitious of cultivating their acquaintance, checked his horse. It was too late. They had already perceived his approach, and hailed him. What should he do? To wheel about and flee would certainly excite their suspicions; they would be sure to pursue him; and though he might escape, his arrival in town would be thus perhaps fatally delayed. The arrests might be even at that moment taking place. He reflected, "There are but three of them; I may fight my way through, if it comes to that." Accordingly he rode boldly up to the assassins, and in a counterfeit voice, answered their hail. He was but little known to either of them, and there was a chance that, in the darkness, they might fail to recognize him. "Where you from?" demanded Sprowl. "From a little this side of Bald Mountain," said Penn,--which was true enough. "Where bound?" "Can't you see for yourself?" said Penn, assuming a reckless, independent air. "I am following my horse's nose, and that is going pretty straight into Curryville." "Glad of your company," said Sprowl, riding gayly alongside. "What's your business in town, stranger?" "Well," replied Penn, "I don't mind telling you that my business is to see if I and my horse can find something to do for old Tennessee." "Ah! cavalry?" suggested Lysander, well pleased. "I should prefer cavalry service to any other," answered Penn. "There's where you right," said Sprowl; and he proceeded to enlighten Penn on the prospects of raising a cavalry company in Curryville. "Did you meet any person on the road, travelling north?" "What sort of a person?" "A young feller, rather slim, brown hair, blue eyes, with a half-hung look, a perfect specimen of a sneaking abolition schoolmaster." "I--I don't remember meeting any such a person," said Penn, as if consulting his memory. "I met _two_ men, though, this side of old Bald. One of them was a rather gentlemanly-looking fellow; but I think his hair was black and curly." "The schoolmaster's har is wavy, and purty dark, I call it," said one of Sprowl's companions. "He must have been the man!" said Lysander, suddenly stopping his horse. "What sort of a chap was with him? Did he look like a Union-shrieker?" "Now I think of it," said Penn, "if that man wasn't a Unionist at heart, I am greatly mistaken. His sympathies are with the Lincolnites, I know by his looks!" He neglected to add, however, that the man was black. Sprowl was excited. "It was some tory, piloting the schoolmaster! Boys, we must wheel about! It never'll do for us to go home as long as we can hear of him alive in the state. Remember the pay promised, if we catch him." "Luck to you!" cried Penn, riding on, while Sprowl turned back in ludicrous pursuit of his own worthy friend, Mr. Augustus Bythewood, and his negro man Sam. Penn lost no time laughing at the joke. His heart was too full of trouble for that. It had seemed to him, at each moment of delay, that the blind old minister was even then being torn from his home--that he could hear Virginia's sobs of distress and cries for help. He urged his horse into a gallop once more, and struck into a path across the fields. He rode to the edge of the orchard, dismounted, tied the horse, and hastened on foot to the house. The guard was gone from the piazza, and all seemed quiet about the premises. The kitchen was dark. He advanced quickly, but noiselessly, to the door. It was open. He went in. "Toby!" No answer. "Carl! Carl!" he called in a louder voice. No Carl replied. Then he remembered--what it seemed so strange that he could even for an instant forget--that Carl was in the rebel ranks, for his sake. He had seen a light in the sitting-room. He found the door, and knocked. No answer came. He opened it softly, and entered. There burned the lamp on the table--there stood the vacant chairs--he was alone in the deserted room. "Virginia!" He started at his own voice, which sounded, in the hollow apartment, like the whisper of a ghost. He was proceeding still farther, wondering at the stillness, terrified by his own forebodings, feeling in his appalled heart the contrast between this night, and this strange, furtive visit, and the happy nights, and the many happy visits, he had made to his dear friends there only a few short months before,--pausing to assure himself that he was not walking in a dream,--when he heard a footstep, a flutter, and saw, spring towards him through the door, pale as an apparition, Virginia. Speechless with emotion, she could not utter his name, but she testified the joy with which she welcomed him by throwing herself, not into his arms, but upon them, as he extended his hands to greet her. "What has happened?" said Penn. "O, my father!" said the girl. And she bowed her face upon his arm, clinging to him as if he were her brother, her only support. "Where is he?" asked Penn, alarmed, and trembling with sympathy for that delicate, agitated, fair young creature, whom sorrow had so changed since he saw her last. "They have taken him--the soldiers!" she said. And by these words Penn knew that he had come too late. XXII. _STACKRIDGE'S COAT AND HAT GET ARRESTED._ The outrage had been committed not more than twenty minutes before. Toby had followed his old master, to see what was to be done with him, and Virginia and her sister were in the street before the house, awaiting the negro's return, when Penn arrived. "You could have done no good, even if you had come sooner," said Virginia. "There is but one man who could have prevented this cruelty." "Why not send for him?" "Alas! he left town this very day. He is a secessionist; but he has great influence, and appears very friendly to us." Penn started, and looked at her keenly. "His name?" "Augustus Bythewood." Penn recoiled. "What's the matter?" "Virginia, that man is thy worst enemy? I did not tell thee how I learned that the arrests were to be made. But I will!" And he told her all. "O," said she, "if I had only believed what my heart has always said of that man, and trusted less to my eyes and ears, he would never have deceived me! If he, then, is an enemy, what hope is there? O, my father!" "Do not despair!" answered Penn, as cheerfully as he could. "Something may be done. Stackridge and his friends may have escaped. I will go and see if I can hear any thing of them. Have faith in our heavenly Father, my poor girl! be patient! be strong! All, I am sure, will yet be well." "But you too are in danger! You must not go!" she exclaimed, instinctively detaining him. "I am in greater danger here, perhaps, than elsewhere." "True, true! Go to your negro friends in the mountain--there is yet time! go!" and she hurriedly pushed him from her. "When I find that nothing can be done for thy father, then I will return to Pomp and Cudjo--not before." And he glided out of the back door just as Salina entered from the street. He left the horse where he had tied him, and hastened on foot to Stackridge's house. He approached with great caution. There was a light burning in the house, as on other summer evenings at that hour. The negroes--for Stackridge was a slaveholder--had retired to their quarters. There were no indications of any disturbance having taken place. Penn reconnoitred carefully, and, perceiving no one astir about the premises, advanced towards the door. "Halt!" shouted a voice of authority. And immediately two men jumped out from the well-curb, within which they had been concealed. Others at the same time rushed to the spot from dark corners, where they had lain in wait. Almost in an instant, and before he could recover from his astonishment, Penn found himself surrounded. "You are our prisoner, Mr. Stackridge!" And half a dozen bayonets converged at the focus of his breast. The young man comprehended the situation in a moment. Stackridge had not been arrested; he was absent from home; these ambushed soldiers had been awaiting his return; and they had mistaken the schoolmaster for the farmer. The night was just light enough to enable them to recognize the coat and hat which had been Stackridge's, and which Penn still wore as a disguise. Features they could not discern so easily. The prisoner made no resistance, for that would have been useless; no outcry, for that would have revealed to them their mistake. He submitted without a word; and they marched him away, just as his supposed wife and children flew to the door, calling frantically, "Father! father!" and lamenting his misfortune. By proclaiming his own identity, the prisoner would have gained nothing, probably, but a halter on the spot. On the other hand, by accepting the part forced upon him, he was at least gaining time. It might be, too, that he was rendering an important service to the real Stackridge by thus withdrawing the soldiers from their ambush, and giving him an opportunity to reach home and learn the danger he had escaped. These considerations passed rapidly through his mind. He slouched his hat over his eyes, and marched with sullen, stubborn mien. In this manner he was taken to the village, and conducted to an old storehouse, which had lately been turned into a guard-house by the confederate authorities. There was a great crowd around the dimly-lighted door, and other prisoners, similarly escorted, were going in. Amid the press and hurry, Penn passed the sentinels still unrecognized. He immediately found himself wedged in between the wall and a number of Tennessee Union men, some terrified into silence, others enraged and defiant, but all captives like himself. In the farther end of the room, at a desk behind the counter, with candles at each side, sat the confederate colonel to whom Penn owed his life. He seemed to be receiving the reports of those who had conducted the arrests, and to be examining the prisoners. Beside him sat his aids and clerks. Before him Penn knew that he must soon appear. He was in darkness and disguise as yet, but he could not long avoid facing the light and the eyes of those who knew him well. What, then, would be his fate? Would he be retained a prisoner, like the rest, or delivered over to the mob that sought his life? He had time to decide upon a course which he hoped might gain him some favor. Taking advantage of the shadow and confusion in which he was, he slipped off his disguise, and, elbowing his way through the crowd of prisoners, appeared, hat in hand and coat on arm, before the interior guard, and demanded to speak with the commanding officer. "Sir, who are you?" said the colonel, failing, at first, to recognize him. Upon which Mr. Ropes, who was at his side, swore a great oath that it was the schoolmaster himself. "But I have had no report of his arrest," cried the colonel. "How came you here, sir?" "I wish to place myself under your protection," said Penn. "You received a substitute in my place, and ordered me to be set at liberty. But your commands have been disregarded; I have been hunted for two days; and men, calling themselves confederate soldiers, are still pursuing me. Under these circumstances I have thought it best to appeal to you, relying upon your honor as a gentleman and an officer." "But how came you here? Who brought in this fellow?" Nobody could answer that question, although the leader of the party that had brought him in was at the very moment on the spot, waiting to make his report of Stackridge's arrest. As soon, therefore, as Penn could gain a hearing, he continued. "I came in, sir, with a crowd of soldiers and prisoners, none of whom recognized me. The sentinels no doubt supposed I was arrested, and so let me pass." "Well, sir, you have done a bold thing, and perhaps the best thing for you. Since you have voluntarily delivered yourself up, I shall feel bound to protect you. But I have only one of two alternatives to offer you--the same I offer to each of these worthy gentlemen here, giving them their choice. Take the oath of allegiance to the confederate government, and volunteer; that is one condition." "I am a northern man," replied Penn, "and owe allegiance to the United States; so that condition it is impossible for me to accept." "Very well; I'll give you time to think of it. In the mean while, my only means of affording the protection you demand will be to retain you a prisoner. Guard, take this man below." Not another word was said; and, indeed, Penn had already gained more than he hoped for, with the eyes of Lieutenant Ropes glaring on him so murderously. He was conducted to a stairway that led to the cellar, and ordered to descend. He obeyed, marching down between two soldiers on guard at the door, and two more at the foot of the stairs. It was a lugubrious subterranean apartment, lighted by a single lantern suspended from a beam. By its dim rays he discovered the figures of half a dozen fellow-prisoners; and, in the midst of the group, he recognized one, the sight of whom caused him to forget all his own misfortunes in an instant. "My dear Mr. Villars! I have found you at last!" he exclaimed, grasping the old clergyman's hand. "Penn, is it you?" said the blind old man. He was seated on a dry goods box. Trembling and feeble, he arose to greet his young friend, with a noble courtesy very beautiful and touching under the circumstances. "I cannot tell thee," said Penn, in a choked voice, "how grieved I am to see thee here!" "And grieved am I that you should see me here!" Mr. Villars replied. "I hoped you were a hundred miles away. I was never sorry to have your company till now! How does it happen?" Penn made him sit down again, giving him Stackridge's coat for a cushion, and related briefly his adventures. "It is very singular," said the old man, thoughtfully. "It seems almost providential that you are here." "I think it is so," said Penn. "I think I am here because I may be of service to you." "Ah!" replied the old man, with a tender smile, "my life is of but little value compared with yours. I am a worn-out servant; my day of usefulness is past; I am ready to go home. I do not speak repiningly," he added. "If I can serve my country or my God by suffering--if nothing remains for me but that--then I will cheerfully suffer. Our heavenly Father orders all things; and I am content. All will be well with us, if we are obedient children; all will yet be well with our poor country, if it is true to itself and to Him." "O, do not say thy day of usefulness is past, as long as thou canst speak such words!" said Penn, deeply moved. "Thank God, I have faith! Even in this darkest hour of my life and of my country, I think I have more faith than ever. And I have love, too--love even for those violent men who have thrown us into this dungeon. They know not what they do. They act in ignorance and passion. They seek to destroy our dear old government; but they will only destroy what they are striving so madly to build up." "Yes," said one of the prisoners, "the institution will be ruined by those very men! They are worse than the abolitionists themselves; and I hate 'em worse!" "Hate their errors, Captain Grudd, hate their crimes, but hate no man," Mr. Villars softly replied. "And you would have us submit to them?" "Submit, when you can do no better. But even for their sakes, even for the love of them, my friend, resist their crimes when you can. No man will stand by and see a maniac murder his wife and children. It will be better for the poor maddened wretch himself to prevent him; don't you think so, Penn?" "I do," said Penn, who knew that the argument was meant for himself, not for the rest. "I am thoroughly convinced. You were always right on that subject; and I was always wrong." "I perceive," said the old man, "that you have had experience. It is not I that have convinced you; it is the logic of events." One by one, the prisoners from above followed Penn down the dismal stairs. Only now and then a fainthearted Unionist consented to regain his liberty by taking the oath of allegiance, and "volunteering." At length the room above was cleared, and no more prisoners arrived. Penn, who had kept anxious watch for his friend Stackridge, was congratulating himself upon the perfect success of his stratagem, when the corporal who had brought him in came rushing down the stairs, accompanied by Lieutenant Ropes. "Stackridge!" he called, searching among the prisoners; "is Medad Stackridge here?" No man had seen him. "Then I tell you," said the corporal to Silas, "he is hid somewhere up stairs, or else he has escaped; for I can swear I arrested him." "I can swear you was drunk," said Silas, much disgusted. "You have let the wust man of the lot slip through your fingers; for it's certain he ain't here." Penn trembled for a minute. But both Ropes and the corporal passed him without a suspicion of what was agitating him; and he felt immensely relieved when they returned up the stairs, and the mystery remained unexplained. The prisoners in the cellar were about twelve in number. Nearly all were sturdy, earnest men. Penn noticed that they were not cast down by their misfortunes, but that they whispered among themselves, exchanging glances of intelligence and defiance. At length Captain Grudd came to him, and taking him aside, said,-- "Well, professor, what do you think of the situation?" "We seem to be at the mercy of the villains," replied Penn. "Not so much at their mercy either, if we choose to be men! What we want to know is, will you join us? And if there should be a little fighting to do, will you help do it?" Penn grasped his hand. "Show me that we have any chance of escape, and I am with you!" "I thought you would come to it at last!" Grudd smiled grimly. "What we want, to begin with, is a few handy weapons. But we have all been disarmed. Have you anything? I noticed they did not search you, probably because you came voluntarily and gave yourself up." "I have Stackridge's pistol. It is in the coat Mr. Villars is sitting on." Grudd's eyes lighted up at this unexpected good news. "It will come in play! We must shoot or strangle these fellows, and have their guns,"--with a glance at the soldiers on guard. "But the room up stairs is full of soldiers, and there is a strong guard posted outside, probably surrounding the building." "We will have as little to do with them as possible. Young man, I have a secret for you. Do you know whose property this is?" "Barber Jim's, I believe." "And do you know there's a secret passage from this cellar into the cellar under Jim's shop? It was dug by Jim himself, as a hiding-place for his wife and children. He had bought them, but the heirs of their former owner had set up a claim to them. After that matter was settled, he showed Stackridge the place; and that's the way we came to make use of it. We stored our guns in the passage, and came through into this cellar at night to consult and drill. The store being shut, and the windows all fastened and boarded up, made a quiet place of it. As good luck would have it, the night before the military took possession, Jim warned us, and we carefully put back every stone in the wall, and left. But some of our guns are still in the passage, if they have not been discovered. We have only to open the wall again to get at them. But before that can be done, the guard must be disposed of." Penn, who had listened with intense interest to this recital, drew a long breath. "Is the passage behind the spot where Mr. Villars is sitting?" "Within three feet of the box." "Then I fear it is discovered. I heard a noise behind that wall not ten minutes ago." Grudd started. "Are you sure?" "Quite sure." "It must be Jim himself; or else we have been betrayed." "Was the secret known to many?" "To all our club, and one besides," said Grudd, frowning anxiously. "Stackridge made a mistake; I told him so!" "How?" "We were drilling here that night when Dutch Carl came to tell us you were in danger. Stackridge said he knew the boy, and would trust him. So he brought him in here. And Carl is now a rebel volunteer." "With him your secret is safe!" Penn hastened to assure the captain. "Stackridge was right. Carl----" He paused suddenly, looking at the stairs. Even while the boy's name was on his lips, the boy himself was entering the cellar. He carried a musket. He wore the confederate uniform. He was accompanied by Gad and an officer. They had come to relieve the guard. The men who had previously been on duty at the foot of the stairs retired with the officer, and Gad and Carl remained in their place. Penn at the sight was filled with painful solicitude. To have seen his young friend and pupil shoulder a confederate musket, knowing that it was the love of him that made him a rebel, would alone have been grief enough. How much worse, then, to see him placed here in a position where it might be necessary, in Grudd's opinion, to "shoot or strangle" him! But having once exchanged glances with the boy, Penn's mind was set at rest. "He has kept your secret," he said to Grudd. "He is very shrewd; and if we need help, he will help us." But the noise Penn had heard behind the wall was troubling the captain. They retired to that part of the cellar. They had been there but a short time when a very distinct knock was heard on the stones. It sounded like a signal. Grudd responded, striking the wall with his heel as he leaned his back against it. Then followed a low whistle in the passage. The captain's dark features lighted up. "We are safe!" he whispered in Penn's ear. "It is Stackridge himself!" XXIII. _THE FLIGHT OF THE PRISONERS._ Then commenced strategy. The prisoners gathered in a group before the closed passage, and talked loud, while Grudd established a communication with Stackridge. In the course of an hour a single stone in the wall had been removed. Through the aperture thus formed a bottle was introduced. This Grudd pretended afterwards to take from his pocket; and having (apparently) drank, he offered it to his friends. All drank, or appeared to drink, in a manner that provoked Gad's thirst. He vowed that it was too bad that anything good should moisten the lips of tory prisoners while a soldier like him went thirsty. "I never saw the time, Gad," said the captain, "when I wouldn't share a bottle with you, and I will now." Gad held his gun with one hand and grasped the bottle with the other. Penn seized the moment when his eyes were directed upwards at the cobweb festoons that adorned the cellar, and the sound of gurgling was in his throat, to whisper in Carl's ear,-- "Appear to drink, and by and by pass the bottle up stairs." Carl understood the game in an instant. "Here, you fish!" he said, in the midst of Gad's potation. "Leafe a little trop for me, vill you?" It was some time before the torrent in Gad's throat ceased its murmuring, and he removed his eyes from the cobwebs. Then, smacking his lips, and remarking that it was the right sort of stuff, he passed the bottle to Carl. "Who's the fish this time?" said he, enviously, after Carl had made believe swallow for a few seconds. He snatched the bottle, and was drinking as before, when the guard above, hearing what passed, called for a taste. "You shust vait a minute till Gad trinks it all up, then you shall pe velcome to vot ish left," said Carl. And, possessing himself of the bottle, he handed it up to his comrades. All the soldiers above were asleep except the sentinels. They drank freely, and returned the bottle to Gad. He had not finished it before he began to be overcome by drowsiness, its contents having been drugged for the occasion. He sat down on the stairs, and soon slid off upon the ground. Carl, who had not in reality swallowed a drop, followed his example. Their guns were then taken from them. Penn stole softly up the stairs, and reconnoitred while Grudd and his companions opened the passage in the wall. "All asleep!" Penn whispered, descending. "Carl!" Carl opened one eye, with a droll expression. "Are you asleep?" "Wery!" said Carl. "Will you stay here, or go with us?" "You vill take me prisoner?" "If you wish it." "Say you vill plow my brains out if I say vun vord, or make vun noise." "Come, come! there's no time for fooling, Carl!" "It ish no vooling!" And Carl insisted on Penn's making the threat. "Veil, then, I vill vake up and go 'long mit you." Mr. Villars had been for some time sleeping soundly; for it was now long past midnight, and weariness had overcome him. Penn awoke him; but the old man refused to escape. "Go without me. I shall be too great a burden for you." But not one of his fellow-prisoners would consent to leave him behind; and, listening to their expostulations, he at length arose to accompany them. Stackridge was in the passage, with the old man Ellerton, whom Penn had sent to warn him. They had brought a supply of ammunition for the guns, which they had loaded and placed ready for use. Penn, supporting and guiding the old minister, was the first to pass through into the cellar under Jim's shop. Stackridge, preceding them with a lantern, greeted their escape with silent and grim exultation. Carl came next. Then, one by one, the others followed, each grasping his gun; the rays of the lantern lighting up their determined faces, as they emerged from the low passage, and stood erect, an eager, whispering group, around Stackridge. Brief the consultation. Their plans were soon formed. Leaving Gad asleep in the cellar behind them; the guard asleep, the soldiers all asleep, in the room above; the sentinels outside the old storehouse keeping watch, pacing to and fro around the cellar, in which not a prisoner remained,--Stackridge and his companions filed out noiselessly through Jim's closed and silent shop, upon the other street, and took their way swiftly through the town. Having appointed a place of meeting with his friends, Penn left them, and hastened alone to Mr. Villars's house. The lights had long been out. But the sisters were awake; Virginia had not even gone to bed. She was sitting by her window, gazing out on the hushed, gloomy, breathless summer night,--waiting, waiting, she scarce knew for what,--when she was aware of a figure approaching, and knew Penn's light, quick tap at the door. She ran down to admit him. His story was quickly told. Toby was roused up; blankets were rolled together, and all the available provisions that could be carried were thrust into baskets. "How shall we get news to you? You will want to hear from your father." Penn hastily thought of a plan. "Send Toby to the round rock,--he knows where it is,--on the side of the mountain. Between nine and ten o'clock to-morrow night. I will try to communicate with him there." And Penn, bidding the young girl be of good cheer, departed as suddenly as he had arrived. The old negro accompanied him, assisting to carry the burdens. They found Stackridge's horse where he had been fastened. Penn made Toby mount, take a basket in each hand, and hold the blankets before him on the neck of the horse; then, seizing the bridle, and running by his side, he trotted the beast away across the field in a manner that shook the old negro up in lively style. "O, Massa Penn! I can't stan' dis yere! I's gwine all to pieces! I shall drap some o' dese yer tings, shore!" "You must stand it! hold on to them!" said Penn. "And now keep still, for we are near the road." The party had halted at the rendezvous. Mr. Villars, quite exhausted by his unusual exertions, was seated on the ground when Penn came up with Toby and the horse. Toby dismounted; the old minister mounted in his place, and the negro was sent back. All this passed swiftly and silently; the fugitives were once more on the march, Penn walking by the old man's side. Scarce a word was spoken; the tramp of feet and the sound of the horse's hoofs alone broke the silence of the night. Suddenly a voice hailed them:-- "Who goes there?" And they discovered some horsemen drawn up before them beside the road. It was the night-patrol. "Friends," answered Stackridge, marching straight on. "Halt, and give an account of yourselves!" shouted the patrol. "We are peaceable citizens, if let alone," said Stackridge. "You'd better not meddle with us." The horsemen waited for them to pass, then, firing their pistols at the fugitives, put spurs to their horses, and galloped away towards the village. "Don't fire!" cried Stackridge, as half a dozen pieces were levelled in the darkness. "We've no ammunition to throw away, and no time to lose. They'll give the alarm. Take straight to the mountains!" Nobody had been hit. Turning aside from the road, they took their way across the broad pasture lands that sloped upwards to the rocky hills. The dark valley spread beneath them; on the other side rose the dim outlines of the shadowy mountain range; over all spread a still, cloudless sky, thick-strewn with glittering star-dust. In the village, the ringing of bells startled the night with a wild clamor. Stackridge laughed. "They'll make noise enough now to wake Gad himself! But noise won't hurt anybody. Hear the drums!" "They are coming this way," said Penn. "Fools, to set out in pursuit of us with drums beating!" said Captain Grudd. "Very kind in them to give us notice! They should bring lighted torches, too." "Once in the mountains," said Stackridge, "we are safe. There we can defend ourselves against a hundred. Other Union men will join us, or bring us supplies. We ought to have made this move before; and I'm glad we've been forced to it at last. If every Union man in the south had made a bold stand in the beginning, this cursed rebellion never would have got such a start." Suddenly bells and drums were silent. "The less noise the more danger," said Stackridge. The way was growing difficult for the horse's feet. The cow-paths, which it had been easy to follow at first, disappeared among the thickets. At length, on the crest of a hill, the party halted to rest. "Daylight!" said Stackridge, turning his face to the east. The sky was brightening; the shadows in the valley melted slowly away; far off the cocks crew. "Hark!" said the captain. "Do you hear anything?" "I heard a woice!" said Carl. "Hist!" said Penn. "Look yonder! there they come! around those bushes at the foot of the oak!" "Sure as fate, there they are!" said the captain. The fugitives crowded to his side, eager, grasping their gunstocks, and peering with intent eyes through the darkness in the direction in which he pointed. "Take the horse," said Stackridge to Penn, "and lead him up through that gap out of the reach of the bullets. We'll stay and give these rascals a lesson. Go along with him, Carl, if you don't want to fight your friends." There were not guns enough for all; and Grudd had Stackridge's revolver. There was nothing better, then, for Penn and Carl to do than to consent to this arrangement. Penn went before, leading the horse up the dry bed of a brook. Carl followed, urging the animal from behind. Mr. Villars rode with the baggage, which had been lashed to the saddle. Only the clashing of the iron hoofs on the stones broke the stillness of the morning in that mountain solitude. Stackridge and his compatriots had suddenly become invisible, crouching among bushes and behind rocks. The retreat of Penn and his companions was discovered by the pursuing party, who mistook it for a general flight of the fugitives. They rushed forward with a shout. They had a rugged and barren hill to ascend. Half way up the slope they saw flashes of fire burst from the rocks above, heard the rapid "crack--crackle--crack!" of a dozen pieces, and retreated in confusion down the hill again. Stackridge and his companions coolly proceeded to reload their guns. "They didn't know we had arms," said the farmer, with a grim smile. "They'll be more cautious now." "We've done for two or three of 'em!" said Captain Grudd. "There they lie; one is crawling off." "Let him crawl!" said Stackridge. "Sorry to kill any of 'em; but it's about time for 'em to know we're in 'arnest." "They've gone to cover in the laurels," said Grudd. "Let's shift our ground, and watch their movements." Penn and Carl in the mean time made haste to get the horse and his burden beyond the reach of bullets. They toiled up the bed of the brook until it was no longer passable. Huge bowlders lay jammed and crowded in clefts of the mountain before them. Penn remembered the spot. He had been there in spring, when down over the rocks, now covered with lichens and dry scum, poured an impetuous torrent. "Now I know where I am," he said. "I don't believe it is possible to get the horse any farther. We will wait here for our friends. Mr. Villars, if you will dismount, we will try to get you up on the bank." "I pity you, my children," said the old man. "You should never have encumbered yourselves with such a burden as I am. I can neither fight nor run. Is it sunrise yet?" "It is sunrise, and a beautiful morning! The fresh rays come to us here, sifted through the dewy trees. Sit down on this rock. Find the luncheon, Carl. Ah, Carl!"--Penn regarded the boy affectionately,--"I am glad to have you with me again, but I can't forget that you are a rebel! and a deserter!" "I a deserter? you mishtake," said Carl. "I am a prisoner." "You disobeyed me, Carl! I told you not to enlist. You did wrong." "Now shust listen," said Carl, "and I vill tell you. I did right. Cause vy. You are alive and vell now, ain't you?" Penn smilingly admitted the fact. "And that is petter as being hung?" "I am not so very certain of that, Carl!" "Vell, I am certain for you. Hanging ish no goot. Hunderts of vellers that don't like the rebels no more as you do, wolunteer rather than to be hung. Shows their goot sense." "But you have taken an oath--you are under a solemn engagement, Carl, to fight against the government." "You mishtake unce more--two times. I make a pargain. I say to that man, 'You let Mishter Hapgoot go free, and not let him be hurt, and I vill be a rebel.' Vell, he agrees. But he don't keep his vord. He lets 'em go for to hang you vunce more. Now, if he preaks his part of the pargain, vy shouldn't I preak mine?" "Well, Carl," said Penn, laughing, while his eyes glistened, "I trust thy conscience is clear in the matter. I can only say that, though I don't approve of thy being a rebel, I love thee all the better for it. What do you think, Mr. Villars?" "Sometimes people do wrong from a motive so pure and disinterested that it sanctifies the action. This is Carl's case, I think." "Hello!" cried Carl, jumping up from the bank on which they were seated. "Guns! They are at it again! I vill go see!" The boy disappeared, scrambling down the dry bed of the torrent. The firing continued at irregular intervals for half an hour. Carl did not return. Penn grew anxious. He stood, intently listening, when he heard a noise behind him, and, turning quickly, saw the glimmer of musket-barrels over the rocks. "Fire!" said a voice. And Penn threw himself down under the bank just in time to avoid the discharge of half a dozen pieces aimed at his head. "What is the trouble?" asked the old man, who was lying on some blankets spread for him there in the shade. Before Penn could reply, Silas Ropes and six men came rushing down upon them. Stackridge had been out-generalled. Whilst he and his men were being diverted by a feigned attack in front, two different parties had been despatched by circuitous routes to get in his rear. In executing the part of the plan intrusted to him, Ropes had unexpectedly come upon the schoolmaster and his companion. A minute later both were seized and dragged up from the bed of the torrent. "Ye don't escape me this time!" said Silas, with brutal exultation. "Tie him up to the tree thar; serve the old one the same. We can't be bothered with prisoners." "What are you going to do to that helpless, blind old man?" cried Penn. "Do what you please with me; I expect no mercy,--I ask none. But I entreat you, respect his gray hair!" The appeal seemed to have some effect even on the savage-hearted Silas. He glanced at his men: they were evidently of the opinion that the slaughter of the old clergyman was uncalled for. "Wal, tie the old ranter, and leave him. Quick work, boys. Got the schoolmaster fast?" "All right," said the men. "Wal, now stand back here, and les' have a little bayonet practice." Penn knew very well what that meant. His clothes were stripped from him, in order to present a fair mark for the murderous steel; and he was bound to a tree. "One at a time," said Silas. "Try your hand, Griffin. _Charge--bayonet!_" In vain the old minister endeavored to make himself heard in his friend's behalf. He could only pray for him. Penn saw the ferocious soldier springing towards him, the deadly bayonet thrust straight at his heart. In an instant the murder would have been done. But when within two paces of his victim, the steel almost touching his breast, Griffin uttered a yell, dropped his gun, flung up his hands, and fell dead at Penn's feet. At the same moment a light curl of smoke was wafted from the heaped bowlders in the chasm above, and the echoes of a rifle-crack reverberated among the rocks. The assassins were terror-struck. They looked all around; not a human being was in sight. Distant firing proclaimed that Stackridge and his men were still engaged. The death that struck down Griffin seemed to have fallen from heaven. They waited but a moment, then fled precipitately, leaving Penn still bound, but uninjured, with the dead rebel at his feet. Then two figures came gliding swiftly down over the rocks. Penn uttered a cry of joy. It was Pomp and Cudjo. XXIV. _THE DEAD REBEL'S MUSKET._ Pomp came reloading his rifle, while Cudjo, knife in hand, flew at the cords that confined the schoolmaster. In his gratitude to Heaven and his deliverers, Penn could have hugged that grotesque, half-savage creature to his heart. But no time was to be lost. Snatching the knife, he hastened to release the bewildered clergyman. "Pomp, my noble fellow!" The negro turned from looking after the retreating rebels, with a gleam of triumph on his proud and lofty features: Penn wrung his hand. "You have twice saved my life--now let me ask one more favor of you! Take Mr. Villars to your cave--do for him what you have done for me. He is a much better Christian, and far more deserving of your kindness, than I ever was." "And you?" said Pomp, quietly. "I will take my chance with the others." And Penn in few words explained the occurrences of the night and morning. Pomp shrugged his shoulders frowningly. The time was at hand when he and Cudjo could no longer enjoy in freedom their wild mountain life; even they must soon be drawn into the great deadly struggle. This he foresaw, and his soul was darkened for a moment. "Cudjo! Shall we take this old man to our den?" "No, no! Don't ye take nobody dar! on'y Massa Hapgood." "But he is blind!" said Penn. "Others will come after who are not blind," said Pomp, his brow still stern and thoughtful. "My friends," interposed the old clergyman, mildly, "do nothing for me that will bring danger to yourselves, I entreat you!" These unselfish words, spoken with serious and benignant aspect, touched the generous chords in Pomp's breast. "Why should we blacks have anything to do with this quarrel?" he said with earnest feeling. "Your friends down there"--meaning Stackridge and his party--"are all slaveholders or pro-slavery men. Why should we care which side destroys the other?" "There is a God," answered Mr. Villars, with a beaming light in his unterrified countenance, "who is not prejudiced against color; who loves equally his black and his white children; and who, by means of this war that seems so needless and so cruel, is working out the redemption, not of the misguided white masters only, but also of the slave. Whether you will or not, this war concerns the black man, and he cannot long keep out of it. Then will you side with your avowed enemies, or with those who are already fighting in your cause without knowing it?" These words probed the deep convictions of Pomp's breast. He had from the first believed that the war meant death to slavery; although of late the persistent and almost universal cry of Union men for the "Union as it was,"--the Union with the injustice of slavery at its core,--had somewhat wearied his patience and weakened his faith. "Here, Cudjo! help get this horse up--we can find a path for him." Reluctantly Cudjo obeyed; and almost by main strength the two athletic blacks lifted and pulled the animal up the bank, and out of the chasm. Penn assisted his old friend to remount, then took leave of him. "I will be with you again soon!" he cried, hopefully, as the negroes urged the horse forward into the thickets. Then the young Quaker, left alone, turned to look at the dead rebel. For a moment horrible nausea and faintness made him lean against the tree for support. It was the first violent death of which he had ever been an eye-witness. He had known this man,--who was indeed the same Griffin, who had assisted the unwilling Pepperill to bring the tar-kettle to the wood-side on a certain memorable evening; ignorant, intemperate, too proud to work in a region where slavery made industry a disgrace, and yet a fierce champion of the system which was his greatest curse. Now there he lay, in his dirt, and rags, and blood, his neck shot through; the same expression of ferocious hate with which he had rushed to bayonet the schoolmaster still distorting his visage;--an object of horror and loathing. Was it not assuming a terrible responsibility to send this rampant sinner to his long account? Yet the choice was between his life and Penn's; and had not Pomp done well? Still Penn could not help feeling remorse and commiseration for the wretch. "Poor Griffin! I have no murderous hatred for such as you! But if you come in the way of my country's safety, or of the welfare of my friends, you must take the penalty!" He picked up the musket that had fallen at his feet where he stood bound. Then, stifling his disgust, he felt in the dead man's pockets for ammunition. Cartridges there were none; but in their place he found some bullets and a powder-flask. Then putting in practice the lessons he had learned of Pomp when they hunted together on the mountain, he loaded the gun, resolutely setting his teeth and drawing his breath hard when he thought of the different kind of game it might now be his duty to shoot. While thus occupied he heard footsteps that gave him a sudden start. He turned quickly, catching up the gun. To his immense relief he saw Pomp, approaching with a smile. "I thought you were with Mr. Villars!" "Cudjo has gone with him. I am going with you." "O Pomp!" cried Penn, with a joyful sense of reliance upon his powerful and sagacious black friend. "But is Mr. Villars safe?" "Cudjo is faithful," said Pomp. "He believes the old man is your friend, and a friend of the slave. Besides, I promised, if he would take him to the cave, that my next shot, if I have a chance, should be at his old acquaintance, Sile Ropes." Pomp took the lead, guiding Penn through hollows and among thickets to a ledge crowned with shrubs of savin, whose summit commanded a view of all that mountain-side. They crept among the bushes to the edge of the cliff. There they paused. Neither friend nor foe was in sight. No sound of fire-arms was heard,--only the birds were singing. Penn never forgot that scene. How fresh, and beautiful, and still the morning was! The sunlight flushed the craggy and wooded slopes. Far off, dim with early mist, lay the lovely hills and valleys of East Tennessee. On the north the peaks of the mountain range soared away, purple, rosy, glorious, in soft suffusing light. In the south-west other peaks receded, billowy and blue. And God's pure, deep sky was over all. Touched by the divine beauty of the day, Penn lay thinking with shame of the scenes of human folly and violence with which it had been desecrated, when the negro drew him softly by the sleeve. "Look yonder! down in the edge of that little grove!" Peering through an opening in the savins through which Pomp had thrust his rifle, Penn saw, stealing cautiously out of the grove, a man. "It is Stackridge! He is reconnoitring." "It is a retreat," said Pomp. "See, there they all come!" "Carl with the rest, showing them the way!" added Penn. He was watching with intense interest the movements of his friends, and rejoicing that no foe was in sight, when suddenly Pomp uttered a warning whisper. "Where? what?" said Penn, eagerly looking in the direction in which the negro pointed. Down at their left was a long line of dark thickets which marked the edge of a ravine; out of which he now saw emerging, one by one, a file of armed men. They climbed up a narrow and difficult pass, and halted on the skirts of the thicket. Ten--twelve--fifteen, Penn counted. It was the other party that had been sent out simultaneously with that under Lieutenant Ropes, to get in the rear of the fugitives. And they had succeeded. Only a bushy ridge concealed them from Stackridge's men, who were coming up under the shelter of the same ridge on the other side. Penn trembled with excitement as he saw the rebels cross swiftly forward, skulking among the bushes, to the summit of the ridge. The negro's eyes blazed, but he was perfectly cool. On one knee, his left foot advanced,--holding his rifle with one hand, and parting the bushes with the other,--he smiled as he observed the situation. "Here," said he to Penn, "rest your gun in this little crotch. Now can you see to take aim?" "Yes," said Penn, with his heart in his throat. "Calm your nerves! Everything depends on our first shot. Wait till I give the word. See! they have discovered Stackridge!" "We might shout, and warn him," said Penn, whose nature still shrank from using any more deadly means of saving his friends. "And so discover ourselves! That never'll do. Have you sighted your man?" "Yes--the one lying on his belly behind that cedar." "Very well! I'll take the fellow next him. The moment you have fired, keep perfectly still, only draw your gun back and load. Now--fire!" Just then Stackridge and his men, in full view of their hidden friends on the ledge, were appearing to the fifteen ambushed rebels also. Suddenly the loud bang of a musket, followed instantly by the sharp crack of a rifle, echoed down the mountain side. The rebel behind the cedar sprang to his feet, dropping his gun, and throwing up his hands, and rushed back down the ridge, screaming, "I'm hit! I'm hit!" while the man next him also attempted to rise, but fell again, Pomp having discreetly aimed at an exposed leg. "I'm glad we've only wounded them!" whispered Penn, very pale, his lips compressed, his eyes gleaming. "It has the effect!" said Pomp. "Your friends have discovered the ambush, thanks to that coward's uproar; and now the rascals are panic-struck! Fire again as they go into the ravine--powder alone will do now--a little noise will send them tumbling!" They accordingly fired blank discharges; at the same time Stackridge and his friends, recovering from their momentary astonishment, charged after the retreating rebels, who had barely time to carry off their wounded and escape into the ravine, when their pursuers scaled the ridge. "I'm off!" said Pomp, creeping back through the savins. "These men are not my friends, though they are yours. I'll go and look after Cudjo." And bounding down into a hollow, he was quickly out of sight. XXV. _BLACK AND WHITE._ Penn attached his handkerchief to the end of the musket, and standing upon the ledge, waved it over the bushes. Carl, recognizing him, was the first to scramble up the height. The whole party followed, each sturdy patriot wringing the schoolmaster's hand with hearty congratulations when they learned what use he had made of the rebel musket. "But the whole credit of the manoeuvre belongs not to me, but to the negro Pomp!" And he related the story of his own rescue and theirs. The patriots looked grave. "Where is the fellow?" asked Stackridge. "Being a fugitive slave, he feared lest he should find little favor in the eyes of his master's neighbors," said Penn. "That's where he was right!" said Deslow, with a bigoted and unforgiving expression. "Nothing under the sun shall make me give encouragement to a nigger's running away." Two or three others nodded grim assent to this first principle of the slaveholder's discipline. Penn was fired with exasperation and scorn, and would have separated himself from these narrow-minded patriots on the spot, had not Stackridge jumped up from the ground upon which he had thrown himself, and, striking his gun barrel fiercely, exclaimed,-- "Now, that's what I call cursed foolishness, Deslow! and every man that holds to that way of thinking had better go over to t'other side to oncet! If we can't make up our minds to sacrifice our property, and, what's more to some folks, our prejudices, in the cause we're fighting for, we may as well stop before we stir a step further. I'm a slaveholder, and always have been; but I swear, I can't say as I ever felt it was such a divine institution as some try to make it out, and I don't believe there's a man here that thinks in his heart that it's just right. And as for the niggers running away, my private sentiment is, that I don't blame 'em a mite. You or I, Deslow, would run in their place; you know you would." And Stackridge wiped his brow savagely. "And as for this particular case," said Captain Grudd, with a gleam of light in his lean and swarthy countenance, "don't le's be blind to our own interests; don't le's be downright fools. I've said from the first that slavery and the rebellion was brother and sister,--they go together; and I've made up my mind to stand by my country and the old flag, whatever comes of the institution." All, except the conservative Deslow, applauded this resolution. "Then consider," added the captain, his deliberate, impressive manner proving quite as effective as Stackridge's more excited and fiery style,--"here we are fighting for our very lives and liberties; and if, as I say, slavery's the cause of this war, then we're fighting against slavery, the best we can fix it. How monstrous absurd 'twill be, then, for us to refuse the assistance of any nigger that has it to give! Bythewood, Pomp's owner, is one of the hottest secessionists I know; and d'ye think I want Pomp sent back to him, to help that side, when he has shown that he can be of such mighty good service to us? I move that we send the professor to make a treaty with him. What do you say, Mr. Hapgood?" "I say," replied Penn with enthusiasm, "that he and Cudjo are in a condition to do infinitely more for us than we can do for them; and if their alliance can be secured, I say that we ought by all means to secure it." "That depends," said Grudd, "upon what we intend to do. Are we going to make a stand here, and see if the loyal part of old Tennessee will rise up and sustain us? or are we going to fight our way over the mountains, and never come back till a Union army comes with us to set things a little to rights here?" "Wa'al," said Withers, who concealed a hardy courage and earnest patriotism under a phlegmatic and droll exterior, "while we're discussin' that question, I reckon we may as well have breakfast. This is as good a place as any,--we can take turns keeping a lookout from that ledge." He proceeded to kindle a fire in the hollow. The fugitives, in passing a field of corn, had thrust into their pockets a plentiful supply of green ears, which they now husked and roasted. There was a spring in the rocks near by, from which they drank lying on their faces, and dipping in their beards. This was their breakfast; during which Penn's mission to the blacks was fully discussed, and finally decided upon. The meal concluded, the refugees resumed their march, and entered an immense thick wood farther up the mountain. In a cool and shadowy spot they halted once more; and here Penn took leave of them, setting out on his visit to the cave. He had a mile to travel over a rough, wild region, where the fires that had formerly devastated it had left the only visible marks of a near civilization. In a tranquil little dell that had grown up to wild grass, he came suddenly upon a horse feeding. It was Stackridge's useful nag, which looked up from his lofty grove-shaded pasture with a low whinny of recognition as Penn patted his neck and passed along. A furlong or two farther on the well-known ravine opened,--dark, silent, profound, with its shaggy sides, one in shadow and the other in the sun, and its little embowered brook trickling far down there amid mossy stones;--as lonesome, wild, and solitary as if no human eye had ever beheld it before. Penn glided over the ledges, and descended along the narrow shelf of rock, behind the thickets that screened the entrance to the cave. Sunlight, and mountain wind, and summer heat he left behind, and entered the cool, still, gloomy abode. Cudjo ran to the mouth of the cave to meet him. "Lef me frow dis yer blanket ober your shoulders, while ye cool off; cotch yer de'f cold, if ye don't. De ol' man's a 'speckin' ye." Penn was relieved to learn that Mr. Villars had arrived in safety, and gratified to find him lying comfortably on the bed conversing with Pomp. "By the blessing of God, I am very well indeed, my dear Penn. These excellent fellow-Christians have taken the best of care of me. The atmosphere of the cave, which I thought at first chilly, I now find deliciously pure and refreshing. And its gloom, you know, don't trouble me," added the blind old man with a smile. "Have you had any more trouble since Pomp left you?" "No," said Penn; "thanks to him. Pomp, our friends want to see you and thank you, and they have sent me to bring you to them." The negro merely shrugged his shoulders, and smiled. "What good der tanks do to we?" cried Cudjo. "Ain't one ob dem ar men but what would been glad to hab us cotched and licked for runnin' away, fur de 'xample to de tudder niggers." "If that was true of them once, it is not now," said Penn. "Yet, Pomp, if you feel that there is the least danger in going to them, do not go." "Danger?" The negro's proud and lofty look showed what he thought of that. "Cudjo, make Mr. Hapgood a cup of coffee; he looks tired. You have had a hard time, I reckon, since you left us." "Him stay wid us now till he chirk up again," said Cudjo, running to his coffee-box. "Him and de ol' gemman stay--nobody else." While the coffee was making, Penn, sitting on one of the stone blocks which he had named giant's stools, repeated such parts of the late breakfast talk of Stackridge and his friends as he thought would interest Pomp and win his confidence. Then he drank the strong, black beverage in silence, leaving the negro to his own reflections. "Are you going again?" said Pomp. "Yes; I promised them I would return." "Take some coffee and a kettle to boil it in; they will be glad of it, I should think." "O Pomp! you know how to do good even to your enemies! What shall I say to them for you?" "What I have to say to them I will say myself," said Pomp, taking his rifle in one hand, and the kettle in the other, to Cudjo's great wrath and disgust. He set out with Penn immediately. They found the patriots reposing themselves about the roots of the forest trees, on the banks of a stream that came gurgling and plashing down the mountain side. Above them spread the beautiful green tops of maples, tinted with sunshine and softly rustling in the breeze. The curving banks formed here a little natural amphitheatre, carpeted with moss and old leaves, on which they sat or reclined, with their hats off and their guns at their sides. A sentry posted on the edge of the forest brought in Penn and his companion. There was a stir of interest among the patriots, and some of them rose to their feet. Stackridge, Grudd, and two or three others cordially offered the negro their hands, and pledged him their gratitude and friendship. Pomp accepted these tokens of esteem in silence,--his countenance maintaining a somewhat haughty expression, his lips firm, his eyes kindling with a strange light. Penn took the kettle, and proceeded, with Carl's help, to make a fire and prepare coffee for the company, intently listening the while to all that was said. Jutting from one bank of the stream, which washed its base, was a huge, square block covered with dark-green moss. Upon this Pomp stepped, and rested his rifle upon it, and bared his massive and splendid head, and stood facing his auditors with a placid smile, under the canopy of leaves. There was not among them all so noble a figure of a man as he who stood upon the rock; and he seemed to have chosen this somewhat theatrical attitude in order to illustrate, by his own imposing personal presence, the words that rose to his lips. "You will excuse me, gentlemen, if I cannot forget that I am talking with those who buy and sell men like me!" Men like him! The suggestion seemed for a moment to strike the slave-owning patriots dumb with surprise and embarrassment. "No, no, Pomp," cried Stackridge, "not men like you--there are few like you anywhere." "I wish there was more like him, and that I owned a good gang of 'em!" muttered the man Deslow. "I don't," replied Withers, with a drawl which had a deep meaning in it; "twould be too much like sleeping on a row of powder barrels, with lighted candles stuck in the bung holes. Dangerous, them big knowin' niggers be." Pomp did not answer for a minute, but stood as if gathering power into himself, with one long, deep breath inflating his chest, and casting a glance upward through the sun-lit summer foliage. "You buy and sell men, and women, and children of my race. If I am not like them, it is because circumstances have lifted me out of the wretched condition in which it is your constant policy and endeavor to keep us. By your laws--the laws you make and uphold--I am this day claimed as a slave; by your laws I am hunted as a slave;--yes, some of you here have joined your neighbor in the hunt for me, as if I was no more than a wild beast to be hounded and shot down if I could not be caught. Now tell me what union or concord there can be between you and me!" "I own," said Deslow,--for Pomp's gleaming eyes had darted significant lightnings at him,--"I did once come up here with Bythewood to see if we could find you. Not that I had anything against you, Pomp,--not a thing; and as for your quarrel with your master, I ain't sure but you had the right on't; but you know as well as we do that we can't countenance a nigger's running away, under any circumstances." "No!" said Pomp, with sparkling sarcasm. "Your secessionist neighbors revolt against the mildest government in the world, and resort to bloodshed on account of some fancied wrongs. You revolt against them because you prefer the old government to theirs. Your forefathers went to war with the mother country on account of a few taxes. But a negro must not revolt, he must not even attempt to run away, although he feels the relentless heel of oppression grinding into the dust all his rights, all that is dear to him, all that he loves! A white man may take up arms to defend a bit of property; but a black man has no right to rise up and defend either his wife, or his child, or his liberty, or even his own life, against his master!" Only the narrow-minded Deslow had the confidence to meet this stunning argument, enforced as it was by the speaker's powerful manner, superb physical manhood, and superior intelligence. "You know, Pomp, that your condition, to begin with, is very different from that of any white man. Your relation to your master is not that of a man to his neighbor, or of a citizen to the government; it is that of property to its owner." "Property!" There was something almost wicked in the wild, bright glance with which the negro repeated this word. "How came we property, sir?" "Our laws make you so, and you have been acquired as property," said Deslow, not unkindly, but in his bigoted, obstinate way. "So, really, Pomp, you can't blame us for the view we take of it, though it does conflict a little with your choice in the matter." "But suppose I can show you that you are wrong, and that even by your own laws we are not, and cannot be, property?" said Pomp, with a princely courtesy, looking down from the rock upon Deslow, so evidently in every way his inferior. "I will admit your title to a lot of land you may purchase, or reclaim from nature; or to an animal you have captured, or bought, or raised. But a man's natural, original owner is--himself. Now, I never sold myself. My father never sold himself. My father was stolen by pirates on the coast of Africa, and brought to this country, and sold. The man who bought him bought what had been stolen. By your own laws you cannot hold stolen property. Though it is bought and sold a thousand times, let the original owner appear, and it is his,--nobody else has the shadow of a claim. My father was stolen property, if he was property at all. He was his own rightful owner. Though he had been robbed of himself, that made no difference with the justice of the case. It was so with my mother. It is so with me. It is the same with every black man on this continent. Not one ever sold himself, or can be sold, or can be owned. For to say that what a man steals or takes by force is his, to dispose of as he chooses, is to go back to barbarism: it is not the law of any Christian land. So much," added Pomp, blowing the words from him, as if all the false arguments in favor of slavery were no more to the man's soul, and its eternal, God-given rights, than the breath he blew contemptuously forth into those mountain woods,--"so much for the claim of PROPERTY!" Penn was so delighted with this triumphant declaration of principles that he could have flung his hat into the maple boughs and shouted "Bravo!" He deemed it discreet, however, to confine the expression of his enthusiasm to a tight grasp on Carl's sympathetic hand, and to watch the effect of the speech on the rest. "Deslow," laughed Stackridge, himself not ill pleased with Pomp's arguments, "what do you say to that?" "Wal," said Deslow, "I never thought on't in just that light before; and I own he makes out a pooty good show of a case. But yet--" He hesitated, scratching for an idea among the stiff black hair that grew on his low, wrinkled forehead. "But yet, but yet, but yet!" said Pomp, ironically. "It's so hard, when our selfish interests are at stake, to confess our injustice or give up a bad cause! But I did not come here to argue my right to my own manhood. I take it without arguing. Neither did I come to ask anything for myself. You can do nothing for me but get me into trouble. Yet I believe in the cause in which you have taken up arms. I have served you this morning without being asked by you to do it; and I may assist you again when the time comes. In the mean while, if you want anything that I have, it is yours; for I recognize that we are brothers, though you do not. But I will not join you, for I am neither slave nor inferior, and I have no wish to be acknowledged an equal." And Pomp stepped off the rock with an air that seemed to say, "_I_ know who is the equal of the best of you; and that is enough." If this man had any fault more prominent than another, it was pride; yet that haughty self-assertion which would have been offensive in a white man, was vastly becoming to the haughty and powerful black. "I, for one," said the impulsive Stackridge, again grasping his hand, "honor the position you take. What I wanted was to thank you for what you have done, and to promise that you are safe from danger as far as regards us. I'm glad you've got your liberty. I hope you will keep it. You deserve it. Every slave deserves the same that has the manliness to strike a blow for the good old government----" "That has kept him a slave," added Pomp, with a bitter smile. "Yes; and so much the more noble in him to fight for it!" said Stackridge. "Now, if you don't want to let us into the secrets of your way of life, I can't say I blame ye. We're glad to get the coffee; and if you've any game or potatoes on hand, that you can spare, we'll take 'em, and pay ye when we have a chance to forage for ourselves, which won't be long first." "I have some salted bear's meat that you'll be welcome to; and may be Cudjo can spare a little meal." His eye rested on Carl, whose fidelity he knew. "Let that boy come with us! We will send the provisions by him." Carl was delighted with the honor, for Penn was likewise going back to Mr. Villars with the negro. XXVI. _WHY AUGUSTUS DID NOT PROPOSE._ The valiant confederates, returning from the pursuit of the escaped prisoners, proved themselves possessed of at least one important qualification for serving the rebel cause. They were able to give a marvellously good account of themselves. Whatever the military authorities may have thought of it, the people believed that the little band of Union men had been nearly annihilated. In the midst of the excitement, Mr. Augustus Bythewood returned home, and went in the evening to call upon, counsel, and console the daughters of the old man Villars. "O, Massa Bythewood!" cried Toby, in great joy at sight of him, "dey been killin' ol' massa up on de mountain; and de young ladies--O, Massa Bythewood! ye must do sumfin' for de young ladies and ol' massa!" Mr. Augustus flattered himself that he had arrived at just the right time. "My dear Virginia! you cannot conceive of my astonishment and grief on hearing what has happened to your family! I have but just this hour returned to town, or I should have hastened before to assure you that all I can do for you I will most gladly undertake. My very dear young lady, be comforted, I conjure you; for it grieves me to the heart to see how pale, how very pale and distressed, you look!" Thus the amiable, the chivalrous, the friendly Gus overflowed with eloquent sympathy and protestation, pressing affectionately the hand of the "very pale and distressed" fair one, and bowing low his dark, aristocratic southern curls over it; appearing, in short, the very courteous, noble, and devoted gentleman he wasn't. Virginia breathed hard, compressed her lips, white with indignation as well as with suffering, and let him act his part. And the confident lover did not dream that those eyes, red with grief and surrounded by dark circles, saw through all his hypocritical professions, or that the cold, passive little hand, abandoned through the apathy of despair to his caresses, would have been thrust into the fire, before ever he would have been allowed to win it. "Surely," she managed to say in a voice scarce above a whisper, "if ever we needed a true, disinterested friend, it is now. Sit down; and be so kind as to excuse me a moment. I will call my sister." So she withdrew. And Augustus smiled. "Now is my time!" he said complacently to himself, resolved to make an offer of that valuable hand of his that very night: forlorn, friendless, wretched, was it possible that she could refuse such a prize? So he sat, and fondled his curls, and practised sweet smiles, and sympathized with Salina when she came, and waited for Virginia,--little knowing what was to happen to her, and to him, and to all, before ever he saw that vanished face again. For Virginia had business on her hands that night. She remembered the hurried directions Penn had given for communicating with her father, and she was already preparing to send off Toby to the round rock. "Gracious, missis!" said the old negro, returning hastily to the kitchen door where she stood watching his departure, "dar's a man out dar, a waitin'! Did ye see him, missis?" She had indeed seen a human figure advance in the darkness, as if with intent to intercept or follow him. Perplexed and indignant at the discovery, she suffered the old servant to return into the house, and remained herself to see what became of the figure. It moved off a little way in the darkness, and disappeared. "Wha' sh'll we do?" Toby rolled up his eyes in consternation. "Do jes' speak to Mr. Bythewood, Miss Jinny; he's de bestist friend--he'll tell what to do." "No, no, Toby!" said Virginia, collecting herself, and speaking with decision. "He is the last person I would consult. Toby, you must try again; for either you or I must be at the rock before ten o'clock." "You, Miss Jinny? Who eber heern o' sich a ting!" "Go yourself, then, good Toby!" And she earnestly reminded him of the necessity. "O, yes, yes! I'll go! Massa can't lib widout ol' Toby, dat's a fac'!" But looking out again in the dark, his zeal was suddenly damped. "Dey cotch me, dey sarve me wus 'n dey sarved ol' Pete, shore! Can't help tinkin' ob dat!" Virginia saw what serious cause there was to dread such a catastrophe. But her resolution was unshaken. "Toby, listen. That man out there is a spy. His object is to see if any of our friends come to the house, or if we send to them. He won't molest you; but he may follow to see where you go. If he does, then make a wide circuit, and return home, and I will find some other means of communication." Thus encouraged, the negro set out a second time. Virginia followed him at a distance. She saw, as she anticipated, the figure start up again, and move off in the direction he was going. Toby accordingly commenced making a large detour through the fields, and both he and the shadow dogging him were soon out of sight. Then Virginia lost no time in executing the other plan at which she had hinted. Instead of returning, to give up the undertaking in despair, and listen to matrimonial proposals from Gus Bythewood, she took a long breath, gathered up her skirts, and set out for the mountain. There was a new moon, but it was hidden by clouds. Still the evening was not very dark. The long twilight of the summer day still lingered in the valley. Here and there she could distinguish landmarks,--a knoll, a rock, or a tree,--which gave her confidence. I will not say that she feared nothing. She was by nature timid, imaginative, and she feared many things. Her own footsteps were a terror to her. The moving of a bush in the wind, the starting of a rabbit from her path, caused her flesh to thrill. At sight of an object slowly and noiselessly emerging from the darkness and standing before her, motionless and spectral, she almost fainted, until she discovered that it was an old acquaintance, a tall pine stump. But all these childish terrors she resolutely overcame. Her heart never faltered in its purpose. Affection for her father, anxiety for his welfare, and, it may be, some little solicitude for her father's friend, who had appointed the tryst at the rock,--not with herself, indeed, but with Toby,--kept her firm and unwavering in her course. And beneath all, deep in her soul, was a strong religious sense, a faith in a divine guidance and protection. What most she feared was neither ghost nor wild beast of the mountains. She felt that, if she could avoid encountering the brutal soldiers of secession, keeping watch along the mountain-side, she would willingly risk everything else. With the utmost caution, with breathless tread, she drew near the road she was to cross. Her footsteps were less loud than her heart-beats. Dogs barked in the distance. In a pool near by, some happy frogs were singing. The shrill cry of a katydid came from a poplar tree by the road--"Katy did! Katy didn't!" with vehement iteration and contradiction. No other sounds; she waited and listened long; then glided across the road. She had come far from the village in order to avoid meeting any one. Her course now lay directly up the mountain-side. The round rock was a famous bowlder known to picnic parties that frequented the spot in summer to enjoy a view from its summit, and a luncheon under its shadow. She had been there a dozen times; but could she find it in the night? In vain, as she toiled upwards, she strained her eyes to see the huge dim stone jutting out from the shadowy rocks and bushes. At length a sudden light, faint and silvery, streamed down upon her. She looked and saw the clouds parted, and below them the crescent moon setting, like a cimeter of white flame withdrawn by an invisible hand behind the vast shadowy summit of the mountain. Almost at the same moment she discovered the object she sought. The rock was close before her; and close upon her right was the grove which she herself had so often helped to fill with singing and laughter. How little she felt like either singing or laughing now! She remembered--indeed, had she not remembered all the way?--that the last time she visited the spot it was in company with Penn. Now she had come to meet him again--how unmaidenly the act! In darkness, in loneliness, far from the village and its twinkling lights, to meet an attractive and a very good looking young man! What would the world say? Virginia did not care what the world would say. But now she began to question within herself, "What would Penn think?" and almost to shrink from meeting him. Strong, however, in her own conscious purity of heart, strong also in her confidence in him, she put behind her every unworthy thought, and sought the shelter of the rock. And there, after all her labors and fears, scratches in her flesh and rents in her clothes,--there she was alone. Penn had not come. Perhaps he would not come. It was by this time ten o'clock. What should she do? Remain, hoping that he would yet fulfil his promise? or return the way she came, unsatisfied, disheartened, weary, her heart and strength sustained by no word of comfort from him, by no tidings from her father? She waited. It was not long before her eager ear caught the sound of footsteps. An active figure was coming along the edge of the grove. How joyously her heart bounded! In order that Penn might not be too suddenly surprised at finding her in Toby's place, she stepped out from the shadow of the bowlder, and advanced to meet him. She shrank back again as suddenly, fear curdling her blood. The comer was not Penn. He wore the confederate uniform: this was what terrified her. She crouched down under the rock; but perceiving that the man did not pass by,--that he walked straight up to her,--she started forth again, in the vain hope to escape by flight. Almost at the first step she tripped and fell; and the hand of the confederate soldier was on her arm. XXVII. _THE MEN WITH THE DARK LANTERN._ The moon had now set, and it was dark. The frightened girl could not distinguish the features of him who bent over her; but through the trance of horror that was upon her, she recognized a voice. "Wirginie! I tought it vas you! Don't you know me, Wirginie?" No voice had ever before brought such joy to her soul. "O Carl! why didn't I know you?" "Vy not? Pecause maybe you vas looking for somepody else. Mishter Hapgoot came part vay mit me, but he vas so used up I made him shtop till I came to pring Toby up vere he is." Then Virginia, recovering from her agitation, had a score of questions to ask about her father, about the fight, and about Penn. "If you vill only go up, he vill tell you so much more as I can. Then you vill go and see your fahder. That vill be petter as going back to-night, vere there is no goot shtout fellow in the house to prewail on them willains to keep their dishtance." Even at the outset of her adventurous journey Virginia had felt a vague hope that she should visit her father before she returned. What the boy said inspired her with courage to proceed. She would go up as far as where Penn was waiting, at all events: then she would be guided by his advice. The two set out, Carl leading her by the hand, and assisting her. It grew darker and darker. The stars were hidden: the sky was almost completely overcast by black clouds. Slowly and with great difficulty they made their way among trees and bushes, through abrupt hollows, and over rocks. Virginia felt that she could have done nothing without Carl; and the thought of returning alone, in such darkness, down the mountain, made her shudder. But at length even Carl began to sweat with something besides the physical exertion required in making the ascent. His mind had grown exceedingly perturbed, and Virginia perceived that his course was wavering and uncertain. He stopped, blowing and wiping his face. "Dish ish de all confoundedesht, meanesht, mosht dishgusting road for a dark night the prince of darkness himself ever inwented!" he exclaimed, speaking unusually thick in his heat and excitement. "I shouldn't be wery much surprised if I vas a leetle out of the right vay. You shtay right here till I look." She sat down and waited. Intense darkness surrounded her; not a star was visible; she could not see her own hand. For a little while Carl's footsteps could be heard feeling for more familiar ground; and then, occasionally, the crackling of a dry twig, as he trod upon it, showed that he was not far off. Then he whistled; then he softly called, "Hello!" in the woods; moving all the time farther and farther away. Carl believed that Penn could not be far distant, and, in order to get an answering signal, he kept whistling and calling louder and louder. At length came a response--a low warning whistle. So he plodded on, and had nearly reached the spot where he was confident Penn was searching for him, when there came a rush of feet, and he was suddenly and violently seized by invisible assailants. "Got him?" "Yes! all right!" "Hang on to him! It's the Dutchman, ain't it? I thought I knew the brogue!" The last speaker was Lieutenant Silas Ropes; and Carl perceived that he had fallen into the hands of a squad of confederate soldiers. That he was vastly astonished and altogether disconcerted at first, we may well suppose. But Carl was not a lad to remain long bereft of his wits when they were so necessary to him. "Ho! vot for you choke a fellow so?" he indignantly demanded. "I vas treated petter as that ven I vas a prisoner." "What do you mean, you d--d deserter?" "Haven't I just got avay from Stackridge? and vasn't I running to find you as vast as ever a vellow could? And now you call me a deserter!" retorted Carl, aggrieved. "Running to find _us_!" "To be sure! Didn't I say, 'Is it you?' For they said you vas on the mountain. Though I did not think I should find you so easy!" which was indeed the truth. Carl persisted so earnestly in regarding the affair from this point of view, that his captors began to think it worth while to question him. "Vun of them vellows just says to me, he says, 'Shpeak vun vord, or make vun noise, and I vill plow your prains out!' I vasn't wery much in favor to have my prains plowed out, so I complied mit his wery urgent request. That's the vay they took me prisoner." "Wal," remarked Silas, "what he says may be true, but I don't believe nary word on't. Got his hands tied? Now lock arms with him, and bring him along." Carl was in despair at this mode of treatment, for it rendered escape impossible,--and what would become of Virginia? His anxiety for her safety became absolute terror when he discovered the errand on which these men were bound. By the light of a dark lantern they led him through the grove, across a brook that came tumbling down out of a wild black gorge, and up the mountain slope into the edge of the great forest above. Here they stopped. "This yer's a good place, boys, to begin. Kick the leaves together. That's the talk." They were in a leafy hollow of the dry woods. A blaze was soon kindled, which shot up in the darkness, and threw its ruddy glare upon the trunks and overhanging canopy of foliage, and upon the malignant, gleaming faces of the soldiers. Little effort was needed to insure the spreading of the flames. They ran over the ground, licking up the dry leaves, crackling the twigs, catching at the bark of trees, and filling the forest, late so silent and black, with their glow and roar. "That's to smoke out your d--d Union friends!" said Silas to Carl, with a hideous grin. Yes, Carl understood that well enough. In this same forest, on the banks of the brook above where it fell into the gorge, the patriots were encamped. And Virginia? Still believing that the worst that could happen to her would be to fall into the hands of these ruffians, the lad sweated in silent agony over the secret he was bound to keep. "What makes ye look so down-in-the-mouth, Dutchy? 'Fraid your friends will get scorched?" "I vas thinking the fire vill be apt to scorch us as much as it vill them. And I have my hands tied so I can't run." "Don't be afraid; we'll look out for you. I swear, boys! the fire looks as though 'twas dying down! Get out o' this yer holler and there ain't no leaves to feed it; and I be hanged if the wind ain't gitting contrary!" Carl witnessed these effects with a gleam of hope. The soldiers fell to gathering bark and sticks, which they piled at the roots of trees. The lad was left almost alone. Had his hands been free, he would have run. A soldier passed near him, dragging a dead bush. "Dan Pepperill! cut the cord!" Dan shook his head, with a look of terror. "Drop your knife, then!" "O Lord!" said Dan. "They'd hang me! I be durned if they wouldn't!" "Dan, you must! I don't care vun cent for myself. But Wirginie Willars--she is just beyond vere you took me. Vill you leave her to die? And Mishter Hapgoot is just a little vay up the mountain, and there is nopody to let him know!" A look of ghastly intelligence came into Dan's face as he stopped to listen to this explanation. He seemed half inclined to set the boy's limbs free, and risk the consequences. But just then Ropes shouted at him,-- "What ye at thar, Pepperill? Why don't ye bring along that ar brush?" So the brief conference ended, and the cords remained uncut. And a great, dangerous fire was kindling in the woods. And now Carl's only hope for Virginia was, that she would take advantage of its light to make good her retreat from the mountain. XXVIII. _BEAUTY AND THE BEAST._ Unfortunately the poor girl had no suspicion of the mischance that had overtaken her guide. She heard voices, and believed that he had fallen in with some friends. Thus she waited, expecting momently that he would return to her. She saw a single gleam of light that vanished in the darkness. Then the voices grew fainter and fainter, and at length died in the distance. And she was once more utterly alone. Fearful doubt and uncertainty agitated her. In a moment of despair, yielding to the terrors of her situation, she wrung her hands and called on Carl imploringly not to abandon her, but to come back--"O, dear, dear Carl, come back!" Suddenly she checked herself. Why was she sitting there, wasting the time in tears and reproaches? "Poor Carl never meant to desert me in this way, I know. If I ever see him again, he will make me sorry that I have blamed him. No doubt he has done his best. But, whatever has become of him, I am sure he cannot find his way back to me now. I'll follow him; perhaps I may find him, or Penn, or some of their friends." She arose accordingly, and groped her way in the direction in which she had seen the light and heard the voices. And soon another and very different light gladdened her eyes--a faint glow, far off, as of a fire kindled among the forest trees. It was the camp of the patriots, she thought. She came to the brook, which, invisible, mysterious, murmuring, rolled along in the midnight blackness, and seemed too formidable for her to ford. She felt the cold rush of the hurrying water, the slippery slime of the mossy and treacherous stones, and withdrew her appalled hands. To find a shallow place to cross, she followed up the bank; and as the light was still before her, higher on the mountain, she kept on, groping among trees, climbing over logs and rocks, falling often, but always resolutely rising again, until, to her dismay, the glow began to disappear. She had, without knowing it, followed the stream up into the deep gorge through which it poured; and now the precipitous wood-crowned wall, rising beside her, overhanging her, shut out the last glimpse of the fire. She was by this time exceedingly fatigued. It seemed useless to advance farther; she felt certain that she was only getting deeper and deeper into the entangling difficulties of that unknown, horrible place. Neither had she the courage or strength to retrace her steps. Nothing then remained for her but to pass the remainder of the night where she was, and wait patiently for the morning. Little knowing that the light she had seen was the glare of the kindled forest, she endeavored to convince herself that she had nothing to fear. At all events, she knew that trembling and tears could avail her nothing. She had not ventured to call very loudly for help, fearing lest her voice might bring foe instead of friend. And now it occurred to her that perhaps Carl had been taken by the soldiers: yes, it must be so: she explained it all to herself, and wondered why she had not thought of it before. It would therefore be folly in her now to scream for aid. Comfortless, yet calm, she explored the ground for a resting-place. She cleared the twigs away from the roots of a tree, and laid herself down there on the moss and old leaves. Everything seemed dank with the never-failing dews of the deep and sheltered gorge; but she did not mind the dampness of her couch. A strong wind was rising, and the great trees above her swayed and moaned. She was vexed by mosquitoes that bit as if they then for the first time tasted blood, and never expected to taste it again; but she was too weary to care much for them either. She rested her arm on the mossy root; she rested her head on her arm; she drew her handkerchief over her face; she shut out from her soul all the miseries and dangers of her situation, and quietly said her prayers. There is nothing that calms the perturbations of the mind like that inward looking for the light of God's peace which descends upon us when in silence and sweet trust we pray to him. A delicious sense of repose ensued, and her thoughts floated off in dreams. She dreamed she was flying with her father from the fury of armed men. She led him into a wilderness; and it was night; and great rocks rose up suddenly before them in the gloom, and awful chasms yawned. Then she was wandering alone; she had lost her father, and was seeking him up and down. Then it seemed that Penn was by her side; and when she asked for her father he smilingly pointed upward at a wondrously beautiful light that shone from the summit of a hill. She sought to go up thither, but grew weary, and sat down to rest in a deep grove, with an ice-cold mountain stream dashing at her feet. Then the light on the hill became a lake of fire, and it poured its waves into the stream, and the stream flowed past her a roaring river of flame. Lightnings crackled in the air above her. Thunderbolts fell. The heat was intolerable. The river had overflowed, and set the world on fire. And she could not fly, for terror chained her limbs. She struggled, screamed, awoke. She started up. Her dream was a reality. Either the fire set by the soldiers had spread, driven by the wind over the dry leaves, into the grove below her, or else they had fired the grove itself on their retreat. Her eyes opened upon a vision of appalling brightness. For a moment she stood utterly dazzled and bewildered, not knowing where she was. Memory and reason were paralyzed: she could not remember, she could not think: amazement and terror possessed her. Instinctively shielding her eyes, she looked down. The ground where she had lain, the log, the sticks, the moss, and her handkerchief fallen upon it, were illumined with a glare brighter than noonday. At sight of the handkerchief came recollection. Her terrible adventure, the glow she had seen in the woods, her bed on the earth,--she remembered everything. And now the actual perils of her position became apparent to her returning faculties. Where all was blackness when she lay down, now all was preternatural light. Every bush and jutting rock of the wild overhanging cliffs stood out in fearful distinctness. The saplings and trees on their summits, fifty feet above her head, seemed huddling together, and leaning forward terror-stricken, in an atmosphere of whirling flame and smoke. Climb those cliffs she could not, though she were to die. She must then flee farther up into the deep and narrow gorge, or endeavor to escape by the way she had come. But the way she had come was fire. The conflagration already enveloped the mouth of the gorge, shutting her in. The trunks of near trees stood like the bars of a stupendous cage, through which she looked at the raging demons beyond. Burning limbs fell, shooting through the air with trails of flame. Every tree was a pillar of fire. Here a bough, still untouched, hung, dark and impassive, against the lurid, surging chaos. Then the whirlwind of heated air struck it, and you could see it writhe and twist, until its darkness burst into flame. There stood what was late a lordly maple, but now,--trunk, and limb, and branch,--a tree of living coal. And down under this gulf of fire flowed the brook, into which showers of sparks fell hissing, while over all, fearfully illumined clouds of smoke and cinders and leaves went rolling up into the sky. Virginia approached near enough to be impressed with the dreadful certainty that there was no outlet whatever, for any mortal foot, in that direction. Tortured by the heat, and pursued by lighted twigs, that fell like fiery darts around her, she fled back into the gorge. The conflagration was still spreading rapidly. The timber along both sides of the gorge, at its opening, began to burn upwards towards the summits of the cliffs. Soon the very spot where she had slept, and where she now paused once more in her terrible perplexity and fear, would be an abyss of flame. Again she took to flight, hasting along the edge of the stream, up into the heart of the gorge. Over roots of trees, over old decaying trunks, over barricades of dead limbs brought down by freshets and left lodged, she climbed, she sprang, she ran. All too brightly her way was lighted now. A ghastly yellow radiance was on every object. The waters sparkled and gleamed as they poured over the dark brown stones. Every slender, delicate fern, every poor little startled wild flower nestled in cool, dim nooks, was glaringly revealed. Little the frightened girl heeded these darlings of the forest now. All the way she looked eagerly for some slant or cleft in the mountain walls where she might hope to ascend. Here, over the accumulated soil of centuries, fastened by interwoven roots to the base of the cliff, she might have climbed a dozen feet or more. Yonder, by the aid of shrubs and boughs, she might have drawn herself up a few feet farther. But, wherever her eye ranged along the ledges above, she beheld them dizzy-steep and unscalable. And so she kept on until even the way before her was closed up. On the brink of a rock-rimmed, flashing basin she stopped. Down into this, from a shelf twenty feet in height, fell the brook in a bright, fire-tinted cascade. Fear-inspired as she was, she could not but pause and wonder at the strange beauty of the scene,--the plashy pool before her, the flame-color on the veil of silver foam dropped from the brow of the ledge, and--for a wild background to the picture--the wooded, fire-lit, shadowy gorge, opening on a higher level above. During the moment that she stood there, a great bird, like an owl, that had probably been driven from his hollow tree or fissure in the rocks by the conflagration, flapped past her face, almost touching her with his wings, and dashed blindly against the waterfall. He was swept down into the pool. After some violent fluttering and floundering in the water, he extricated himself, perched on a stone at its edge, shook out his wet feathers, and stared at her with large cat-like eyes, without fear. She was near enough to reach him with her hand; but either he was so dazzled and stunned that he took no notice of her, or else the greater terror had rendered him tame to human approach. She believed the latter was the case, and saw something exceedingly awful in the incident. When even the wild winged creatures of the forest were stricken down with fear, what cause had she to apprehend danger to herself! On reaching the waterfall she had felt for a moment that all was over--that certain death awaited her. Then, out of her very despair, came a gleam of hope. She might creep under the cascade, or behind it, and that would protect her. But when she looked up, and saw, around and above her, the forest trees with the frightful and ever-increasing glow upon them, and knew that they too soon must kindle, and thought of firebrands rained down upon her, and falling columns of fire filling the gorge with burning rubbish,--then her soul sickened: what protection would a little sheet of water prove against such furnace heat? No: she must escape, or perish. Beside the cascade there was a broken angle of the rocks, by which, if she could reach it, she might at least, she thought, climb to the upper part of the gorge. But the nearest foothold she could discover was ten feet above the basin, in sheer ascent. The ledge was dank and slippery with the dashing spray. Gain the top of it, however, she must. She ran up the embankment under the cliff. Here a sapling gave her support; she clung to a crevice or projection there; a drooping bough saved her from falling when the soft earth slid from beneath her feet farther on. So she climbed along the side of the precipice, until the broken corner of the cliff was hardly two yards off before her. Yes, a secure foothold was there, and above it rose irregular pointed stairs, leading steeply to the top of the cascade. O, to reach that shattered ledge! A space of perpendicular wall intervened. No shrub, no drooping bough, was there. Here was only a slight projection, just enough to rest the edge of a foot upon. She placed her foot upon it. She found a crevice above, and thrust her fingers into it as if there was no such thing as pain. She clung, she took a step--she was half a yard nearer the angle. But what next could she do? She was hanging in the air above the basin, into which the slightest slip would precipitate her. To change hands--relieve the one advanced and insert the fingers of the other in its place,--was a perilous undertaking. But she did it. Then she reached forward again with hand and foot, found another spot to cling to, and took another step. She was thankful for the great light that lighted the rocks before her. Close by now was the fractured angle of the cliff: one more step, and she could set her foot upon the nethermost stair. Her strength was almost gone; her hands, though insensible to pain, were conscious of slipping. To fall would be to lose all she had gained, and all the strength she had exhausted in the effort. Her feet now--or rather one of them--had a tolerably secure hold on the rib of the ledge. She made one last effort with her hands, and, just as she was falling, gave a spring. She knew that all was staked upon that one dizzy instant of time. But for that knowledge she could never have accomplished what she did. She fell forwards towards the angle, caught a point of the rock with her hands, and clung there until she had safely placed her feet. This done, it was absolutely necessary to stop a moment to rest. She looked downwards and behind her, to see what she had done. The sight made her dizzy--it seemed such a miracle that she could ever have scaled that wall! Nearer and louder roared the conflagration, and she had little time to delay. Her labor was not ended, neither was the danger past. She cast a hurried glance upwards over the ridge she was to climb, and advanced cautiously, step by step. Her soul kept saying within her, "I will not fall; I will not fall;" but she dared not look backwards again, lest even then she should grow giddy and miss her hold. As she ascended, the ridge inclined nearer and nearer to the side of the cascade, until she found the stones slimy and dripping. This was an unforeseen peril. Still she resolutely advanced, taking the utmost precaution at each step against slipping. At length she was at the top of the waterfall. She could look up into the upper gorge, and see the water come rushing down. There was space beside the brook for her to continue her flight; and the sides of the gorge above were far less steep and rugged than below. She was thrilled with hope. She had but one steep, high stair to surmount. She was getting her knee upon it, when a crashing sound in the underbrush arrested her attention. The crashing was followed by a commotion in the water, and she saw a huge black object plunge into the stream, and come sweeping down towards her. On it came, straight at the rock on which she clung, and from which a motion, a touch, might suffice to hurl her back into the lower gorge. She saw what it was; and for a moment she was frozen with terror. She was directly in its path: it would not stop for her. The sight of the blazing woods below, however, brought it to a sudden halt. And there, close by the brink of the waterfall, facing her, not a yard distant, in the full glare of the fire, it rose slowly on its hind feet to look--a monster of the forest, an immense black bear. And now, but for the nightmare of horror that was upon her, Virginia might have perceived that the forest _above_ the cascade was likewise wrapped in flames. The bear had been driven by the terror of them down the stream; and here, between the two fires, on the verge of the waterfall, the slight young girl and the great shaggy wild beast had met. She would have shrieked, but she had no voice. The bear also was silent; with his huge hairy bulk reared up before her, his paws pendant, and his jaws half open in a sort of stupid amazement, he stood and gazed, uttering never a growl. XXIX. _IN THE BURNING WOODS._ The incessant excitement and fatigue of the past few days had caused Penn to fall asleep almost immediately after Carl left him. The rude ground on which he stretched himself proved a blissful couch of repose. Virginia climbed the mountain to meet him, and no fine intuitive sense of her approach thrilled him with wakeful expectancy. Carl was captured, and still he slept. The lost young girl wandered within fifty yards of where he lay steeped in forgetfulness, dreaming, perhaps, of her; and all the time they were as unconscious of each other's presence as were Evangeline and her lover when they passed each other at night on the great river. Penn was the first to wake; and still his stupid heart whispered to him no syllable of the strange secret of the beautiful sleeper whom he might have looked down upon from the edge of the cliff so near. The grove had been but recently fired, and it would have been easy enough then for him to rush into the gorge and rescue her. From what terrors, from what perils would she have been saved! But he wasted the precious moments in staring amazement; then, thinking of his own safety, he commenced running _away_ from her,--his escape lighted by the same fatal flames that were enclosing her within the gorge. She never knew whether, on awaking, she cried for help or remained dumb; nor did it matter much then: he was already too far off to hear. The glow on the clouds lighted all the broad mountain side. Under the ruddy canopy he ran,--now through dimly illumined woods, and now over bare rocks faintly flushed by the glare of the sky. As he drew near the cave, he saw, on a rock high above him, a wild human figure making fantastic gestures, and prostrating itself towards the burning forests. He ran up to it, and, all out of breath, stood on the ledge. "Cudjo! Cudjo! what are you doing here?" The negro made no reply, but, folding his arms above his head, spread them forth towards the fire, bowing himself again and again, until his forehead touched the stone. Penn shuddered with awe. For the first time in his life he found himself in the presence of an idolater. Cudjo belonged to a tribe of African fire-worshippers, from whom he had been stolen in his youth; and, although the sentiment of the old barbarous religion had smouldered for years forgotten in his breast, this night it had burst forth again, kindled by the terrible splendors of the burning mountain. Penn waited for him to rise, then grasped his arm. The negro, startled into a consciousness of his presence, stared at him wildly. "That is not God, Cudjo!" "No, no, not your God, massa! My God!" and the African smote his breast. "Me mos' forgit him; now me 'members! Him comin' fur burn up de white folks, and set de brack man free!" Penn stood silent, thinking the negro might not be altogether wrong. No doubt the dim, dark soul of him saw vaguely, with that prophetic sense which is in all races of men, a great truth. A fire was indeed coming--was already kindled--which was to set the bondman free: and God was in the fire. But of that mightier conflagration, the combustion of the forests was but a feeble type. Penn turned from Cudjo to watch the burning, and became aware of its threatening and rapidly increasing magnitude. The woods had been set in several places, but the different fires were fast growing into one, swept by a strong wind diagonally across and up the mountain. It seemed then as if nothing could prevent all the forest growths that lay to the southward and westward along the range from being consumed. As he gazed, he became extremely alarmed for the safety of Stackridge and his friends: and where all this time was Carl? In vain he questioned Cudjo. He turned, and was hastening to the cave when he met Pomp coming towards him. Tall, majestic, naked to the waist, wearing a garment of panther-skins, with the red gleam of the fire on his dusky face and limbs, the negro looked like a native monarch of the hills. "O Pomp! what a fire that is!" "What a fire it is going to be!" answered Pomp, with a lurid smile. "Our new neighbors have brought us bad luck. All those woods are gone. The fire is sweeping up directly towards us--it will pass over all the mountain--nothing will be left." Yet he spoke with a lofty calmness that astonished Penn. "And our friends!--Carl!--have you heard from them?" "I have not seen Carl since he left the cave with you, nor any of Stackridge's people to-night." "Then they are in the woods yet!" "Yes; unless they have been wise enough to get out of them! I was just starting out to look for them.--Who comes there?"--poising his rifle. "It's Carl!" exclaimed Penn, recognizing the confederate coat. But in an instant he saw his mistake. "It is one of Ropes's men!" said Pomp. "He has discovered us--he shall die for setting my mountains on fire!" "Hold!" Penn grasped his arm. "He is beckoning and calling!" Pomp frowned as he lowered his rifle, and waited for the soldier to come up. "What! is it you? I didn't know you in that dress, and came near shooting you, as you deserve, for wearing it!" And Pomp turned scornfully away. The comer was Dan Pepperill, breathless with haste, horror-struck, haggard. It was some time before he could reply to Penn's impetuous demand--what had brought him up thither? "Carl!" he gasped. "What has happened to Carl?" "Ben tuck! durned if he hain't! But that ar ain't the wust!" "What, then, is the worst?" for that seemed bad enough. "Virginny--Miss Villars!" "Virginia! what of her?" "She's down thar! in the fire!" "Virginia in the fire!" "She ar,--durned if she ain't! Carl said she war on the mountain, and wanted me to hurry up and help her or find you; and I'd a done it, but I couldn't git off till we was runnin' from the fires we'd sot; then I kinder got scattered a puppus; t'other ones hung on to Carl, though, so I had to come alone." Penn interrupted the loose and confused narrative--Virginia: had he _seen_ her? "Wal, I reckon I hev! Ye see I war huntin' fur her thar, above the round rock; fur Carl said,----" A short, sharp groan broke from the lips of Penn. At first the idea of Virginia being on the mountain had appeared to him incredible. But at the mention of the place of rendezvous the truth smote him: she had come up there with Toby, or in his stead. With spasmodic grip he wrung Pepperill's arm as if he would have wrung the truth out of him that way. "You saw her!--where?" His hoarse voice, his terrible look, bewildered the poor man more and more. "I war a tellin' ye! Don't break my arm, and don't look so durned f'erce at me, and I'll out with the hull story. Ye see, I warn't to blame, now, no how. They sot the fires; they sot the grove on our way back; and if I helped any, 'twas cause I had ter. But about _her_. Wal, I begun to the big rock, and war a-huntin' up along, till the grove got all in a blaze, and the red limbs begun ter fall, and I see 'twas high time for me to put. Says I ter myself, 'She hain't hyar; she ar off the mountain and safe ter hum afore this time, shore!' But jest then I heern a screech; it sounded right inter the grove, and I run up as clust ter the fire's I could, and looked, and thar I seen right in the middle on't, amongst the burnin' trees, a woman's gownd, and then a face: 'twas her face, I knowed it, fur she hadn't nary bunnit on, and the fire shone on it bright as lightnin'! But thar war half a acre o' blazin' timber atween her and me; and besides, I was so struck up all of a heap, I couldn't do nary thing fur nigh about a minute--I couldn't even holler ter let her know I war thar. And 'fore I knowed what I war about, durned if she hadn't gone!" Penn afterwards understood that Dan had actually had a glimpse of Virginia when she ran out to the entrance of the gorge, and stood there a moment in the terrible heat and glare. "Where--show me where!" he exclaimed with fierce vehemence, dragging Pepperill after him down the rocks. "It war a considerable piece this side the round rock, nigh the upper eend o' the grove," said Dan, in a jarred voice, clattering after him, as fast as he could. "I reckon I kin find it, if 'tain't too late." Too late? It must not be too late! Penn leaps down the ledges, and rushes through the thickets, as if he would overtake time itself. They reach the burning grove. Pepperill points out as nearly as he can the spot where he stood when he saw Virginia. Great God! if she was in there, what a frightful end was hers! "Daniel! are you sure?"--for Penn cannot, will not believe--it is too terrible! Daniel is very sure; and he withdraws from the insufferable heat, to which his companion appears insensible. "There is a gorge just above there; perhaps she escaped into the gorge. O, if I had known!" groans the half-distracted youth, thinking how near he must have been to her when the fire awoke him. He still hopes that Dan's vision of her in the fire was but the hallucination of a bewildered brain. Yet no effort will he spare, no danger will he shun. The entrance to the gorge is all a gulf of flame; and the woods are blazing upwards along the cliffs, and all the forest beyond is turning to a sea of fire. Yet the gorge must be reached. Back again up the steep slope they climb. Penn flies to the verge of the cliff. He looks down: the chasm is all a glare of light. There runs the red-gleaming brook. He sees the logs, the stones, the mosses, all the wild entanglement, deep below. But no Virginia. He runs almost into the crackling flames, in order to peer farther down the gorge. Then he darts away in the opposite direction, along the very brink of the precipice, among the fire-lit trees,--Pepperill stupidly following. He seizes hold of a sapling, and, with his foot braced against its root, swings his body forward over the chasm, the better to gaze into its depths. From that position he casts his eye up the gorge. He sees the cascade falling over the ledge in a sheet of ruddy foam. He discovers the upper gorge; sees a monster of the forest come plunging and plashing down to the fall, and there lift himself on his haunches to look;--and what is that other object, half hidden by a drooping bough? It is Virginia clinging to the rocks. A moment before, had Penn made the discovery of the young girl still unharmed by fire, his happiness would have been supreme. But now joy was checked by an appalling fear. The bear might seize her, or with a stroke of his paw hurl her from his path. Penn caught hold of the bough that impeded his view, and saw how precarious was her hold. He dared not so much as call to her, or shout to frighten the monster away, lest, her attention being for an instant distracted, she might turn her head, lose her balance, and fall backwards from the rocks. "Durned if she ain't thar!" said Dan, excitedly. "But she's got a powerful slim chance with the bar!" "Come with me!" said Penn. He ran to the upper gorge, showed himself on the bank above the cascade, and shouted. The bear, as he anticipated, turned and looked up at him. Virginia at the same time saw her deliverer. "Hold on! I'll be with you in a minute!" he cried in a voice heard above the noise of the waterfall and the roar of the conflagration. She clung fast, hope and gladness thrilling her soul, and giving her new strength. To reach her, Penn had a precipitous descent of near thirty feet to make. He did not pause to consider the difficulty of getting up again, or the peril of encountering the bear. He jumped down over a perpendicular ledge upon a projection ten feet below. Beyond that was a rapid slope covered with moss and thin patches of soil, with here and there a shrub, and here and there a tree. Striking his heels into the soil, and catching at whatever branch or stem presented itself, he took the plunge. Clinging, sliding, falling, he arrived at the bottom. In a posture half sitting, half standing, and considerably jarred, he found himself face to face with Bruin. The animal had settled down on all fours, and now, with his surly, depressed head turned sullenly to one side, he looked at Penn, and growled. Penn looked at him, and said nothing. He had heard of staring wild beasts out of countenance--an experiment that could be conducted strictly on peace principles, if the bear would only prove as good a Quaker as himself. He resolved to try it: indeed, all unarmed as he was, what else could he do? He might at least, by diverting the brute's attention, give Virginia time to get into a position of safety. So he stood up, and fixed his eyes on the red-blinking eyes of the ferocious beast. Something Bruin did not like: it might have been the youth's company and valiant bearing, but more probably his observation of the fire had satisfied him that he was out of his place. With another growl, that seemed to say, "All I ask is to be let alone," he seceded,--turning his head still more, twisting his body around, after it, and retreating up the gorge. In an instant Penn was at the young girl's side: his hand clasped hers; he drew her up over the rock. Not a word was uttered. He was too agitated to speak; and she, after the terror and the strain to which her nerves had been subjected so long, felt all her strength give way. But as he lifted her in his arms, a faint smile of happiness flitted over her white face, and her lips moved with a whisper of gratitude he did not hear. In spite of all the dangers behind them, and of the dangers still before, both felt, in that moment, a shock of mutual bliss. Neither had ever known till then how dear the other was. Pepperill had by this time leaped down upon the bulge of the bank. There he waited for them, shouting,-- "Hurry up! the bar'll meet the fire up thar, and be comin' down agin!" Penn required no spur to his exertions: he knew too well the necessity of getting speedily beyond the reach, not of the bear only, but also of the fire, which threatened them now on three sides--below, above, and on the farther bank of the gorge. Clasping the burden more precious to him than life, resolved in his soul to part with it only with life, he toiled heavily up the bank, down which he had descended with such tremendous swiftness a few minutes before. But it was not in Virginia's nature to remain long a helpless encumbrance. Seeing the labor and peril still before them, her will returned, and with it her strength. She grasped a branch by which he was trying in vain with one hand, holding her with the other, to draw them both up a steep place. Her prompt action enabled him to seize the trunk of a young tree: she assisted still, and slipping from his hands, clung to it until he had reached the next tree above. He pulled her up after him, and then pushed her on still farther, until Pepperill could reach her from where he stood. A minute later the three were together on the summit of the slope. But now they had above them the ten feet of sheer perpendicularity down which Dan had indiscreetly jumped, following Penn's lead. A single hand above them would now be worth several hands below. "What a fool I war! durned if I warn't!" said Dan, endeavoring unsuccessfully to find a place by which he could reascend. "Get on my shoulders!" And Penn braced himself against the ledge. Dan made the attempt, but fell, and rolled down the bank. Just then a grinning black face appeared above. "Gib me de gal! gib me de gal!" and a prodigiously long arm reached down. "O Cudjo! you are an angel!" cried Penn, "Daniel! Here!" Pepperill was up the bank again in a minute, at Penn's side. They lifted Virginia above their heads. Holding on by a sapling with one hand, the negro extended the other far down over the ledge. Those miraculous arms of his seemed to have been made expressly for this service. He grasped a wrist of the girl; with the other hand she clung to his arm until he had drawn her up to the sapling; this she seized, and helped herself out. Then once more Penn gave Daniel his shoulder, while Cudjo gave him a hand from above; and Daniel was safe. Last of all, Penn remained. "Cotch holt hyar!" said Cudjo, extending towards him the end of a branch he had broken from a tree. To this Penn held fast, assisting himself with his feet against the ledge, while Cudjo and Dan hauled him up. "Good Cudjo! how came you here?" "Me see you and Pepperill a gwine inter de fire. So me foller." "This is the old man's daughter, Cudjo." Cudjo regarded the beautiful young girl with a look of vague wonder and admiration. "He remembers me," said Virginia. "I saw him the night he climbed in at Toby's window." She gave him her hand; it trembled with emotion. "I thank you, Cudjo, for what you have done for my father--and for me." "Now, Cudjo! show us the nearest and easiest path. We must take her to the cave--there is no other way." "You must be right spry, den!" said Cudjo. "De fire am a runnin' ober dat way powerful!" Indeed, it had already crossed the upper end of the gorge, where the forest brook fell into it; and, getting into some beds of leaves, and thence into dense and inflammable thickets, it was now blazing directly across their line of retreat. Penn would have carried Virginia in his arms, but she would not suffer him. "I can go where you can!" she cried, once more full of spirit and daring. "Just give me your hand--you shall see!" Penn took one of her hands, Pepperill the other, and with their aid, supporting her, lifting her, she sprang lightly up the ledges, and from rock to rock. Cudjo, carrying Dan's gun, ran on before, leading the way through hollows and among bushes, by a route known only to himself. So they reached a piece of woods, by the thin skirts of which he hoped to head off the fire. Too late--it was there before them. It ran swiftly among the fallen leaves and twigs, and spread far into the woods. The negro turned back. There was a wild grimace in his face, and a glitter in his eyes, as he threw up his hand, by way of signal that their flight in that direction was cut off. "Cudjo! what is to be done!" And Penn drew Virginia towards him with a look that showed his fears were all for her. "We can't git off down the mountain, nuther!" said Dan. "It's gittin' into the woods down thar. It'll be all around us in no time!" "You let Cudjo do what him pleases?" said the black. "I can trust you! Can you, Virginia?" "He should know what is best. Yes, I will trust him." "Take dat 'ar!" Pepperill received his gun. "Now you look out fur youselves. Me tote de gal." And catching up Virginia, before Penn could stop him, or question him, he rushed with her into the fire. Penn ran after him, perceiving at once the meaning of this bold act. The woods were not yet fairly kindled; only now and then the loose bark of a dry trunk was beginning to blaze. Cudjo leaped over the line of flame that was running along the ground, and bore Virginia high above it to the other side. Penn followed, and Dan came close behind. They then had before them a tract of blackened ground which the flames had swept, leaving here and there a dead limb or mat of leaves still burning. These little fires were easily avoided. But they soon came to another line of flame raging on the upper side of the burnt tract. They were almost out of the woods: only that red, crackling hedge fenced them in; but that they could not pass: the underbrush all along the forest edge was burning. And there they were, brought to a halt, half-stifled with smoke, in the midst of woods kindling and blazing all around them. "May as well pull up hyar, and take a bref," remarked Cudjo, grimly, placing Virginia on a log too dank with decay and moss to catch fire easily. "Den we's try 'em agin." A horrible suspicion crossed Penn's mind; the fanatical fire-worshipper had brought them there to destroy them--to sacrifice them to his god! "Virginia!"--eagerly laying hold of her arm,--"we must retreat! It will soon be too late! We can get out of the woods where we came in, if we go at once!" "Beg pardon, sar," said Cudjo, stamping out fire in the leaves by the end of the log,--and he looked up through the smoke at Penn, with the old malignant grin on his apish face. "What do you mean, Cudjo?" said Penn, in an agony of doubt. "Can't get back dat way, sar!" "Then you have led us here to destroy us!" "You's no longer trust Cudjo!" was the negro's only reply. "Didn't we trust you? Haven't we come through fire, following you? O Cudjo! more than once you have helped to save my life! You have helped to save this life, dearer than mine! Why do you desert us now?" "'Sert you? Cudjo no 'sert you." But the negro spoke sullenly, and there was still a sparkle of malignancy in his look. "Then why do you stop here?" "Hugh! tink we's go trough dat fire like we done trough tudder?" "What then are we to do?" "You's no longer trust Cudjo!" was once more the sullen response. Virginia, with her quick perceptions, saw at once what Penn was either too dull or too much excited to see. Cudjo felt himself aggrieved; but he was not unfaithful. "_I_ trust you, Cudjo!"--and she laid her hand frankly and confidingly on his shoulder. "Did I tremble, did I shrink when you carried me through the fire? I shall never forget how brave, how good you are! He trusts you too,--only he is so afraid for me! You can forgive that, Cudjo." "She is right," said Penn, though still in doubt. "If you know a way to save her, don't lose a moment!" "He knows; on'y let him take his time," said Pepperill, whose firm faith in the negro's good will shamed Penn for his distrust. And yet Pepperill did not love, as Penn loved, the girl whose life was in danger; and he had not seen the evidences of Cudjo's fire-worshipping fanaticism which Penn had seen. Under the influence of Virginia's gentle and soothing words, the glitter of resentment died out of the negro's face. But his aspect was still morose. "De fire take his time to burn out; so we's take our time too," said he. "You try your chance wid Cudjo agin, miss?" "Certainly! for I am sure you will take us safely through yet!" said Virginia, without a shadow of doubt or hesitation on her face, however dark may have been the shadow on her heart. The negro was evidently well pleased. He examined carefully the line of fire in the undergrowth. And now Penn discovered, what Cudjo had known very well from the first, that there were barren ledges above, and that the fire was rapidly burning itself out along their base. An opening through which a courageous and active man might dash unscathed soon presented itself. Then Cudjo waited no longer to "take bref." He caught Virginia in his arms, and bore her through the second line of fire, as he had borne her through the first, and placed her in safety on the rocks above. "Cudjo, my brave, my noble fellow!" said Penn, deeply affected, "I have wronged you; I confess it with shame. Forgive me!" "Cudjo hab nuffin to forgib," replied the negro, with a laugh of pleasure "Neber mention um, massa! All right now! Reckon we's better be gitt'n out o' dis yer smudge!" He showed the way, and Penn and Daniel helped Virginia up the rocks as before. They had reached a smooth and unsheltered ledge near the ravine, a little below the mouth of the cave, when a hideous and inhuman shriek rent the air. "What dat?" cried Cudjo, stopping short; and his visage in the smoky and lurid light looked wild with superstitious alarm. The sound was repeated, louder, nearer, more hideous than before, seeming to make the very atmosphere shudder above their heads. "Go on, Cudjo! go on!" Penn commanded. The terrified black crouched and gibbered, but would not stir. Then straightway a sharp clatter, as of iron hoofs flying at a furious gallop, resounded along the mountain-side. By a simultaneous impulse the little party huddled together, and turned their faces towards the fire, and saw coming down towards them a horse with the speed of the wind. "Stand close!" said Penn; and he threw himself before Virginia, to shield her, shouting and swinging his hat to frighten the animal from his course. "Stackridge's hoss!" exclaimed Cudjo, recovering from his fright, leaping up, and flinging abroad his long arms in the air. "Wiv some poor debil onter him's back!" It was so. The little group stood motionless, chilled with horror. The beast came thundering on, with lips of terror parted, nostrils wide and snorting, mane and tail flying in the wild air, hoofs striking fire from the rocks. A human being--a man--was lying close to his neck, and clinging fast: the face hidden by the tossing and streaming mane: a fearful ride! the mystery surrounding him, and the awful glare and smoke, enhancing the horror of it. Approaching the group on the ledge, the animal veered, and shot past them like a thunderbolt; clearing rocks, hollows, bushes, with incredible bounds; nearing the ravine, but halting not; dashing into the thickets there, missing suddenly the ground beneath his feet, striking only the air and yielding boughs with frantic hoofs; then plunging down with a dull, reverberant crash,--horse and unknown rider rolling together over rocks and spiked limbs to the bottom of the ravine. Then all was still again: it had passed like a vision of fear. XXX. _REFUGE._ For a moment the little group stood dumb and motionless on the ledge, in the flare of the vast flame-curtains. They looked at each other. Penn was the first to speak. "Which of us goes down into the ravine?" "Wha' fur?" said Cudjo. "To find him!" And Penn gazed anxiously towards the thickets into which the horse and horseman had gone down. "Dat no good! Deader 'n de debil, shore!" "O, may be he is not!" exclaimed Virginia, full of compassion for the unfortunate unknown. "Do go and see, Cudjo!" "Fire'll be dar in less'n no time. Him nuffin to Cudjo. We's best be gwine." And the negro started off, doggedly, towards the cave. Then Penn took the resolution which he would have taken at once but for Virginia. "Stay with her, Daniel! I will go!" Virginia turned pale; she had not thought of that. But immediately she controlled her fears: she would not be selfish: if he was brave and generous enough to descend into the ravine for one he did not know, she would be equally brave and generous, and let him go. She clasped her hands together so that they should not hold him back, and forced her lips to say,-- "I will wait for you here." "No, I be durned if ye shall! Hapgood, you stick to her: take this yer gun, and I'll slip down inter the holler, and see whuther the cuss's alive or dead, any how." "O, Mr. Pepperill, if you will!" said Virginia, overjoyed. Penn remonstrated,--rather feebly, it must be confessed, for the determination to part from her had cost him a struggle, and the privilege of keeping by her side till all danger was past, seemed too sweet to refuse. "I'll take her to her father, and hurry back, and meet you." "All right!" came the response from Dan, already far down the rocks. "The cave is close by," said Penn. "There is Cudjo, waiting for us!" Coming up with the black, and once more following his lead, they descended along the shelf of rocks, between the thickets and the overhanging ledge. So they came to the still dark jaws of the cavern. A grateful coolness breathed in their faces from within. But how dismal the entrance seemed to eyes lately dazzled by the blazing woods! Virginia clung tightly to Penn's hand, as they groped their way in. At first nothing was visible but a few smouldering embers, winking their sleepy eyes in the dark. Out of these Cudjo soon blew a little blaze, which he fed with sticks and bits of bark until it lighted up fitfully the dim interior and shadowy walls of his abode. Penn hushed Virginia with a finger on his lips, and restrained her from throwing herself forward upon the rude bed, where the blind old man was just awaking from a sound sleep. In that profound subterranean solitude the roar of the fiery breakers, dashing on the mountain side, was subdued to a faint murmur, less distinct than the dripping of water from roof to floor in the farther recesses of the cave. There, left alone, lulled by the dull, monotonous trickle,--thinking, if he heard the roar at all, that it was the mountain wind blowing among the pines,--Mr. Villars had slept tranquilly through all the horrors of that night. "Is it you, Penn? Safe again!" And sitting up, he grasped the young man's hand. "What news from my dear girl?--from my two dear girls?" he added, remembering Virginia was not his only child. "Toby did not come to the rock," said Penn, still holding Virginia back. "O! did he not?" It seemed a heavy disappointment; but the patient old man rallied straightway, saying, with his accustomed cheerfulness, "No doubt something hindered him; no doubt he would have come if he could. My poor, dear girl, how I wish I could have got word to her that I am safe! But I thank you all the same; it was kind in you to give yourself all that trouble." "I believe all is for the best," said Penn, his voice trembling. "No doubt, no doubt. It will be some time before I can have the consolation of my dear girl's presence again; I, who never knew till now how necessary she is to my happiness,--I may say, to my very life!" Mr. Villars wiped a tear he could not repress, and smiled. "Yes, Penn, God knows what is best for us all. His will be done!" But now Virginia could restrain herself no longer; her sobs would burst forth. "Father! father!"--throwing herself upon his neck. "O, my dear, dear father!" Penn had feared the effect of the sudden surprise upon the old and feeble man, and had meant to break the good news to him softly. But human nature was too strong; his own emotions had baffled him, and the pious little artifice proved a complete failure. So now he could do nothing but stand by and make grim faces, struggling to keep down what was mastering him, and turning away blindly from the bed. Even Cudjo appeared deeply affected, staring stupidly, and winking something like a tear from the whites of his eyes at sight of the father embracing his child, and the white locks mingling with the wet, tangled curls on her cheek. He was a ludicrous, pathetic object, winking and staring thus; and Penn laughed and cried too, at sight of him. "Luk dar!" said Cudjo, coming up to him, and pointing at the little walled chamber that served as his pantry. "She hab dat fur her dressum room. Sleep dar, too, if she likes." "Thank you, Cudjo! it will be very acceptable, I am sure." "Me clar it up fur her all scrumptious!" added the negro, with a grin. Penn had thought of that. But now he had other business on his hands: he must hasten to find Pepperill: nor could he keep anxious thoughts of Stackridge and his friends out of his mind. And Pomp--where all this time was Pomp? He had hoped to find him and the patriots all safely arrived in the cave. Virginia was seated on the bed by her father's side. Penn threw a blanket over the dear young shoulders, to shield her from the sudden cold of the cave; then left her relating her adventures,--beckoning to Cudjo, who followed him out. "Cudjo!"--the black glided to his side as they emerged from the ravine,--"you must go and find Pomp." Cudjo laughed and shrugged. "No use't! Reckon Pomp take keer o' hisself heap better'n we's take keer on him!" True. Pomp knew the woods. He was athletic, cautious, brave. But he had gone to extricate from peril others, in whose fate he himself might become involved. Cudjo refused to take this view of the matter; and it was evident that, while he comforted himself with his deep convictions of Pomp's ability to look out for his own safety, he was, to say the least, quite indifferent as to the welfare of the patriots. Forgetting Dan and the unknown horseman in his great solicitude for his absent friends, Penn climbed the ledges, and gazed away in the direction of the camp, and beheld the forest there a raging gulf of fire. Assuredly, they must have fled from it before this time; but whither had they gone? Had Pomp been able to find them? Or might they not all have become entangled in the intricacies of the wilderness until encompassed by the fire and destroyed? Penn watched in vain for their coming--in vain for some signal of their safety on the crags above the forest. Had they reached the crags, he thought he might discover them somewhere with a glass, so vividly were those grim rock-foreheads of the hills lighted up beneath the red sky. He sent Cudjo to find Dan, ran to the cave for Pomp's glass, and returned to the ledge. There he waited; there he watched; still in vain. Wider and wider, spread the destroying sea; fiercer and fiercer leaped the billows of flame--the billows that did not fall again, but broke away in rent sheets, in red-rolling scrolls, and vanished upward in their own smoke. And now Penn, lowering the glass, perceived what he must long since have been made aware of, had not the greater light concealed the less. It was morning; a dull and sunless dawn; the despairing daylight, filtered of all warmth and color, spreading dim and gray on the misty valleys, and on the sombre, far-off hills, under an interminable canopy of cloud. Pepperill came clambering up the rocks. Penn turned eagerly to meet and question him. "Find him?" "Wal, a piece on him." "Killed?" "I reckon he ar that!" "Who is it?" "Durned if I kin tell! He's jammed in thar 'twixt two gre't stuns, and the hoss is piled on top, and you can't see nary featur' of his face, only the legs,--but durned if I know the legs!" "Couldn't you move the horse?" "Nary a bit. His neck is broke, and he lays wedged so clust, right on top o' the poor cuss, 'twould take a yoke o' oxen to drag him out." "Are you sure the man is dead?" "Shore? I reckon! He had one arm loose. I jest lifted it, and it drapped jest like a club when I let go; then I see 'twas broke square off jest above the elbow, about where the backbone o' the hoss comes. Made me durned sick!" "What have you got in your hand?" "A boot--one o' his'n--thought I'd pull it off, his leg stuck up so kind o' handy; didn't know but some on ye might know the boot." And Dan held it up for Penn's inspection. "What is this on it? Blood?" "It ar so! Mebby it's the hoss's, and then agin mebby it's his'n; I hadn't noticed it afore." "I'll go back with you, Daniel. Together perhaps we can move the horse." "Ye're behind time for that! The fire's thar. I hadn't only jest time to git cl'ar on't myself. The poor cuss is a br'ilin'!" "K-r-r-r! hi! don't ye har me callin'!" Cudjo sprang up the ledge. "Fire's a comin' to de cave! All in de brush dar! Can't get in widout ye go now!" "And Pomp and the rest! They will be shut out, if they are not lost already!" "Pomp know well 'nuff what him 'bout, tell ye! Gorry, massa! ye got to come, if Cudjo hab to tote ye!" Yielding to his importunity, Penn quitted the ledge. On the shelf of rock Cudjo paused to gnash his teeth at the flames sweeping up towards them. He had long since recovered from his fit of superstitious frenzy. He had seen the fire burning the woods that sheltered him in his mountain retreat, instead of going intelligently to work to destroy the dwellings of the whites; and he no longer regarded it as a deity worthy of his worship. "All dis yer brush be burnt up! Den nuffin' to hide Cudjo's house!" "Don't despair, Cudjo. We will trust in Him who is God even of the fire." Even as Penn spoke, he felt a cool spatter on his hand. He looked up; sudden, plashy drops smote his face. "Rain! It is coming! Thank Heaven for the rain!" At the same time, the wind shifted, and blew fitful gusts down the mountain. Then it lulled; and the rain poured. "Cudjo, your thickets are saved!" said Penn, exultantly. Then immediately he thought of the absent ones, for whom the rain might be too late; of the beautiful forests, whose burning not cataracts could quench; of the unknown corpse far below in the ravine there, and the swift soul gone to God. "What news?" asked the old man as he entered the cave. "It is morning, and it rains; but your friends are still away.--The man is dead," aside to Virginia. "Heaven grant they be safe somewhere!" said the old man. "And Pomp?" "He is missing too." There was a long, deep silence. A painful suspense seemed to hold every heart still, while they listened. Suddenly a strange noise was heard, as of a ghost walking. Louder and louder it sounded, hollow, faint, far-off. Was it on the rocks over their heads? or in caverns beneath their feet? "Told ye so! told ye so!" said Cudjo, laughing with wild glee. The fire had burnt low again, and he was in the act of kindling it, when a novel idea seemed to strike him, and, seizing a pan, he inverted it over the little remnant of a flame. In an instant the cave was dark. It was some seconds before the eyes of the inmates grew accustomed to the gloom, and perceived the glimmer of mingled daylight and firelight that shone in at the entrance. "Luk a dar! luk a dar!" said Cudjo. And turning their eyes in the opposite direction, they saw a faint golden glow in the recesses of the cave. The footsteps approached; the glow increased; then the superb dark form of Pomp advanced in the light of his own torch. Penn hastened to meet him, and to demand tidings of Stackridge's party. Pomp first saluted Virginia, with somewhat lofty politeness, holding the torch above his head as he bowed. Then turning to Penn,-- "Your friends are all safe, I believe." "All?" Penn eagerly asked, his thoughts on the luckless horseman. "None missing?" "There were three absent when I reached their camp. They had gone on a foraging expedition. I found the rest waiting for them, standing their ground against the fire, which was roaring up towards them at a tremendous rate. Soon the foragers came in. They brought a basket of potatoes and a bag of meal, but no meat. Withers had caught a pig, but it had got away from him before he could kill it, and he lost it in the dark. The others were cursing the rascals who had set the woods afire, but Withers lamented the pig. "'Gentlemen,' said I, 'you have not much time to mourn either for the woods or the pork. We must take care of ourselves.' And I offered to bring them here. But just then we heard a rushing noise; it sounded like some animal coming up the course of the brook; and the next minute it was amongst us--a big black bear, frightened out of his wits, singed by the fire, and furious." "Your acquaintance of the gorge, Virginia!" said Penn. "You will readily believe that such an unexpected supply of fresh meat, sent by Providence within their reach, proved a temptation to the hungry. Withers, in his hurry to make up for the loss of the pig, ran to head the fellow off, and attempted to stop him with his musket after it had missed fire. In an instant the gun was lying on the ground several yards off, and Withers was sprawling. The bear had done the little business for him with a single stroke of his paw; then he passed on, directly over Withers's body, which happened to be in his way, but which he minded no more than as if it had been a bundle of rags. All this time we couldn't fire a shot; there was the risk, you see, of hitting Withers instead of the bear. Even after he was knocked down, he seemed to think he had nothing more formidable than his stray pig to deal with, and tried to catch the bear by the tail as he ran over him." "So ye lost de bar!" cried Cudjo, greatly excited. "Fool, tink o' cotchin' on him by de tail!" "Still we couldn't fire, for he was on his legs again in a second, chasing the bear's tail directly before our muzzles," said Pomp, quietly laughing. "But luckily a stick flew up under his feet. Down he went again. That gave two or three of us a chance to send some lead after the beast. He got a wound--we tracked him by his blood on the ground--we could see it plain as day by the glare of light--it led straight towards the fire that was running up through the leaves and thickets on the north. I expected that when he met that he would turn again; but he did not: we were just in time to see him plough through it, and hear him growl and snarl at the flames that maddened him, and which he was foolish enough to stop and fight. Then he went on again. We followed. Nobody minded the scorching. We kept him in sight till he met the fire again--for it was now all around us. This time his heart failed him; he turned back only to meet us and get a handful of bullets in his head. That finished him, and he fell dead." "Poor brute!" said Mr. Villars; "he found his human enemies more merciless than the fire!" "That's so," said Pomp, with a smile. "But we had not much time to moralize on the subject then. The fire we had leaped through had become impassable behind us. The men hurried this way and that to find an outlet. They found only the fire--it was on every side of us like a sea--the spot where we were was only an island in the midst of it--that too would soon be covered. The bear was forgotten where he lay; the men grew wild with excitement, as again and again they attempted to break through different parts of the ring that was narrowing upon us, and failed. Brave men they are, but death by fire, you know, is too horrible!" "How large was this spot, this island?" asked Penn. "It might have comprised perhaps twenty acres when we first found ourselves enclosed in it. But every minute it was diminishing; and the heat there was something terrific. The men were rather surprised, after trying in vain on every side to discover a break in the circle of fire, to come back and find me calm. "'Gentlemen,' said I, 'keep cool. I understand this ground perhaps better than you do. Don't abandon your game; you have lost your meal and potatoes, and you will have need of the bear.' "'But what is the use of roast meat, if we are to be roasted too?' said Withers, who will always be droll, whatever happens. "Then Stackridge spoke. He proposed that they should place themselves under my command; for I knew the woods, and while they had been running to and fro in disorder, I had been carefully observing the ground, and forming my plans. I laughed within myself to see Deslow alone hang back; he was unwilling to owe his life to one of my complexion--one who had been a slave. For there are men, do you know," said Pomp, with a smile of mingled haughtiness and pity, "who would rather that even their country should perish than owe in any measure its salvation to the race they have always hated and wronged!" "I trust," said Mr. Villars, "that you had the noble satisfaction of teaching these men the lesson which our country too must learn before it can be worthy to be saved." "I showed them that even the despised black may, under God's providence, be of some use to white men, besides being their slave: I had that satisfaction!" said Pomp, proudly smiling. "Stackridge was right: I had observed: I saw what I could do. On one side was a chasm which you know, Mr. Hapgood." "Yes! I had thought of it! But I knew it was in the midst of the burning forest, and never supposed you could get to it." "The fire was beyond; and it also burned a little on the side nearest to us. But the vegetation there is thin, you remember. The chasm could be reached without difficulty. "'Follow me who will!' said I. 'The rest are at liberty to shirk for themselves.' "'Follow--where?' said Deslow. I couldn't help smiling at the man's distress. All the rest were prepared to obey my directions; and it was hard for him to separate himself from them. But it seemed harder still for him to trust in me. I was not a Moses; I could not take them through that Red Sea. What then? "I made for the chasm. All followed, even Deslow,--dragging and lugging the bear. We came to the brink. The place, I must confess, had an awful look, in the light of the trees burning all around it! Deslow was not the only one who shrank back then; for though the spot was known to some of them, they had never explored it, and could not guess what it led to. It was difficult, in the first place, to descend into it; it looked still more difficult ever to get out again; and there was nothing to prevent the burning limbs above from falling into it, or the trees that grew in it from catching fire. For this is the sink, Mr. Villars, which you have probably heard of,--where the woods have been undermined by the action of water in the limestone rocks, and an acre or more of the mountain has fallen in, with all its trees, so that what was once the roof of an immense cavern is now a little patch of the forest growing seventy feet below the surface of the earth. The sides are precipitous and projecting. Only one tree throws a strong branch upwards to the edge of the sink. "'This way, gentlemen,' said I, 'and you are safe!' "It was a trial of their faith; for I waited to explain nothing. First, I tumbled the bear off the brink. We heard him go crashing down into the abyss, and strike the bottom with a sound full of awfulness to the uninitiated. Then, with my rifle swung on my back, I seized the limb, and threw myself into the tree. "'Where he can go, we can!' I heard Stackridge say; and he followed me. I took his gun, and handed it to him again when he was safe in the tree. He did the same for another; and so all got into the branches, and climbed down after us. The trunk has no limbs within twenty feet of the bottom, but there is a smaller tree leaning into it which we got into, and so reached the ground. "'Now, gentlemen,' said I, when all were down, 'I will show you where you are.' And opening the bushes, I discovered a path leading down the rocks into the caverns, of which this cave is only a branch. Then I made them all take an oath never to betray the secret of what I had shown them. Then I lighted one of the torches Cudjo and I keep for our convenience when we come in that way, and gave it to them; lighted another for my own use; invited them to make themselves quite at home in my absence; left them to their reflections;--and here I am." Still the mystery with regard to the unknown horseman was in no wise explained. Pomp, informed of what had happened, arose hastily. Penn followed him from the cave. Pepperill accompanied them, to show the way. It was raining steadily; but the thickets in which lay the dead horse and his rider were burning still. "As I was going to Stackridge's camp," said Pomp, "I thought I saw a man crawling over the rocks above where the horse was tied. I ran up to find him, but he was gone. Peace to his ashes, if it was he!" "Won't be much o' the cuss left but ashes!" remarked Pepperill. Pomp ascended the ledges, and stood, silent and stern, gazing at the destruction of his beloved woods. The winds had died. The fires had evidently ceased to spread. Portions of the forest that had been kindled and not consumed were burning now with slow, sullen combustion, like brands without flame. Stripped of their foliage, shorn of their boughs, and seen in the dull and smoky daylight, through the rain, they looked like a forest of skeletons, all of glowing coal, brightening, darkening, and ever crumbling away. All at once Pomp seemed to rouse himself, and direct his attention more particularly at the part of the woods in which the patriots' camp had been. "Come with me, Pepperill, if you would help do a good job!" They started off, and were soon out of sight. As Penn turned from gazing after them, he heard a voice calling from the opposite side of the ravine. He looked, but could see no one. The figure to which the voice belonged was hidden by the bushes. The bushes moved, however; the figure was descending into the ravine. It arrived at the bottom, crossed, and began to ascend the steep side towards the cave. Penn concealed himself, and waited until it had nearly emerged from the thickets beneath him, and he could distinctly hear the breath of a man panting and blowing with the toil of climbing. Then a well-known voice said in a hoarse whisper,-- "Massa Hapgood! dat you?" And peering over the bank, he saw, upturned in the rain and murky light, among the wet bushes, the black, grinning face of old Toby. He responded by reaching down, grasping the negro's hand, and drawing him up. The grin on the old man's face was a ghastly one, and his eyes rolled as he stammered forth,-- "Miss Jinny--ye seen Miss Jinny?" Penn did not answer immediately; he was considering whether it would be safe to conduct Toby into the cave. Toby grew terrified. "Don't say ye hain't seen her, Massa Penn! ye kill ol' Toby if ye do! I done lost her!" And the poor old faithful fellow sobbed out his story,--how Virginia had disappeared, and how, on discovering the woods to be on fire, he had set out in search of her, and been wandering he scarcely knew where ever since. "Now don't say ye don't know nuffin' about her! don't say dat!" falling on his knees, and reaching up his hands beseechingly, as if he had only to prevail on Penn to _say_ that all was well with "Miss Jinny," and that would make it so. Such faith is in simple souls. "I'll say anything you wish me to, good old Toby! only give me a chance." "Den say you _has_ seen her." "I _has seen her_," repeated Penn. "O, bress you, Massa Penn! And she ar safe--say dat too!" "_She ar safe_," said Penn, laughing. "Bress ye for dat!" And Toby, weeping with joy, kissed the young man's hand again and again. "And ye knows whar she ar?" "Yes, Toby! So now get up: don't be kneeling on the rocks here in the rain!" "Jes' one word more! Say ye got her and ol' Massa Villars safe stowed away, and ye'll take me to see 'em; den dis ol' nigger'll bress you and de Lord and dem, and be willin' fur to die! only say dat, massa!" "Ah! did I promise to say all you wished?" "Yes, you did, you did so, Massa Penn!" cried Toby, triumphantly. "Then I suppose I must say that, too. So come, you dear old simpleton! Cudjo!" to the proprietor of the cave, who just then put out his head to reconnoitre, "Cudjo! Here is your friend Toby, come to pay his master and mistress a visit!" "What business he got hyar?" said Cudjo, crossly. "We's hab all de wuld, and creation besides, comin' bime-by!" "Cudjo! You knows ol' Toby, Cudjo!" said Toby, in the softest and most conciliatory tone imaginable. "Nose ye!" Cudjo snuffed disdainfully. "Yes! and wish you'd keep fudder off!" "Why, Cudjo! don't you 'member Toby? Las' time I seed you! ye 'member dat, Cudjo!" "Don't 'member nuffin'!" "'Twan't you, den, got inter my winder, and done skeert me mos' t' def 'fore I found out 'twas my ol' 'quaintance Cudjo, come fur Massa Penn's clo'es! Dat ar wan't you, hey?" And Toby's honest indignation cropped out through the thin crust of deprecating obsequiousness which he still thought it politic to maintain. Penn got under the shelter of the ledge, and waited for the dispute to end. It was evident to him that Cudjo was not half so ill-natured as he appeared; but, feeling himself in a position of something like official importance, he had the human weakness to wish to make the most of it. "Your massa and missis bery well off. Dey in my house. No room dar for you. Ain't wanted hyar, nohow!" turning his back very much like a personage of lighter complexion, clad in brief authority. "Ain't wanted, Cudjo? You don't know what you's sayin' now. Whar my ol' massa and young missis is, dar ol' Toby's wanted. Can't lib widout me, dey can't! Ol' massa wants me to nuss him. Ye don't tink--you's a nigger widout no kind ob 'sideration, Cudjo." "Talk o' you nussin' him when him's got Pomp!" "Pomp! what can Pomp do? Wouldn't trust him to nuss a chick sicken!" Toby talked backwards in his excitement. "Ki! didn't him take Massa Hapgood and make him well? Don't ye know nuffin'?" Toby seemed staggered for a moment. But he rallied quickly, and said,-- "He cure Massa Hapgood? He done jes' nuffin' 't all fur him. De fac's is, I had de nussin' on him for a spell at fust, and gib him a start. Dar's ebery ting in a start, Cudjo." "O, what a stupid nigger!" said Cudjo. "Hyar's Massa Hapgood hisself! leab it to him now!" "You are both right," said Penn. "Toby did nurse me, and give me a good start; for which I shall always thank him." "Dar! tol' ye so, tol' ye so!" said Toby. "But it was Pomp who afterwards cured me," added Penn. "Dar! tol' you so!" cried Cudjo, while Toby's countenance fell. "For while Toby is a capital nurse" (Toby brightened), "Pomp is a first-rate doctor" (Cudjo grinned). "So don't dispute any more. Shake hands with your old friend, Cudjo, and show him into your house." Cudjo was still reluctant; but just then occurred a pleasing incident, which made him feel good-natured towards everybody. Pomp and Pepperill arrived, bringing the bag of meal and the basket of potatoes which the bear-hunters had forsaken in the woods, and which the rain had preserved from the fire. XXXI. _LYSANDER TAKES POSSESSION._ Gad the "Sleeper" (he had earned that title) had been himself placed under guard for drinking too much of the prisoners' liquor, and suffering them to escape. Miserable, sullen, thirsty, he languished in confinement. "Let 'em shoot me, and done with it, if that's the penalty," said this chivalrous son of the south; "only give a feller suthin' to drink!" But that policy of the confederates, which opened the jails of the country, and put arms in the hands of the convicts, and pardoned every felon that would fight, might be expected to find a better use for an able-bodied fellow, like Gad, than to shoot him. The use they found for him was this: He had been a mighty hunter before the Lord, ere he became too besotted and lazy for such sport; and he professed to know the mountains better than any other man. Accordingly, on the recommendation of his friend Lieutenant Ropes, it was resolved to send him to spy out the position of the patriots. It was an enterprise of some danger, and, to encourage him in it, he was promised two things--pardon for his offence, and, what was of more importance to him, a bottle of old whiskey. "I'll see that you have light enough," said Ropes, significantly. It was the evening of the firing of the forests. How well the lieutenant fulfilled his part of the engagement, we have seen. Gad put the bottle in his pocket, and set off at dark by routes obscure and circuitous to get upon the trail of the patriots. How well _he_ succeeded will appear by and by. The burning of the forests caused a great excitement in the valley, especially among those families whose husbands and fathers were known to have taken refuge in them. Who had committed the barbarous act? The confederates denounced it with virtuous indignation, charging the patriots with it, of course. There was in the village but one witness who could have disputed this charge, and he now occupied Gad's place in the guard-house. It was the deserter Carl. All the morning Gad's return was anxiously awaited. No doubt there were good reasons why he did not come. So said his friend Silas; and his friend Silas was right: there were good reasons. "Anyhow, I kep' my word--I giv him light enough, I reckon!" chuckled Silas. That was true: Gad had had light enough, and to spare. The rain continued all the morning. Perhaps that was what detained the scout; for it was known that he had a great aversion to water. In the afternoon came one with tidings from the mountain. It was not Gad. It was old Toby. He was seized by some soldiers and taken before Captain Sprowl, at the school-house. "Toby, you black devil, where have you been?" This was Lysander's chivalrous way of addressing an inferior whom he wished to terrify. Now, if there was a person in the world whom Toby detested, it was this roving Lysander, who had disgraced the Villars family by marrying into it. However, he concealed his contempt with a politic hypocrisy worthy of a whiter skin. "Please, sar," said the old negro, cap in hand, "I'se been lookin' for my ol' massa and my young missis." "Well, what luck, you lying scoundrel?" "O, no luck 't all, I 'sure you, sar!" "What! couldn't you find 'em? Don't you lie, you ----." (We may as well omit the captain's energetic epithets.) "O, sar!"--Toby looked up earnestly with counterfeit grief in his wrinkled old face,--"dey ain't nowhars on de face ob de 'arth!" "Not on the face of the earth!" "If dey is, den de fire's done burnt 'em all up. I seen, down in a big holler, a place whar somebody's been burnt, shore! Dar's a man, and a hoss on top on him, and de hoss's har am all burnt off, and de man's trouse's-legs am all burnt off too, and one foot's got a fried boot onto it, and tudder han't got nuffin' on, but jes' de skin and bone all roasted to a crisp; and I 'specs dar's 'nuff sight more dead folks down in dar, on'y I didn't da's to look, it make me feel so skeerylike!" All which, and much more, Toby related so circumstantially, that Captain Sprowl was strongly impressed with the truth of the story. Great, therefore, was the joy of the captain. Perhaps the patriots had been destroyed: he hoped so! Still more ardently he hoped that Virginia had perished with her father. For was he not the husband of Salina? and the snug little Villars property, did he not covet it? "Can you show me that spot, Toby?" "'Don'o', sar: I specs I could, sar." "Don't you forget about it! Now, Toby, go home to your mistress,--my wife's your mistress, you know,--and wait till you are wanted." "Yes, sar,"--bowing, and pulling his foretop. Captain Sprowl did not overhear the irrepressible chuckle of satisfaction in which the old negro indulged as he retired, or he would have perceived that he had been trifled with. We are apt to be extremely credulous when listening to what we wish to believe; and Lysander's delight left no room in his heart for suspicion. All he desired now was that Gad should appear and confirm Toby's report; for surely Gad must know something about the dead horse and the dead man under him; and why did not the fellow return? As for Toby, he hastened home as fast as his tired old legs could carry him, chuckling all the way over his lucky escape, and the cunning answers by which he had mystified the captain without telling a downright falsehood. "Ob course, dey ain't on de face ob de 'arth, long as dey's inside on't! Hi, hi, hi!" He did not greatly relish reporting himself to Salina: nevertheless, he had been ordered to do so, not only by the captain, but by those whose authority he respected more. Salina, though so bitter, was not without natural affection, and she had suffered much and waited anxiously ever since Toby, terrified into the avowal of his belief that Virginia was in the burning woods, had set out in search of her. She was not patient; she was wanting in religious trust. She had not slept. All night and all day she had tortured herself with terrible fancies. Instead of calming her spirit with prayer, she had kept it irritated with spiteful thoughts against what she deemed her evil destiny. There are certain natures to which every misfortune brings a blessing; for, whatever it may take away, it is sure to leave that divine influence which comes from resignation and a deepened sense of reliance upon God. Such a nature was the old clergyman's. Every blow his heart had received had softened it; and a softened heart is a well of interior happiness; it is more precious to its possessor than all outward gifts of friends and fortune. Such a nature, too, was Virginia's. She too, through all things, kept warm in her bosom that holy instinct of faith, that blessed babe named Love, ever humbly born, whose life within is a light that transfigures the world. To such, despair cannot come; for when the worst arrives, when all they cherished is gone, heaven is still left to them; and they look up and smile. To them sorrow is but a preparation for a diviner joy. All things indeed work together for their good; since, whether fair fortune comes, or ill, they possess the spiritual alchemy that transmutes it into blessing. This love, this faith, Salina lacked. She fostered in their place that selfishness and discontent which sour the soul. Every blow upon her heart had hardened it. Every trial embittered and angered her. Hence the swollen and flaming eyes, the impatient and scowling looks, with which she met the returning Toby. "Where is Virginia?" "Dat I can't bery well say, Miss Salina," replied Toby, scratching his woolly head. He would never sacrifice his family pride so far as to call her Mrs. Sprowl. "How dare you come back without her?" And she heaped upon him the bitterest reproaches. It was he who, through his cowardice, had been the cause of Virginia's night adventure. It was he who had ruined everything by concealing her departure until it was too late. Then he might have found her, if he had so resolved. But if he could not, why had he remained absent all day? Under this sharp fire of accusations Toby stood with ludicrous indifference, grinning, and scratching his head. At length he scratched out of it a little roll of paper that had been confided to his wool for safe keeping, in case he should be seized and searched. It fell upon the floor. He hastily snatched it up, and gave it, with obsequious alacrity, to Mrs. Sprowl. She took, unrolled it, and read. It was a pencilled note in the handwriting of Virginia. * * * * * "Dear Sister: Thanks to a kind Providence and to kind friends, we are safe. I was rescued last night from the most frightful dangers in the burning woods. I had come, without your knowledge, to get news of our dear father. I am now with him. He has excellent shelter, and devoted attendants; but the comforts of his home are wanting, and I have learned how much he is dependent upon us for his happiness. For this reason I shall remain with him as long as I can. To relieve your mind we send Toby back to you. V." * * * * * That evening Captain Sprowl entered the house of the absent Mr. Villars with the air of one who had just come into possession of that little piece of property. He nodded with satisfaction at the walls, glanced approvingly at the furniture, curved his lip rather contemptuously at the books (as much as to say, "I'll sell off all that sort of rubbish"), and expressed decided pleasure at sight of old Toby. "Worth eight hundred dollars, that nigger is!" He had either forgotten that Mr. Villars had given Toby his freedom, or he believed that, under the new order of things, in a confederacy founded on slavery, such gifts would not be held valid. "Well, Sallie, my girl,"--throwing himself into the old clergyman's easy chair,--"here we are at home! Bring me the bootjack, Toby." "I don't know about your being at home!" said Salina, indignantly. And it was evident that Toby did not know about bringing the bootjack. He looked as if he would have preferred to jerk the chair from beneath the sprawling Lysander, and break it over him. "I suppose Toby has told you the news? Awful news! a fearful dispensation of Providence! Pepperill came in this afternoon and confirmed it. We thought he had deserted, but it appears he had only got lost in the woods. He reports some dead bodies in a ravine, and his account tallies very well with Toby's. We'll wear mourning, of course, Sallie." Lysander stroked his chin. Mrs. Lysander tapped the floor with her impatient foot, gnawed her lip, and scowled. "Come, my dear!" said the captain, coaxingly; "we may as well understand each other. Times is changed. I tell ye, I'm going to be one of the big men under the new government. Now, Sal, see here. I'm your husband, and there's no getting away from it. And what's the use of getting away from it, even if we could? Let's settle down, and be respectable. We've had quarrels enough, and I've got tired of 'em. Toby, why don't you bring that bootjack?" Lysander swung his chair around towards Salina. She turned hers away from him, still knitting her brows and gnawing that disdainful lip. "Now what's the use, Sal? Since the way is opened for us to live together again, why can't you make up your mind to it, let bygones be bygones, and begin life over again? When I was a poor devil, dodging the officers, and never daring to see you except in the dark, I couldn't blame you for feeling cross with me; for it was a cursed miserable state of things. But you're a captain's wife now. You'll be a general's wife by and by. I shall be off fighting the battles of my country, and you'll be proud to hear of my exploits." Salina was touched. Weary of the life she led, morbidly eager for change, she was a secessionist from the first, and had welcomed the war. Moreover, strange as it may seem, she loved this worthless Lysander. She hated him for the misery he had caused her; she was exceedingly bitter against him; yet love lurked under all. She was secretly proud to see him a captain. It was hard to forgive him for all the wrongs she had suffered; but her heart was lonely, and it yearned for reconciliation. Her scornful lip quivered, and there was a convulsive movement in her throat. "Go away!" she exclaimed, violently, as he approached to caress her. "I am as unhappy as I can be! O, if I had never seen you! Why do you come to torture me now?" This passion pleased Lysander: it was a sign that her spirit was breaking. He caught her in his arms, called her pet names, laughed, and kissed her. And this woman, after all, loved to be called pet names, and kissed. "Toby! you devil!" roared Lysander, "why don't you bring that bootjack?" The old negro stood behind the door, with the bootjack in his hand, furious, ready to hurl it at the captain's head. He hesitated a moment, then turned, discreetly, and flung it out of the kitchen window. "Ain't a bootjack nowars in de house, sar!" "Then come here yourself!" And the gay captain made a bootjack of the old negro. "Now shut up the house and go to bed!" he said, dismissing him with a kick. After Toby had retired, and Salina had wiped her eyes, and Lysander had got his feet comfortably installed in the old clergyman's slippers, the long-estranged couple grew affectionate and confidential. "Law, Sallie!" said the captain, caressingly, "we can be as happy as two pigs in clover!" And he proceeded to interpret, in plain prosaic detail, those blissful possibilities expressed by the choice poetic figure. It was evident to Salina that all his domestic plans were founded on the supposition that the slippers he had on were the dead man's shoes he had been waiting for. Was she shocked by this cold, atrocious spirit of calculation? At first she was; but since she had begun to pardon his faults, she could easily overlook that. She, who had lately been so spiteful and bitter, was now all charity towards this man. Even the image of her blind and aged father faded from her mind; even the pure and beautiful image of her sister grew dim; and the old, revivified attachment became supreme. Shall we condemn the weakness? Or shall we pity it, rather? So long her affections had been thwarted! So long she had carried that lonely and hungry heart! So long, like a starved, sick child, it had fretted and cried, till now, at last, nurture and warmth made it grateful and glad! A babe is a sacred thing; and so is love. But if you starve and beat them? Perhaps Salina's unhappiness of temper owed its development chiefly to this cause. No wonder, then, that we find her melancholy, morbid, unreasonable, and now so ready to cling again to this wretch, this scamp, her husband, forgiving all, forgetting all (for the moment at least), in the wild flood of love and tears that drowned the past. "O, yes! I do think we can be happy!" she said--"if you will only be kind and good to me! If not here, why, then, somewhere else; for place is of no consequence; all I want is love." "Ah!" said Lysander, knocking the ashes from his cigar, "but I have a fancy for this place! And what should we leave it for?" "Because--you know--there is no certainty--I believe father is alive yet, and well." "Not unless Toby lied to me!--Did he?" "Pshaw! you can't place any reliance on what Toby says!"--evasively. "But I tell you Pepperill confirms his report about the dead bodies in the ravine! Now, what do you know to the contrary?" Lysander appeared very much excited, and a quarrel was imminent. Salina dreaded a quarrel. She broke into a laugh. "The truth is, Toby did fool you. He couldn't help bragging to me about it." O Toby, Toby! that little innocent vanity of yours is destined to cost you, and others besides you, very dear! Lysander sprang upon his feet; his eyes sparkled with rage. Salina saw that it was now too late to keep the secret from him; there was no way but to tell him all. She showed Virginia's note. Virginia and her father alive and safe--that was what maddened Lysander! But where were they? Salina could not answer that question; for the most she had been able to get out of Toby was only a vague hint that they were hidden somewhere in a cave. "No matter!" said Lysander, with a diabolical laugh showing his clinched and tobacco-stained teeth. "I'll have the nigger licked! I'll have the truth out of him, or I'll have his life?" XXXII. _TOBY'S REWARD._ Filled with disgust and wrath, Toby had obeyed the man who assumed to be his master, and gone to bed. But he was scarcely asleep, when he felt somebody shaking him, and awoke to see bending over him, with smiling countenance, lamp in hand, Captain Lysander. "What's wantin', sar?" "I want you to do an errand for me, Toby," Lysander kindly replied. "Wal, sar, I don'o', sar," said Toby, reluctant, sitting up in bed and rubbing his elbows. "You know I had a right smart tramp. I's a tuckered-out nigger, sar; dat's de troof." "Yes, you had a hard time, Toby. But you'll just run over to the school-house for me, I know. That's a good fellow!" Toby hardly knew what to make of Lysander's extraordinarily persuasive and indulgent manner. He didn't know before that a Sprowl could smile so pleasantly, and behave so much like a gentleman. Then, the captain had called him a good fellow, and his African soul was not above flattery. Weary, sleepy as he was, he felt strongly inclined to get up out of his delicious bed, and go and do Lysander's errand. "You've only to hand this note to Lieutenant Ropes. And I'll give you something when you come back--something you don't get every day, Toby! Something you've deserved, and ought to have had long ago!" And Lysander, all smiles, patted the old servant's shoulder. This was too much for Toby. He laughed with pleasure, got up, pulled on his clothes, took the note, and started off with alacrity, to convince the captain that he merited all the good that was said of him, and that indefinite "something" besides. What could that something be? He thought of many things by the way: a dollar; a knife; a new pair of boots with red tops, such as Lysander himself wore;--which last item reminded him of the bootjack he had been used for, and the kick he had received. He stopped in the street, his wrath rising up again at the recollection. "Good mind ter go back, and not do his old arrant." But then he thought of the smiles and compliments, and the promised reward. "Somefin' kinder decent 'bout dat mis'ble Sprowl, 'long wid a heap o' mean tings, arter all!" And he started on again. Lysander's note was in these words:-- "Leiutent Ropes Send me with the bearrer of This 2 strappin felloes capble of doin a touhgh Job." This letter was duly signed, and duly delivered, and it brought the "2 strappin felloes." The internal evidence it bore, that Lysander had not pursued his studies at school half as earnestly as he had of late pursued the schoolmaster, made no difference with the result. The two strapping fellows returned with Toby. They were raw recruits, who had travelled a long distance on foot in order to enlist in the confederate ranks. They had an unmistakable foreign air. They called themselves Germans. They were brothers. "All right, Toby!" said Lysander, well pleased. "What are you bowing and grinning at me for? O, I was to give you something!" "If you please, sar," said Toby--wretched, deceived, cajoled, devoted Toby. "Well, you go to the woodshed and bring the clothes line for these fellows--to make a swing for the ladies, you know--then I'll tell you what you're to have." "Sartin, sar." And Toby ran for the clothes line. "Good old Toby! Now, what you have deserved so long, and what these stout Dutchmen will proceed to give you, is the damnedest licking you ever had in your life!" Toby almost fainted; falling upon his knees, and rolling up his eyes in consternation. Sprowl smiled. The "Dutchmen" grinned. Just then Salina darted into the room. "Lysander! what are you going to do with that old man?" She put the demand sharply, her short upper lip quivering, cheeks flushed, eyes flaming. "I'm going to have him whipped." "No, you are not. You promised me you wouldn't. You told me that if he would go to the Academy for you, and be respectful, you would forgive him. If I had known what you were sending for, he should never have left this house. Now send those men back, and let him go." "Not exactly, my lady. I am master in this house, whatever turns up. I am this nigger's master, too." "You are not; you never were. Toby has his freedom. He shall not be whipped!" And with a gesture of authority, and with a stamp of her foot, Salina placed herself between the kneeling old servant and the grinning brothers. Alas! this woman's dream of love and happiness had been brief, as all such dreams, false in their very nature, must ever be. She loved him well enough to concede much. She was not going to quarrel with him any more. To avoid a threatened quarrel, she betrayed Toby. But she was not heartless: she had a sense of justice, pride, temper, an impetuous will, not yet given over in perpetuity to the keeping of her husband. The captain laughed devilishly, and threw his arms about his wife (this time in no loving embrace), and seizing her wrists, held them, and nodded to the soldiers to begin their work. They laid hold of Toby, still kneeling and pleading, bound his arms behind him with the cord, and then looked calmly at Lysander for instructions. "Take him to the shed," said the captain. "One of you carry this light. You can string him up to a crossbeam. If you don't understand how that's done, I'll go and show you. He's to have twenty lashes to begin with, for lying to me. Then he's to be whipped till he tells where our escaped prisoners are hid in the mountains. You understand?" "Ve unterstan," said the brothers, coldly. Toby groaned. They took hold of him, and dragged him away. "Now will you behave, my girl? A pretty row you're making! Ye see it's no use. I am master. The nigger'll only get it the worse for your interference." Lysander looked insolently in his wife's face. It was livid. "Hey?" he said. "One of your tantrums?" He placed her on a chair. She was rigid; she did not speak; he would have thought she was in a fit but for the eyes which she never took off of him--eyes fixed with deep, unutterable, deadly, despairing hate. "I reckon you'll behave--you'd better!" he said, shaking his finger warningly at her as he retired backwards from the room. She saw the door close behind him. She did not move: her eyes were still fixed on that door: heavy and cold as stone, she sat there, and gazed, with that same look of unutterable hate. Perhaps five minutes. Then she heard blows and shrieks. Toby's shrieks: he had no Carl now to rush in and cut his bands. The twenty lashes for lying had been administered on the negro's bare back. Then Lysander put the question: Was he prepared to tell all he knew about the fugitives and the cave? "O, pardon, sar! pardon, sar!" the old man implored; "I can't tell nuffin', dat am de troof!" "Work away, boys," said Lysander. Was it supposed that the good old practice of applying torture to enforce confession had long since been done away with? A great mistake, my friend. Driven from that ancient stronghold of conservatism, the Spanish Inquisition, it found refuge in this modern stronghold of conservatism, American Slavery. Here the records of its deeds are written on many a back. But Toby was not a slave. No matter for that. For in the school of slavery, this is the lesson that soon or late is learned: Not simply that there are two castes, freeman and slave; two races, white and black; but that there are two great classes, the rich and the poor, the strong and the weak, the lord and the laborer, one born to rule, and the other to be ruled. All, who are not masters, are, or ought to be, slaves: black or white, it makes no difference; and the slave has no rights. This is the first principle of human slavery. This every slave society tends directly to develop. It may be kept carefully out of sight, but there it lurks, in the hardened hearts of men, like water within rocks. It is forever gushing up in little springs of despotism. Once it burst forth in a vast convulsive flood, and that was the Rebellion. Although Lysander had never owned a slave, he had all his life breathed the atmosphere of the institution, and imbibed its spirit. He hated labor. He was ambitious. But he was poor. Like a flying fish, he had forced himself out of the lower element of society, to which he naturally belonged, and had long desperately endeavored to soar. The struggle it had cost him to attain his present position rendered him all the more violent in his hatred of the inferior class, and all the more eager to enjoy the privileges of the aristocracy. Do not blame this man too much. The injustice, the cruelty, the atrocious selfishness he displays, do not belong so much to the individual as to the institution. The milk of this wolf makes the child it nourishes wolfish. Torture to the extent of ten lashes was applied; then once more the question was put. Gashed, bleeding, strung up by his thumbs to the crossbeam; every blow of the extemporized whips extorting from him a howl of agony; no rescue at hand; Lysander looking on with a merciless smile; the brothers doing their assigned work with merciless nonchalance; well might poor Toby cry out, in the wild insanity of pain,-- "Yes, sar! I'll tell, I'll tell, sar!" "Very good," said Lysander. "Let him breathe a minute, boys." But in that minute Toby gathered up his soul again, dismissed the traitor, Cowardice, and took counsel of his fidelity. Betray his good old master to these ruffians? Break his promise to Virginia, his oath to Cudjo and Pomp? No, he couldn't do that. He thought of Penn, who would certainly be hung if captured; and hung through his treachery! "Now, out with it," said Lysander. "All about the cave. And don't ye lie, for you'll have to go and show it to us when we're ready."' "I can't tell!" said Toby. "Dar ain't no cave! none't I knows about--dat's shore!" This was of course a downright lie; but it was told to save from ruin those he loved; and I do not think it stands charged against his soul on the books of the recording angel. "Ten more, boys," said Lysander. "O, wait, wait, sar!" shrieked Toby. "Des guv me time to tink!" He thought of ten lashes; ten more afterwards; and still another ten; for he knew that the whipping would not cease until either he betrayed the fugitives or died; and every lash was to him an agony. "Think quick," said Captain Sprowl. Just then the door, of the kitchen opened. Toby grasped wildly at that straw of hope. It broke instantly. The comer was Salina. She had had the power to betray him, but not the power to save. She stood with folded arms, and smiled. "I can't help you, Toby, but I can be revenged." "Hello!" cried Lysander, with a start. "What smoke is that?" She had left the door open, and a draught of air wafted a strange smell of burning cloth and pine wood to his nostrils. "Nothing," replied Salina, "only the house is afire." XXXIII. _CARL MAKES AN ENGAGEMENT._ Lysander looked in through the doors and saw flames. She had touched the lamp to the sitting-room curtains, and they had ignited the wood-work. "Your own house," he said, furiously. "What a fiend!" "It was my father's house until you took possession of it," she answered. "Now it shall burn." If he had not already considered that he had an interest at stake, that gentle remark reminded him. "Boys! come quick! By----! we must put out the fire!" He rushed into the kitchen. The German brothers had come to execute his commands: whether to flay a negro or extinguish a fire, was to them a matter of indifference; and they followed him, seizing pails. Salina was prepared for the emergency. She held a butcher-knife concealed under her folded arms. With this she cut the cords above Toby's thumbs. It was done in an instant. "Now, take this and run! If they go to take you, kill them!" She thrust the handle of the knife into his hand, and pushed him from the shed. Terrified, bewildered, weak, he seemed moving in a kind of nightmare. But somehow he got around the corner of the shed, and disappeared in the darkness. The brothers saw him go. They were drawing water at the well, and handing it to Lysander in the house. But they had been told to hand water, not to catch the negro. So they looked placidly at each other, and said nothing. The fire was soon extinguished; and Lysander, with his coat off, pail in hand, excited, turned and saw his "fiend" of a wife seated composedly in a chair, regarding him with a smile sarcastic and triumphant. He uttered a frightful oath. "Any more of your tantrums, and I'll kill you!" "Any more of yours," she replied, "and I'll burn you up. I can set fires faster than you can put them out. I don't care for the house any more than I care for my life, and that's precious little." By the tone in which she said these words, level, determined, distinct, with that spice which compressed fury lends, Captain Lysander Sprowl knew perfectly well that she meant them. The brothers looked at each other intelligently. One said something in German, which we may translate by the words "Incompatibility of temper;" and he smiled with dry humor. The other responded in the same tongue, and with a sleepy nod, glancing phlegmatically at Sprowl. What he said may be rendered by the phrase--"Caught a Tartar." Although Lysander did not understand the idiom, he seemed to be quite of the Teutonic opinion. He regarded Mrs. Sprowl with a sort of impotent rage. If he was reckless, she had shown herself more reckless. Though he was so desperate, she had outdone him in desperation. He saw plainly that if he touched her now, that touch must be kindness, or it must be death. "Have you let Toby go?" "Yes," replied Salina. "We can catch him," said Lysander. "If you do you will be sorry. I warn you in season." Since she said so, Lysander did not doubt but that it would be so. He concluded, therefore, not to catch Toby--that night. Moreover, he resolved to go back to his quarters and sleep. He was afraid of that wildcat; he dreaded the thought of trusting himself in the house with her. He durst not kill her, and he durst not go to sleep, leaving her alive. The Germans, perceiving his fear, looked at each other and grunted. That grunt was the German for "mean cuss." They saw through Lysander. After all were gone, Salina went out and called Toby. The old negro had fled for his life, and did not hear. She returned into the house, the aspect of which was rendered all the more desolate and drear by the marks of fire, the water that drenched the floor, the smoky atmosphere, and the dim and bluish lamp-light. The unhappy woman sat down in the lonely apartment, and thought of her brief dream of happiness, of this last quarrel which could never be made up, and of the hopeless, loveless, miserable future, until it seemed that the last drop of womanly blood in her veins was turned to gall. At the same hour, not many miles away, on a rude couch in a mountain cave, by her father's side, Virginia was tranquilly sleeping, and dreaming of angel visits. Across the entrance of the cavern, like an ogre keeping guard, Cudjo was stretched on a bed of skins. The fire, which rarely went out, illumined faintly the subterranean gloom. By its light came one, and looked at the old man and his child sleeping there, so peacefully, so innocently, side by side. The face of the father was solemn, white, and calm; that of the maiden, smiling and sweet. The heart of the young man yearned within him; his eyes, as they gazed, filled with tears; and his lips murmured with pure emotion,-- "O Lord, I thank thee for their sakes! O Lord, preserve them and bless them!" And he moved softly away, his whole soul suffused with ineffable tenderness towards that good old man and the dear, beautiful girl. He had stolen thither to see that all was well. All was indeed well. And now he retired once more to a recess in the rock, where he and Pomp had made their bed of blankets and dry moss. The footsteps on the solid floor of stone had not awakened her. And what was more remarkable, the lover's beating heart and worshipping gaze had not disturbed her slumber. But now the slightest movement on the part of her blind parent banishes sleep in an instant. "Daughter, are you here?" "I am here, father!" "Are you well, my child?" "O, very well! I have had such a sweet sleep! Can I do anything for you?" "Yes. Let me feel that you are near me. That is all." She kissed him. "Heaven is good to me!" he said. She watched him until he slept again. Then, her soul filled with thankfulness and peace, she closed her eyes once more, and happy thoughts became happy dreams. At about that time Salina threw herself despairingly upon her bed, at home, gnashing her teeth, and wishing she had never been born. And these two were sisters. And Salina had the house and all its comforts left to her, while Virginia had nothing of outward solace for her delicate nature but the rudest entertainment. So true it is that not place, and apparel, and pride make us happy, but piety, affection, and the disposition of the mind. The night passed, and morning dawned, and they who had slept awoke, and they who had not slept watched bitterly the quickening light which brought to them, not joy and refreshment, but only another phase of weariness and misery. Captain Lysander Sprowl was observed to be in a savage mood that day. The cares of married life did not agree with him: they do not with some people. Because Salina had baffled him, and Toby had escaped, his inferiors had to suffer. He was sharp even with Lieutenant Ropes, who came to report a fact of which he had received information. "Stackridge was in the village last night!" "What's that to me?" said Lysander. "The lieutenant-colonel--" whispered Silas. Sprowl grew attentive. By the lieutenant-colonel was meant no other person than Augustus Bythewood, who had received his commission the day before. Well might Lysander, at the mention of him to whom both these aspiring officers owed everything, bend a little and listen. Ropes proceeded. "He feels a cussed sight badder now he believes the gal is in a cave somewhars with the schoolmaster, than he did when he thought she was burnt up in the woods. He entirely approves of your conduct last night, and says Toby must be ketched, and the secret licked out of him. In the mean while he thinks sunthin' can be done with Stackridge's family. Stackridge was home last night, and of course his wife will know about the cave. The secret might be frightened out on her, or, I swear!" said Silas, "I wouldn't object to using a little of the same sort of coercion you tried with Toby; and Bythewood wouldn't nuther. Only, you understand, he musn't be supposed to know anything about it." Lysander's eyes gleamed. He showed his tobacco-stained teeth in a way that boded no good to any of the name of Stackridge. "Good idee?" said Silas, with a coarse and brutal grin. "Damned good!" said Lysander. Indeed, it just suited his ferocious mood. "Go yourself, lieutenant, and put it into execution." "There's one objection to that," replied Silas, thrusting a quid into his cheek. "I know the old woman so well. It's best that none of us in authority should be supposed to have a hand in't. Send somebody that don't know her, and that you can depend on to do the job up harnsome. How's them Dutchmen?" "Just the chaps!" said Lysander, growing good-natured as the pleasant idea of whipping a woman developed itself more and more to his appreciative mind. From flogging a slave, to flogging a free negro, the step is short and easy. From the familiar and long-established usage of beating slave-women, to the novel fashion of whipping the patriotic wives of Union men, the step is scarcely longer, or more difficult. Even the chivalrous Bythewood, who was certainly a gentleman in the common acceptation of the term, magnificently hospitable to his equals, gallant to excess among ladies worthy of his smiles,--yet who never interfered to prevent the flogging of slave-mothers on his estates,--saw nothing extraordinary or revolting in the idea of extorting a secret from a hated Union woman by means of the lash. To such gross appetites for cruelty as Ropes had cultivated, the thing relished hugely. The keen, malignant palate of Lysander tasted the flavor of a good joke in it. The project was freely discussed, and in the hilarity of their hearts the two officers let fall certain words, like crumbs from their table, which a miserable dog chanced to pick up. That miserable dog was Dan Pepperill, whose heart was so much bigger than his wit. He knew that mischief was meant towards Mrs. Stackridge. How could he warn her? The drums were already beating for company drill, and he despaired of doing anything to save her, when by good fortune--or is there something besides good fortune in such things?--he saw one of his children approaching. The little Pepperill came with a message from her mother. Dan heard it unheedingly, then whispered in the girl's ear,-- "Go and tell Mrs. Stackridge her and the childern's invited over to our house this forenoon. Right away now! Partic'lar reasons, tell her!" added Dan, reflecting that ladies in Mrs. Stackridge's station did not visit those in his wife's without particular reasons. The child ran away, and Pepperill fell into the ranks, only to get repeatedly and severely reprimanded by the drill-officer for his heedlessness that morning. He did everything awkwardly, if not altogether wrong. His mind was on the child and the errand on which he had sent her, and he kept wondering within himself whether she would do it correctly (children are so apt to do errands amiss!), and whether Mrs. Stackridge would be wise enough, or humble enough, to go quietly and give Mrs. P. a call. After company drill the brothers were summoned, and Lysander gave them secret orders. They were to visit Stackridge's house, seize Mrs. Stackridge and compel her, by blows if necessary, to tell where her husband was concealed. "You understand?" said the captain. "Ve unterstan," said they, dryly. Scarcely had the brothers departed, when a prisoner was brought in. It was Toby, who had been caught endeavoring to make his way up into the mountains. "Now we've got the nigger, mabby we'd better send and call the Dutchmen back," said Silas Ropes. "No, no!" said Lysander, through his teeth. "'Twon't do any harm to give the jade a good dressing down. I wish every man, woman, and child, that shrieks for the old rotten Union, could be served in the same way." Having set his heart on this little indulgence, Sprowl could not easily be persuaded to give it up. It was absolutely necessary to his peace of mind that somebody should be flogged. The interesting affair with Toby, which had been so abruptly broken off,--left, like a novelette in the newspapers, to be continued,--must be concluded in some shape: it mattered little upon whose flesh the final chapters were struck off. In the mean time the recaptured negro was taken to the guard-house. There he found a sympathizing companion. It was Carl. To him he told his story, and showed his wounds, the sight of which filled the heart of the lad with rage, and pity, and grief. "Vot sort of Tutchmen vos they?" Toby described them. Carl's eyes kindled. "I shouldn't be wery much susprised," said he, "if they vos--no matter!" Lieutenant Ropes arrived, bringing into the guard-house a formidable cat-o'-nine-tails. "String that nigger up," said Silas. Ropes was not the man to await patiently the issue of the woman-whipping, while here was a chance for a little private sport. He remembered how Toby had got away from him once--that he too owed him a flogging. Debts of this kind, if no others, Silas delighted to pay; and accordingly the negro was strung up. It was well for the lieutenant that Carl had irons on his wrists. The sound of the poor old man's groans,--the sight of his gashed, oozing, and inflamed back, bared again to the whip,--was to Carl unendurable. But as it was not in his power to obey the impulse of his soul, to spring for a musket and slay that monster of cruelty, Ropes, on the spot,--he must try other means, perhaps equally unwise and desperate, to save Toby from torture. "Vait, sir, if you please, vun leetle moment," he called out to Silas. "I have a vord or two to shpeak." He had as yet, however, scarcely made up his mind what to propose. A moment's reflection convinced him that only one thing could purchase Toby's reprieve; and perhaps even that would fail. Regardless of consequences to himself, he resolved to try it. "I know petter as he does about the cave; I vos there," he cried out, boldly. "Hey? You offer yourself to be whipped in this old nigger's place?" said Ropes. "Not wery much," replied Carl. "I can go mit you or anypody you vill send, and show vair the cave is. I remember. But if you vill have me whipped, I shouldn't be wery much surprised if that vould make me to forget. Whippins," he added, significantly, "is wery pad for the memory." "You mean to say, if you are licked, then you won't tell?" "That ish the idea I vished to conwey." "We'll see about that." Silas laughed. "In the mean time we'll try what can be got out of this nigger." Toby, who had had a gleam of hope, now fell again into despair. Just then Captain Sprowl came in. "Hold! What are you doing with that nigger?" Silas explained, and Carl repeated his proposal. Lysander caught eagerly at it. He remembered Salina's warning, and was glad of any excuse to liberate the old negro. "You promise to take me to the cave?" Carl assented. "Why, then, lieutenant, that's all we want, and I order this boy to be set free." "This boy" was Toby, who was accordingly let off, to his own inexpressible joy and Ropes's infinite disgust. "If Carl he take de responsumbility to show de cave, dat ain't my fault. 'Sides, dat boy am bright, he am; de secesh can't git much de start o' him!" Thus the old negro congratulated himself on his way home. At the same time Carl, still in irons, was saying to himself,-- "So far so goot. If they had whipped Toby, two things vould be wery pad--the whipping, for one, and he would have told, for another. But I have made vun promise. It vas a pad promise, and a pad promise is petter proken as kept. But if I preak it, they vill preak my head. Vot shall I do? Now let me see!" said Carl. And he remained plunged in thought. XXXIV. _CAPTAIN LYSANDER'S JOKE._ Since the time when she lost her best feather-bed and her boarder, the worthy widow Sprowl had suffered serious pecuniary embarrassment. She missed sadly the regular four dollars a week, and the irregular gratuities, she had received from Penn. So much secession had cost her, without yielding as yet any of its promised benefits. The Yankees had not stepped up with the alacrity expected of them, and thrust their servile necks into the yoke of their natural masters. The slave trade was not reopened. Niggers were not yet so cheap that every poor widow could, at a trifling expense, provide herself with several, and grow rich on their labor. In the pride of seeing her son made what she called a "capting," and in the hope of enjoying some of the golden fruits of his valor, she had given him her last penny, and received up to the present time not a penny from him in return. In short, Lysander was ungrateful, and the widow was a disappointed woman. So it happened that the sugar-bowl and tea-canister were often empty, and the poor widow had no legitimate means of replenishing them. In this extremity she resorted to borrowing. She borrowed of everybody, and never repaid. She borrowed even of the hated Unionists in the neighborhood, and confessed with bitterness to her son that she found them more ready to lend to her than the families of secessionists. Again, on the morning of the events related in the last chapter, she found herself in want of many things--tea, sugar, meal, beans, potatoes, snuff, and tobacco; for this excellent woman snuffed, "dipped," and smoked. "Where shall I go and borry to-day?" said she, counting her patrons, and the number of times she had been to borrow of each, on her fingers. "Thar's Mis' Stackridge. I hain't been to her but oncet. I'll go agin, and carry the big basket." With her basket on her arm, and an ancient brown bonnet (which had been black at the time of the demise of the late lamented Sprowl,) on her head, and a multitude of excuses on her tongue, she set out, and walked to the farmer's house. This had one of those great, shed-like openings through it, so common in Tennessee. A door on the left, as you entered this covered space, led to the kitchen and living-room of the family. Here the widow knocked. There was no response. She knocked again, with the same result. Then she pulled the latch-string--for the door even of this well-to-do farmer had a latch-string. She entered. The house was deserted. "Ain't to home, none of 'em, hey?" said the widow, peering about her with a disagreeable scowl. "House wan't locked, nuther. Wonder if Mis' Stackridge and the childern have gone to the mountains too? And whar's old Aunt Deb?" Her first feeling was that of resentment. What right had Mrs. Stackridge to be absent when she came to borrow? As she explored the pantry and closets, however, and became convinced that she was absolutely alone in a well-provisioned farm-house, her countenance lighted up with a smile. "I can borry what I want jest exac'ly as well as if Mis' Stackridge war to home," thought the widow. And she proceeded to fill her basket. She helped herself to a pan of meal, borrowing the pan with it. "I'll fetch home the pan," said she, "when I do the meal,"--exposing her craggy teeth with a grim smile. "If I don't before, I'm a feared Mis' Stackridge'll haf to wait for't a considerable spell! What's in this box? Coffee! May as well take box and all. Bring back the box when I do the coffee. Wish I could find some tobacky somewhars--wonder whar they keep their tobacky!" Now, the excellent creature did not indulge in these liberties without some apprehension that Mrs. Stackridge might return suddenly and interrupt them. Perhaps she had not followed Mr. Stackridge to the mountains. Perhaps she had only gone into the village to buy shoes for her children, or to call on a neighbor. "If she should come back and ketch me at it,--why, then, I'll tell her I'm only jest a borryin', and see what she'll do about it. The prop'ty of these yer durned Union-shriekers is all gwine to be confisticated, and I reckon I may as well take my sheer when I can git it. Thar's a paper o' black pepper, and I'll take it jest as 'tis. Thar's a jar o' lump butter,--wish I could tote jar and all!--have some of the lumps on a plate anyhow!" She had soon filled her basket, and was regretting she had not brought two, or a larger one, when a handsome, new tin pail, hanging in the pantry, caught her eye. "Been wantin' jest sich a pail as that, this long while!" And she proceeded to fill that also. Just as she was putting the cover on, she was very much startled by hearing footsteps at the door. "O, dear me! What shall I do? If it should be Mr. Stackridge! But it can't be him! If it's only Mis' Stackridge or one of the niggers, I'll face it out! They won't das' to make a fuss, for they're Union-shriekers, and my son's a capting in the confederate army!" Thump, thump, thump!--loud knocking at the door. "My, it's visitors! Who can it be?" She set down her pail and basket. "I'll act jest as if I had a right here, anyhow!" She was hesitating, when the string was pulled, and two strangers, stout, square built, with foreign looking faces, carrying muskets, and dressed in confederate uniform, entered. "Mrs. Stackridge?" said they, in a heavy Teutonic accent. "Ye--ye--yes--" stammered the widow, trying to hide the guilty basket and pail behind her skirts. "What do you want of Mis' Stackridge?" One of the strangers said to the other, in German, indicating the plunder,-- "This is the woman. She is getting provisions ready to send to her husband in the mountains." "Let us see what there is good to eat," said the other. Mrs. Sprowl, although understanding no word that was spoken, perceived that the borrowed property formed the theme of their remarks. "Have some?" she hastened to say, with extreme politeness, as the Germans approached the provisions. "Tank ye," said they, finding some bread and cold meat. And they ate with appetite, exchanging glances, and grunting with satisfaction. "O, take all you want!" said the widow. "You're welcome to anything there is in the house, I'm shore!"--adding, within herself, "I am so glad these soldiers have come! Now, whatever is missing will be laid to them." "You de lady of de house?" said the foreigners, munching. "Yes, help yourselves!" smiled the hospitable widow. "You Mrs. Stackridge?" they inquired, more particularly. "Yes; take anything you like!" replied the widow. "Where your husband?" "My husband! my poor dear husband! he has been dead these----" She checked herself, remembering that the soldiers took her for Mrs. Stackridge. If she undeceived them, then they would know she had been stealing. "Dead?" The Germans shook their heads and smiled. "No! He was here last night. He was seen. You take dese tings to him up in de mountain." "Would you like some cheese?" said the embarrassed widow. "Tank ye. Dis is better as rations." Mrs. Sprowl returned to the pantry, in order to replace the provisions she had so generously given away, and prepared to depart with the basket and pail; inviting the guests repeatedly to make themselves quite at home, and to take whatever they could find. "Wait!" said they. Each had a knee on the floor, and one hand full of bread and cheese. They looked up at her with broad, complacent, unctuous faces, smiling, yet resolute. And one, with his unoccupied hand, laid hold of the handle of the basket, while the other detained the pail. "You will tell us where is your husband," said they. "O, dear me, I don't know! I'm a poor lone woman, and where my husband is I can't consaive, I'm shore!" "You will tell us where is your husband," repeated the men; and one of them, getting upon his feet, stood before her at the door. "He's on the mountain somewhars. I don't know whar, and I don't keer," cried the widow, excited. There was something in the stolid, determined looks of the brothers she did not like. "He's a bad man, Mr. Stackridge is! I'm a secessionist myself. You are welcome to everything in the house--only let me go now." "You will not go," said the soldier at the door, "till you tell us. We come for dat." On entering, they had placed their muskets in the corner. The speaker took them, and handed one to his comrade. And now the widow observed that out of the muzzle of each protruded the butt-end of a small cowhide. Each soldier held his gun at his side, and laying hold of the said butt-end, drew out the long taper belly and dangling lash of the whip, like a black snake by the neck. The widow screamed. "It's all a mistake. Let me go! I ain't Mis' Stackridge" Nothing so natural as that the wife of the notorious Unionist should deny her identity at sight of the whips. The soldiers looked at each other, muttered something in German, smiled, and replaced their muskets in the corner. "You tell us where is your husband. Or else we whip you. Dat is our orders." This they said in low tones, with mild looks, and with a calmness which was frightful. The widow saw that she had to do with men who obeyed orders literally, and knew no mercy. "I hain't got no husband. I ain't Mis' Stackridge. I'm a poor lone widder, that jest come over here to borry a few things, and that's all." "Ve unterstan. You say shust now you are Mrs. Stackridge. Now you say not. Dat make no difruns. Ve know. You tell us where is your husband, or ve string you up." This speech was pronounced by both the foreigners, a sentence by each, alternately. At the conclusion one drew a strong cord from his pocket, while the other looked with satisfaction at certain hooks in the plastering overhead, designed originally for the support of a kitchen pole, but now destined for another use. "Don't you dast to tech me!" screamed the false Mrs. Stackridge. "I'm a secessionist myself, that hates the Union-shriekers wus'n you do, and I've got a son that's a capting, and a poor lone widder at that!" "Dat we don't know. What we know is, you tell what we say, or we whip you. Dat's Captain Shprowl's orders." "Capting Sprowl! That's my son! my own son! If he sent you, then it's all right!" "So we tink. All right." And the soldiers, seizing her, tied her thumbs as Lysander had taught them, passed the cords over the hook as they had passed the clothesline over the crossbeam the night before, and drew the shrieking woman's hands above her head, precisely as they had hauled up Toby's. They then turned her skirts up over her head, and fastened them. This also they had been instructed to do by Lysander. It was, you will say, shameful; for this woman was free and white. Had she been a slave, with a different complexion, although perhaps quite as white, would it have been any the less shameful? Answer, ye believers in the divine rights of slave-masters! "Now you vill tell?" said the phlegmatic Teutons, measuring out their whips. "Go for my son! My son is Capting Sprowl!" gasped the stifled and terror-stricken widow. "Dat trick won't do. You shpeak, or we shtrike." "It is true, it is true! I am Mrs. Sprowl, and my husband is dead, and my son is Capting Sprowl, and a poor lone widder, that if you strike her a single blow he'll have you took and hung!" "If he is your son, den by your own son's orders we whip you. He vill not hang us for dat. You vill not tell? Den we give you ten lash." Blow upon blow, shriek upon shriek, followed. The soldiers counted the strokes aloud, deliberately, conscientiously, as they gave them, "Vun, two, tree," &c, up to ten. There they stopped. But the screams did not stop. This punishment, which it was sport to inflict upon a faithful old negro, which it would have been such a good joke to have bestowed upon the wife of a stanch Unionist, was no sport, no joke, but altogether a tragic affair to thy mother, O Lysander! Then she, who had so often wished that she too owned slaves, that when she was angry she might have them strung up and flogged, knew by fearful experience what it was to be strung up and flogged. Then she, who sympathized with her son in his desire to see every man, woman, and child, that loved the old Union, served in this fashion, felt in her own writhing and bleeding flesh the stings of that inhuman vengeance. Terrible blunder, for which she had only herself to thank! Robbery of her neighbor's house--the dishonest "borrowing," not of these ill-gotten goods only, but also of her neighbor's name--had brought her, by what we call fatality, to this strait. Fatality is but another name for Providence. The soldiers waited for a lull in the shrieks, then put once more the question. "You tell now? Where is your husband? No? Den you git ten lash more. Always ten lash till you tell." A storm of incoherent denial, angry threats, sobs, and screams, was the response. One of the soldiers drew her skirts over her head again, and gave another pull at the cords that hauled up her thumbs, while the other stood off and measured out his whip. Just then the door opened, and Captain Sprowl looked in. "How are you getting on, boys?" The question was accompanied by an approving smile, which seemed to say, "I see you are getting on very well." "We whip her once. We give her ten lash. She not tell." "Very well. Give her ten more." The widow struggled and screamed. Had she recognized her son's voice? Muffled as she was, he did not recognize hers. Nor was it surprising that, in the unusual posture in which he found her, he did not know her from Mrs. Stackridge. He stood in the door and smiled while the soldier laid on. "Make it a dozen," he quietly remarked. "And smart ones, to wind up with!" So it happened that, thanks to her son's presence, the screeching victim got two "smart ones" additional. "Now uncover her face. Ease away on her thumbs a little. I'll question her mys--Good Lucifer!" exclaimed the captain, finding himself face to face with his own mother. Twenty-two lashes and the torture of the strung-up thumbs had proved too much even for the strong nerves of Widow Sprowl. She fell down in a swoon. Lysander, furious, whipped out his sword, and turned upon the soldiers. They quietly stepped back, and took their guns from the corner. He would certainly have killed one of them on the spot had he not seen by the glance of their eyes that the other would, at the same instant, as certainly have killed him. "You scoundrels! you have whipped my own mother!" "Captain," they calmly answered, "we opey orders." "Fools!"--and Lysander ground his teeth,--"you should have known!" "Captain," they replied, "if you not know, how should we know? We never see dis woman pefore. We come. We find her taking prowisions from de house. We say, 'She take dem to her husband in de mountains.' We say, 'You Mrs. Stackridge?' She say yes to everyting. We not know she lie. We not know she steal. We not say, 'You somepody else.' We opey orders. We take and we whip her. You come in and say, 'Whip more.' We whip more. Now you say to us, 'Scoundrels!' You say, 'Fools!' We say, 'Captain, it was your orders; we opey.'" Having by a joint effort at sententious English pronounced this speech, the brothers stood stolidly awaiting the result; while the captain, still gnashing his teeth, bent over the prostrate form of his mother. "Bring some water and throw on her! you idiots!" he yelled at them. "Would you see her die?" They looked at each other. "Water?" Yes, that was what was wanted. They remembered their practice of the previous evening. One found a wooden pail. The other emptied upon the floor the contents of the tin pail the widow had "borrowed." They went to the well. They brought water. "To throw on her?" Yes, that was what he said. And together they dashed a sudden drenching flood over the poor woman, as if the swoon were another fire to be extinguished. These fellows obeyed orders literally--a merit which Lysander now failed to appreciate. He swore at them terribly. But he did not countermand his last order. Accordingly they proceeded stoically to bring more water. Lysander had got his mothers head on his knee, and she had just opened her eyes to look and her mouth to gasp, when there came another double ice-cold wave, blinding, stifling, drowning her. Too much of water hadst thou, poor lone widow! Lysander let fall the maternal head, and bounded to his feet, roaring with wrath. The brothers, imperturbable, with the empty pails at their sides, stared at him with mute wonder. "Captain, dat was your orders. You say, 'Pring vasser and trow on.' We pring vasser and trow on. Dat is all." "But I didn't tell you to fetch pailfuls!" This sentence rushed out of Lysander's soul like a rocket, culminated in a loud, explosive oath, and was followed by a shower of fiery curses falling harmless on the heads of the unmoved Teutons. They waited patiently until the pyrotechnic rain ceased, then answered, speaking alternately, each a sentence, as if with one mind, but with two organs. "Captain, you hear. Last night vas de house afire. You say, 'Pring vasser.' We pring a little. Den you say to us, 'Tarn you! why in hell you shtop?' And you say, 'Von I tell you pring vasser, pring till I say shtop.' Vun time more to-day you say, 'Pring vasser,' and you never say shtop. You say, 'Trow on.' We trow on. Vat you say we do. You not say vat you mean, dat is mishtake for you." It is not to be supposed that Lysander listened meekly to the end of this speech. He had caught the sound of voices without that interested him more; and, looking, he saw Mrs. Stackridge returning, with her children. The Pepperill young-one had faithfully done her errand; and the farmer's wife, believing something important was meant by it, had hastened to accept the singular and urgent invitation. But, arrived at the poor man's shanty, she was astonished to find Mrs. Pepperill astonished to see her. They talked the matter over, questioned the child, and finally concluded that Daniel had said something quite different, which the child had misunderstood. "Well," said Mrs. Stackridge, after sitting a-while, "I reckon I may as well be going back, for I've left only old Aunt Deb to home, and she's scar't to death to be left alone these times; thinks the secesh soldiers'll kill her. But I tell her not to be afeared of 'em. I ain't!" So this woman, little knowing how much real cause she had to be afraid, returned home with her family. When near the house she met Gaff and Jake, negroes belonging to the farm, who had been in the field at work, running towards her, in great terror, declaring that they heard somebody killing Aunt Deb. "Nonsense!" said she; and in spite of their assurances and entreaties, she marched straight towards the door through which the captain saw her coming. "Clear out!" said Lysander to the soldiers. "Go to your quarters. I'll have your case attended to!" This was spoken very threateningly. Then, as soon as they were out of hearing, he said to Mrs. Stackridge, "I'm sorry to say a couple of my men have been plundering your house. Them Dutchmen you just saw go out. Worse, than that, my mother was going by, and she came in to save your stuff, and they, it seems, took her for you, and beat her. You see, they have beat her most to death," said Lysander. "Lordy massy!" said Mrs. Stackridge. "Do help me! do take off my clo'es! a poor lone widder!" faintly moaned Mrs. Sprowl. "When I got here," added the captain, "she had fainted, and they had used her basket to pack things in, as you see, and filled this pail, which they emptied afterwards, so as to bring water and fetch her to. Scoundrels! I'm glad they ain't native-born southerners!" "And where is Aunt Deb?" said Mrs. Stackridge, hastening to raise the widow up. "I dono'; I hain't seen her. O, dear, them villains!" groaned Mrs. Sprowl. "I was just comin' over to borry a few things, you know." "Going by; she wasn't coming here," said Lysander. "Going by," repeated the widow. "O, shall I ever git over it! O, dear me, I'm all cut to pieces! A poor forlorn widder, and my only son--O, dear!" "Her only son," cried Lysander in a loud voice, "couldn't get here in time to prevent the outrage. That's what she wants to say. I leave her in your care, Mrs. Stackridge. She was doing a neighborly thing for you when she came in to stop the pillaging, and I'm sure you'll do as much for her." And the captain retired, his appetite for woman-whipping cloyed for the present. "Where is Aunt Deb?" repeated Mrs. Stackridge. "Aunt Deb!" she called, "where are you? I want you this minute!" "Here I is!" answered a voice from heaven, or at least from that direction. It was the voice of the old negress, who had hid herself in the chambers, and now spoke through a stove-pipe hole from which she had observed all that was passing from the time when the widow entered with her empty basket. XXXV. _THE MOONLIGHT EXPEDITION._ Toby had been released. Mrs. Stackridge had been whipped by proxy, and had kept her husband's secret. Gad, the spy, was still unaccountably absent. These three sources of information were, therefore, for the time, considered closed; and it was determined to have recourse to the fourth, namely, Carl. Here it should, perhaps, be explained that the confederate government, informed of the position of armed resistance assumed by the little band of patriots, had immediately telegraphed orders to recapture the insurgents. Among the Union-loving mountaineers of East Tennessee the mutterings of a threatened rebellion against the new despotism had long been heard, and it was deemed expedient to suppress at once this outbreak. "Try the ringleaders by drum-head court-martial, and, if guilty, hang them on the spot," said a second despatch. These instructions were purposely made public, in order to strike terror among the Unionists. They were discussed by the soldiers, and reached the ears of Carl. "Hang them on the spot." That meant Stackridge and Penn, and he knew not how many more. "And I," said Carl, "have agreed to show the vay to the cave." He was sweating fearfully over the dilemma in which he had placed himself, when a sergeant and two men came to conduct him to head-quarters. "Now it begins," said Carl to himself, drawing a deep breath. The irons remained on his wrists. In this plight he was brought into the presence of the red-faced colonel. "I hate a damned Dutchman!" said Lysander, who happened to be at head-quarters. He had had experience, and his prejudice was natural. The colonel poised his cigar, and regarded Carl sternly. The boy's heart throbbed anxiously, and he was afraid that he looked pale. Nevertheless, he stood calmly erect on his sturdy young legs, and answered the officer's frown with an expression of placid and innocent wonder. "Your name is Carl," said the colonel. "I sushpect that is true," replied Carl, on his guard against making inadvertent admissions. "Carl what?" "Minnevich." "Minny-fish? That's a scaly name. And they say you are a scaly fellow. What have you got those bracelets on for?" "That is vat I should pe wery much glad to find out," said Carl, affectionately regarding his handcuffs. "You are the fellow that enlisted to save the schoolmaster's neck, ain't you?" "I suppose that is true too." "Suppose? Don't you know?" "I thought I knowed, for you told me so; but as they vas hunting for him aftervards to hang him, I vas conwinced I vas mishtaken." This quiet reply, delivered in the lad's quaint style, with perfect deliberation, and with a countenance shining with simplicity, was in effect a keen thrust at the perfidy of the confederate officers. The colonel's face became a shade redder, if possible, and he frowningly exclaimed,-- "And so you deserted!" "That," said Carl, "ish not quite so true." "What! you deny the fact?" "I peg your pardon, it ish not a fact. I vas took prisoner." "And do you maintain that you did not go willingly?" "I don't know just vat you mean by villingly. Ven vun of them fellows puts his muzzle to my head and says, 'You come mit us, and make no noise or I plow out your prains,' I vas prewailed upon to go. I vas more villing to go as I vas to have my prains spilt. If that is vat you mean by villing, I vas villing." "Why did they take you prisoner?" "Pecause. I vill tell you. Gad vas shleeping like thunder: you know vat I mean--shnoring. Nothing could make him vake up; so they let him shnore. But I vake up, and they say, I suppose, they must kill me or take me off, for if I vas left pehind I vould raise the alarm too soon." "Well, where did they take you?" Carl was silent a moment, then looking Colonel Derring full in the face, he said earnestly,-- "They make me shwear I vould not tell." "Minny-fish," said the colonel, "this won't do. The secret is out, and it is too late for you to try to keep it back. Toby betrayed it. Mrs. Stackridge has been arrested, and she has confessed that her husband and his friends are hid in a cave. We sent out a scout, who has come in and corroborated both their statements. Gad discovered the cave; but he has sprained his ankle. He describes the spot accurately, but he's too lame to climb the hills again. What we want is a guide to go in his place. Now, Minny-fish, here's a chance for you to earn a pardon, and prove your loyalty. You promised Captain Sprowl, did you not, that you would conduct him to the cave?" Carl, overwhelmed by the colonel's confident assertions, breathed a moment, then replied,-- "I pelieve I vas making him some promise." "Notwithstanding your oath that you would not tell?" said Lysander, eager to cross and corner him. "To show the vay, that is not to tell," replied Carl. "I shwore I vould not tell, and I shall not tell. But if you vill go mit me to the cave, I vill go mit you and take you. Then I keep my promise to you and my oath to them. You see, I did not shwear not to take you," he added, with a smile. With a smile on his face, but with profound perturbations of the soul. For he saw himself sinking deeper and deeper into this miry difficulty, and how he was to extricate himself without dragging his friends down, was still a terrible enigma. "I believe the boy is honest," said Derring. "Sergeant, have those irons taken off. Captain Sprowl, you will manage the affair, and take this boy as your guide. I advise you to trust him. But until he has thoroughly proved his honesty, keep a careful eye on him, and if you become convinced that he is deceiving you, shoot him down on the spot. I say, shoot him on the spot," repeated the colonel, impressively. "You both understand that. Do you, Minny-fish?" "I vas never shot," said Carl, "but I sushpect I know vat shooting is." And he smiled again, with trouble in his heart, that would have quite disconcerted a youth of less nerve and phlegm. "Well," said Captain Sprowl, "if you don't, you will know, if you undertake to play any of your Dutch tricks with me!" "O, sir!" said Carl, humbly, "if I knowed any trick I vouldn't ever think of playing it on you, you are so wery shmart!" "How do you know I am?" said Lysander, who felt flattered, and thought it would be interesting to hear the lad's reasons; for neither he, nor any one present, had perceived the craft and sarcasm concealed under that simple, earnest manner. "How do I know you are shmart? Pecause," replied Carl, "you have such a pig head. And such a pig nose. And such a pig mouth. That shows you are a pig man." This was said with an air of intense seriousness, which never changed amid the peals of laughter that followed. Nobody suspected Carl of an intentional joke; and the round-eyed innocent surprise with which he regarded the merriment added hugely to the humor of it. Everybody laughed except Lysander, who only grimaced a little to disguise his chagrin. This upstart officer was greatly disliked for his conceited ways, and it was not long before the "Dutch boy's compliments" became the joke of the camp, and wherever Lysander appeared some whisper was sure to be heard concerning either the "pig mouth," or "pig nose," of that truly "pig man." As for Carl, he had something far more serious to do than to laugh. How to circumvent the designs of these men? That was the question. In the first place, it is necessary to state that his conscience acquitted him entirely of all obligations to them or their cause. He was no secessionist. He had enlisted to save his benefactor and friend. He had said, "I will give you my services if you will give that man his life." They had immediately afterwards broken the contract by seeking to kill his friend, and he felt that he no longer owed them anything. But they held _him_ by force, against which he had no weapon but his own good wit. This, therefore, he determined to use, if possible, to their discomfiture, and the salvation of those to whom he owed everything. But how? He had saved Toby from torture and confession by promising what he never intended literally to perform. Once more in the guard-house, retained a prisoner until wanted as a guide, he reasoned with himself thus:-- "If I do not go, then they vill make Gad go, lame or no lame, and he vill not be half so lucky to show the wrong road as I can be;"--for Carl never suspected that what had been said with regard to Mrs. Stackridge's arrest and confession, and Gad's successful reconnoissance and return, was all a lie framed to induce him to undertake this very thing. "And if I did not make pelieve I vas villing to go, then they vould not give me my hands free, and some chances for myself. I think there vill be some chances. But Sprowl is to watch, and be ready to shoot me down?" He shook his head dubiously, and added, "That is vat I do not like quite so vell!" He remained in a deep study until dusk. Then Captain Sprowl appeared, and said to him,-- "Come! you are to go with me." Carl's heart gave a great bound; but he answered with an air of indifference,-- "To-night?" "Yes. At once. Stir!" "I have not quite finished my supper; but I can put some of it in my pockets, and be eating on the road." And he added to himself, "I am glad it is in the night, for that vill be a wery good excuse if I should be so misfortunate as not to find the cave!" "Here," said Lysander, imperiously, giving him a twist and push,--"march before me! And fast! Now, not a word unless you are spoken to; and don't you dodge unless you want a shot." Thus instructed, Carl led the way. He did not speak, and he did not dodge. One circumstance overjoyed him. He saw no signs of a military expedition on foot. Was Lysander going alone with him to the mountains? "I sushpect I can find some trick for him, shmart as he is!" thought Carl. They left the town behind them. They took to the fields; they entered the shadow of the mountains, the western sky above whose tops was yet silvery bright with the shining wake of the sunset. A few faint stars were visible, and just a glimmer of moonlight was becoming apparent in the still twilight gloom. "We are going to have a quiet little adwenture together!" chuckled Carl. One thing was singular, however. Lysander did not tamely follow his lead: on the contrary, he directed him where to go; and Carl saw, to his dismay, that they were proceeding in a very direct route towards the cave. "Never mind! Ven ve come to some conwenient place maybe something vill happen," he said consolingly to himself. Then suddenly consternation met him, as it were face to face. The enigma was solved. From the crest of a knoll over which Lysander drove him like a lamb, he saw, lying on the ground in a little glen before them, the dark forms of some forty men. One of these rose to his feet and advanced to meet Lysander. It was Silas Ropes. "All ready?" said Sprowl. "Ready and waiting," said Silas. "Well, push on," said the captain. "We'll go to the dead bodies in the ravine first. Where's Pepperill?" "Here," replied Ropes; and at a summons Dan appeared. Carl's heart sank within him. Toby in the guard-house had told him about the dead bodies, and he knew that they were not far from the cave. He was aware, too, that Pepperill knew far more than one of such shallow mental resources and feeble will, wearing that uniform, and now in the power of these men, ought to know. There in the little moonlit glen they met and exchanged glances--the sturdy, calm-faced boy, and the weak-kneed, trembling man. Pepperill had not recovered from the terror with which he had been inspired, when summoned to guide a reconnoitring party to the ravine. But he had not yet lisped a syllable of what he knew concerning the cave. Carl gave him a look, and turned his eyes away again indifferently. That look said, "Be wery careful, Dan, and leave a good deal to me." And Dan, man as he was, felt somehow encouraged and strengthened by the presence of this boy. "Now, Pepperill," said Sprowl, "can you move ahead and make no mistake?" "I kin try," answered Pepperill, dismally. "But it's a heap harder to find the way in the night so; durned if 'tain't!" "None o' that, now, Dan," said Ropes, "or you'll git sunthin' to put sperrit inter ye!" Dan made no reply, but shivered. The mountain air was chill, the prospect dreary. Close by, the woods, blackened by the recent fire, lay shadowy and spectral in the moon. Far above, the dim summits towards which their course lay whitened silently. There was no noise but the low murmur of these men, bent on bloody purposes. No wonder Dan's teeth chattered. As for Carl, he killed a mosquito on his cheek, and smiled triumphantly. "You got a shlap, you warmint!" he said, as if he had no other care on his mind than the insect's slaughter. "Who told you to speak?" said Lysander sharply. "Vas that shpeaking?" Carl scratched his cheek complacently. "I vas only making a little obserwation to the mosquito." "Well, keep your observations to yourself!" "That is vat I vill try to do." The order to march was given. Lysander proceeded a few paces in advance, accompanied by Ropes and the two guides. The troops followed in silence, with dull, irregular tramp, filing through obscure hollows, over barren ridges crowned by a few thistles and mulleins, and by the edges of thickets which the fires had not reached. At length they came to a tract of the burned woods. The word "halt!" was whispered. The sound of tramping feet was suddenly hushed, and the slender column of troops, winding like a dark serpent up the side of the mountain, became motionless. "All right so far, Pepperill?" "Wal, I hain't made nary mistake yet, cap'm." Pepperill recognized the woods in which, when flying to the cave with Virginia, Penn, and Cudjo, they had found themselves surrounded by fires. "How far is it now to your ravine?" "Nigh on to half a mile, I reckon." "Shall we go through these woods?" "It's the nighest to go through 'em. But I s'pose we can git around if we try." "The moon sets early. We'd better take the nearest way," said the captain. "Well, Dutchy,"--for the first time deigning to consult Carl,--"this route is taking us to the cave, too, ain't it?" "Wery certain," said Carl, "prowided you go far enough, and turn often enough, and never lose the vay." "That'll be your risk, Dutchy. Look out for the landmarks, so that when Pepperill stops you can keep on." "I vill look out, but if they have all been purnt up since I vas here, how wery wexing!" This wood had been but partially consumed when the flames were checked by the rain. Many trunks were still standing, naked, charred, stretching their black despairing arms to the moon. The shadows of these ghostly trees slanted along the silent field of desolation, or lay entangled with the dark logs and limbs of trees which had fallen, and from which, at short distances, they were scarcely distinguishable. Here and there smouldered a heap of rubbish, its pallid smoke rising noiselessly in the bluish light. There were heaps of ashes still hot; half-burned brands sparkled in the darkness; and now and then a stump or branch emitted a still bright flame. Through this scene of blackness and ruin, rendered gloomily picturesque by the moonlight, the men picked their way. Not a word was spoken; but occasionally a muttered curse told that some ill-protected foot had come in contact with live cinders, or that some unlucky leg had slumped down into one of those mines of fire, formed by roots of old dead stumps, eaten slowly away to ashes under ground. Carl had hoped that the woods would prove impassable, and that the party would be compelled to turn back. That would gain for him time and opportunity. But the men pushed on. "Vill nothing happen?" he said to himself, in despair at seeing how directly they were travelling towards the cave. The burned tract was not extensive, and he soon saw, glimmering through the blackened columns, the clear moonlight on the slopes above. Pepperill, not daring to assume the responsibility of misleading the party, knew no better than to go stumbling straight on. "I vish he would shtumple and preak his shtupid neck!" thought Carl. They emerged from the burned woods, and came out upon the ledges beyond; and now the lad saw plainly where they were. On the left, the deep and quiet gulf of shadow was the ravine. They had but to follow this up, he knew not just how far, to reach the cave. And still Pepperill advanced. Carl's heart contracted. He knew that the critical moment of the night, for him and for his fugitive friends, was now at hand. "Do you see any landmarks yet?" Sprowl whispered to him. "I can almost see some," answered Carl, peering earnestly over a moonlit bushy space. "Ve shall pe coming to them py and py." "Do you know this ravine?" "I remember some rawines. I shouldn't be wery much surprised if this vas vun of 'em." "Look here," said Lysander. Carl looked, and saw a pistol-barrel. "Understand?"--significantly. "Is it for me?"' And Carl extended his hand ingenuously. "For you?--yes." But instead of giving the weapon to the boy, he returned it to his pocket, with a smile the boy did not like. "Ah, yes! a goot joke!" And Carl smiled too, his good-humored face beaming in the moon. At the same time he said to himself, "He hates me pecause I am Hapgood's friend; and he vill be much pleased to have cause to shoot me." Just then Dan stopped. Lysander put up his hand as a signal. The troops halted. "It's somewhars down in hyar, cap'm," Pepperill whispered. "It's a horrid place!" muttered Sprowl. "It ar so, durned if 'tain't!" said Dan, discouragingly. Before them yawned the ravine, bristling with half-burned saplings, and but partially illumined by the moon. The babble of the brook flowing through its hidden depths was faintly audible. "See the bodies anywhere?" said Lysander. "Can't see ary thing by this light," replied Dan. "But we can go down and find 'em." Sprowl did not much fancy the idea of descending. "It will be a waste of time to stop here," he said to Silas. "The live traitors are of more consequence than the dead ones. Supposing we go to the cave first, and come back and find the bodies afterwards. Have you got your bearings yet, Carl?" "I am peginning," said Carl, staring about him, with his hands in his pockets. "I think I vill have 'em soon." Sprowl looked at him with suppressed rage. "How cussed provoking!" he muttered. "It is--wery prowoking!" said Carl, looking at the moon. "Aggrawating!" "Well, make up your mind quick! What will you do?" Then it seemed as if a bright idea occurred to Carl. "I vill tell you. You go down and find the podies, and I vill be looking. Ven you come up again, I shouldn't be surprised if I could see vair the cave is." "Ropes," said Sprowl, "take a couple of men, and go down in there with Pepperill. I think it's best to stay with this boy." This arrangement did not please Carl at all; but, as he could not reasonably complain of it, he said, stoically, "Yes, it vill be petter so." Ropes selected his two men, and left the rest concealed in the shadows of the thickets. "If I could go up on the rocks there, I suppose I could see something," said Carl. "Well, I'll go with you. I mean to give you a fair chance." Carl felt a secret hope. Once more alone with this villain, would not some interesting thing occur? "Wait, though!" said Sprowl; and he called a corporal to his side. "Come with us. Keep close to this boy. At the first sign of his giving us the slip, put your bayonet through him." "I will," said the corporal. This was discouraging again. But Carl looked up at the captain and smiled--his good-humored, placid smile. "You do right. But you vill see I shall not give you the shlip. Now come, and be wery still." In the mean time, Pepperill, with the three rebels, descended into the ravine. The spot where the dead man and horse had been was soon found. But now no dead man was to be seen. The horse had been removed from the rocks between which his back was wedged, and rolled down lower into the ravine. A broad, shallow hole had been dug there, as if to bury him. But the work had been interrupted. There was a shovel lying on the heap of earth. Near by was another spot where the soil had been recently stirred--a little mound: it was shaped like a grave. "They've buried the poor cuss hyar," said Dan. "We'll see." Ropes took the shovel. "They can't have put him in very deep, fur they've struck the rock in this yer t'other hole." He threw up a little dirt, then gave the shovel to one of the soldiers. The moon shone full upon the place. The man dug a few minutes, and came to something which was neither rock nor soil. He pulled it up. It was a man's arm. "You didn't guess fur from right this time, Dan! Scrape off a little more dirt, and we'll haul up the carcass. Needn't be partic'lar 'bout scrapin' very keerful, nuther. He's a mean shoat, whoever he is; one o' them cussed Union-shriekers. Wish they was all planted like he is! Hope we shall find five or six more. Ketch holt, Dan!" Dan caught hold. The body was dragged from the lonely resting-place to which it had been consigned. Parts of it, which had not been protected by the superincumbent bulk of the horse, were hideously burned. Ropes rolled it over on the back, and kicked it, to knock off the dirt. He turned up the face in the moonlight--a frightful face! One side was roasted; and what was left of the hair and beard was full of sand. "Damn him!" said Ropes, giving it a wipe with the spade. The eyes were open, and they too were full of sand. But the features were still recognizable. The men started back with horror. They knew their comrade. It was the spy who had been sent out to watch the fugitives. It was "the sleeper," whom nought could waken more. It was Gad. "Wal, if I ain't beat!" said Silas, with a ghastly look. "Fool! how did he come hyar?" This question has never been satisfactorily answered. The fatal leap of the terrified horse with his rider is known; but how came Gad on the horse? Those who knew the character of the man account for it in this way: He had been something of a horse-thief in his day; and it is supposed that, finding Stackridge's horse on the mountain, he fell once more into temptation. He was probably a little drunk at the time; and he was a man who would never walk if he could ride, especially when he was tipsy. So he mounted. But he had no sooner commenced the descent of the mountain, than the fire, which had been previously concealed from the animal by the clump of trees behind which he was hampered, burst upon his sight, and filled him with uncontrollable frenzy. Dan, who had witnessed the flight and plunge, could have contributed an item towards the solution of the mystery. But he opened not his mouth. "Them cussed traitors shall pay fur this!" said Ropes. This was the only consolatory thought that occurred to him. Having uttered it, he looked remorsefully at the spade with which he had rudely wiped the face of his dead friend. "I thought 'twas one o' them rotten scoundrels, or I--But never mind! Kiver him up agin, boys! We can't take him with us, and we've no time to lose." So they laid the corpse once more in the grave, and heaped the sand upon it. XXXVI. _CARL FINDS A GEOLOGICAL SPECIMEN._ In the mean time Carl ascended the moonlit slope, with Sprowl's pistol on one side of him, and the corporal's bayonet on the other. Between the two he felt that he had little chance. But he did not despair. He reasoned thus with himself:-- "These two men vill not think to take the cave alone. They must go back for reënforcements. That shall make a diwersion in my favor. If I show them some dark place, and make them think it is there, they vill not go wery near to examine." And he arrived at this conclusion: "I suppose I shall inwent a cave." They were advancing cautiously towards the summit of a bushy ridge. Suddenly Carl stopped. "Anything?" said Sprowl. Carl nodded, with a pleased and confident smile. "What?" "You shall see wery soon. Shtoop low." He himself crouched close to the ground. The men followed his example. "Come a little more on. Now you see that rock?" Lysander saw it. "Vell, it is not there." They crept forward a little farther. Then Carl stopped again, and said,-- "You see that tree?" "Which?" "All alone in the moonshine." Lysander perceived it. "Vell," said Carl, "it is not there." Again they advanced, and again he paused and pointed. "You see them little saplings?" Lysander distinguished them revealed against the sky. "Vell," said Carl, "it is not there neither." He was crawling on again, when Sprowl seized his collar. "What the devil do you mean?--if I see these things!" Carl turned on his side, smiled intelligently, and, beckoning the captain to bring his ear close, put his lips to it, covered them with his hand, with an air of secrecy, and whispered hoarsely,-- "Landmarks!" "Ah! well!" said Lysander, suffering him to proceed. Carl crept slowly, raising his head at every moment to observe. The bayonet came behind; the captain continued at his side. "The further I take these willains from the others, the petter," thought he. At length he came in view of the high ledge upon which Penn had discovered Cudjo at his idolatrous devotions, on the night of the fire. The moon was getting behind the mountain, and there were dark shadows beneath this ledge. Though he should travel a mile, he might not find a more suitable spot to locate his fictitious cave. He hesitated; considered well; then gently tapped Lysander's arm. "You see vair the rock comes down? And some pushes just under it? Vell, the cave is pehind the pushes, ven you find it!" Which was indeed true. Lysander crept a few paces nearer, stealthily, flat on his belly, with his head slightly elevated, like a dark reptile gliding over the moonlit ground. "Now is my time!" thought Carl. His heart beat violently. He raised himself on his knees, preparing to spring. Lysander was at least ten feet in advance of him, and he thought he would risk the pistol. "I run--he fires--he vill miss me--I shall get avay." But the corporal? Just then he felt a piercing pressure in his side. It was the corporal, nudging him with the bayonet to make him lie down. "I vas shust going a little nearer." The corporal seemed satisfied with the explanation; but, as the boy advanced on his hands and knees, he advanced close behind him,--holding the bayoneted gun ready for a thrust. So Carl succeeded only in getting a little nearer Lysander, without increasing at all the distance between him and the corporal. It was a state of affairs that required serious consideration. He lay dawn again, and pretended to be anxiously looking for the mouth of the cave, whilst watching and reflecting. Just then occurred a circumstance which seemed almost providentially designed to favor the boy's strategy. Upon the ledge appeared two human figures, male and female, touched by the moonlight, and defined against the sky. They remained but a moment on the summit, then began to descend in the shadow of the ledge. Their movements were slow, uncertain, mysterious. Below the base of the rock they stood once more in the moonlight, and after appearing to consult together for a few seconds, disappeared behind the bushes where Carl had placed his imaginary cave. If Sprowl had any doubts on the subject before, he was now entirely satisfied. He believed the forms to be those of Virginia and the schoolmaster; they had been out to enjoy solitude and sentiment in the moonlight; and now they were returning reluctantly to the cave. "Wouldn't Gus be edified if he was in my place!" Lysander little thought that _he_ was the one to be edified,--as he would certainly have been, to an amazing degree, had he known the truth. "But we'll spoil their fun in a few minutes!" he said to himself, as he crept back towards his former position. As for Carl, it was he who had been most astonished by the phenomenon. No sooner had he invented a cave, than two phantoms made their appearance, and walked into it! The illusion was so perfect, that he himself was almost deceived by it. Only for an instant, however. Continuing to gaze, he had another glimpse of the apparitions, when, having merely passed behind the bushes, they came out beyond them, in the direction of the real cave, and were lost once more in shadow. Lysander, engaged in making his retrograde movement, did not notice this very important circumstance; and the corporal was too intently occupied in watching Carl to observe anything else. The captain got behind the shelter of a cluster of thistles, and beckoned for the two to approach. "Corporal," said he, "hurry back and tell Ropes to bring up his men. I'll wait here." The corporal crawled off. Carl heard the order, saw the movement, and felt thrilled to the heart's core with joy. He was now alone with the captain. And he was no longer unarmed. In creeping towards the thistles, he had laid his hand on a wonderful little stone. Somehow, his fingers had closed upon it. It was about the size of an apple, slightly flattened, rough, and heavy. "I thought," he said afterwards, "if anything vas to happen, that stone might be waluable." And so it proved. Lysander, considering that the cave was found, had become less suspicious. "These Dutch are stupid, and that's all," he thought. "You vas going to shoot me," said Carl, with an honest laugh at the ludicrousness of the idea. "And so I would," said Sprowl, with an oath, "if you hadn't brought us to the cave." "That means," thought Carl, "he vill kill me yet if he can, ven he finds out." He observed, also, that Sprowl, lying on his left side, had his right hand free, and near the pocket where his pistol was. It was not yet too late for him to be shot if he attempted an escape without first attempting something else. The violent beating of his heart recommenced. He felt a strange tremor of excitement thrilling through every nerve. His hand still held the pebble, covering and concealing it as he leaned forward on the ground. He crept a little nearer Lysander. "The vay they go into the cave," he said, "is wery queer." "How so?" asked the captain. They were facing each other. Carl drew still a little nearer, and raised himself slightly on the hand that grasped the geological specimen. "I promised to take you in. I vill take you in on vun condition." "Condition?" repeated Lysander. "That is vat I said. Vun leetle condition. Let me whishper." Carl put up his left hand as if to cover the communication he was about to breathe into Lysander's ear. "The condition--IS THIS!" As he uttered the last words, he seized Lysander's wrist with his left hand, and at the same instant, with a stroke rapid as lightning, smote him on the temple with the stone. All this, being interpreted, meant, "I take you to the cave on condition that you go as my prisoner." Thus Carl designed to keep his promise. As he struck he sprang up, to be ready for any emergency. He had expected a struggle, an outcry. He never dreamed that he could strike a man dead with a single blow! Without a shriek, without even a moan, Lysander merely sunk back upon the ground, gasped, shuddered, and lay still. Carl was stupefied. He looked at the prostrate man. Then he cast his eye all around him on the moonlit mountain slope. No one was in sight. Was this murder he had committed? He knelt down, bending over the horribly motionless form. He gazed on the ghastly-pale face, and saw issuing from the nostrils a dark stream. It was blood. Was it not all a dream? He still held the stone in his hand. He looked at it, and mechanically placed it in his pocket. Nothing now seemed left for him but to escape to the cave; and yet he remained fixed with horror to the spot, regarding what he had done. XXXVII. _CARL KEEPS HIS ENGAGEMENT._ Of the two forms that had been seen on the ledge, the female was not Virginia, and the other was not Penn. A word of explanation is necessary. Filled with hatred for her husband,--filled with shame and disgust, too, on hearing how he had caused his own mother to be whipped (for the secret was out, thanks to Aunt Deb at the stove-pipe hole),--resolved in her soul never to forgive him, never even to see him again if she could help it, yet intolerably wretched in her loneliness,--Salina had that afternoon taken Toby into her counsel. "Toby, what are we to do?" "Dat's what I do'no' myself!" the sore old fellow confessed; even his superior wisdom, usually sufficient (in his own estimation) for the whole family, failing him now. "When it comes to lickin' white women and 'spec'able servants, ain't nobody safe. I's glad ol' massa and Miss Jinny's safe up dar in de cave; and I on'y wish we war safe up dar too." "Toby," said Salina, "we will go there. Can you find the way?" "Reckon I kin," said Toby, delighted at the proposal. They set out early. They succeeded in reaching the woods without exciting suspicion. They kept well to the south, in order to approach the cave on the same side of the ravine from which Toby had discovered it, or rather Penn near the entrance of it, before. He thought he would be more sure to find it by that route. At the same time he avoided the burned woods, and, without knowing it, the soldiers. But, the best they could do, the daylight was gone when they came to the ravine; and Toby could not find the place where he had previously crossed. He passed beyond it. Then they crossed at random in the easiest place. Once on the side where the cave was, Toby decided that they were above it; and, owing to the steepness of the banks, it was necessary to go around over the rocks, at a short distance from the ravine, in order to reach the shelf behind the thickets. It was in making this movement that they had been seen to descend the ledge and pass behind the bushes at its base. "Now," said Toby, "you jes' wait while I makes a reckonoyster!" Salina, weary, sat down in the shadow of a juniper-tree. Toby made his reconnoissance, discovered nothing, and returned. She, sitting still there, had been more successful. She pointed. "What dar?" whispered Toby, frightened. "There is somebody. Don't you see? By those shrub-like things." "Dey ain't nobody dar!"--with a shiver. "Yes there is. I saw a man jump up. He is bending over something now, trying to lift it. It must be Penn, or some of his friends. Go softly, and see." Toby, imaginative, superstitious, did not like to move. But Salina urged him; and something must be done. "I--I's mos' afeard to! But dar's somebody, shore!" He advanced, with eyes strained wide and cold chills creeping over him. What was the man doing there? What was he trying to lift and drag along the ground? It was the body of another man. "Who dar?" said Toby. "Be quiet. Come here!" was the answer. "What! Carl! Carl! dat you? What you doin' dar? massy sakes!" said Toby. "I've got a prisoner," said Carl. "Dead! O de debil!" said Toby. "I've knocked him on the head a little, but he is not dead," said Carl. "Be still, for there's forty more vithin hearing!" Toby, with mouth agape, and hands on knees, crouching, looked in the face of the lifeless man. That jaunty mustache, with the blood from the nostrils trickling into it, was unmistakable. "Dat Sprowl!" ejaculated the old negro, with horrified recoil. "He won't hurt you! Take holt! I pelief Ropes is coming, mit his men, now!" "Le' 'm drap, den. Wha' ye totin' on him fur?" Carl had quite recovered from his stupefaction. His wits were clear again. Why did he not leave the body? His reasons against such a course were too many to be enumerated on the spot to Toby. In the first place, he had promised to take the captain to the cave; and he felt a stubborn pride in keeping his engagement. Secondly, the man might die if he abandoned him. Moreover, the troops arriving, and finding him, would know at once what had happened; while, on the contrary, if both Carl and the captain should be missing, it would be supposed that they had gone to make observations in another quarter; they would be waited for, and thus much time would be gained. Carl had all these arguments in his brain. But instead of stopping to explain anything, he once more, and alone, lifted the head and shoulders of the limp man, and recommenced bearing him along. "Toby, who is that?" "Dat am Miss Salina." Carl asked no explanations. "Vimmen scream sometimes. Tell her she is not to scream. You get her handkersheaf. And do not say it is Shprowl." "Who--what is it?" Salina inquired. "Our Carl! don't ye know?" said Toby. "He's got one ob dem secesh he's knocked on de head." "Has he killed him?" "Part killed him, and part took him prisoner,--about six o' one and half a dozen o' tudder. He say you's specfully 'quested not to scream; and he wants your hank'cher." "What does he want of it?"--giving it. "Dat he best know hisself; but if my 'pinion am axed, I should say, to wipe de fellah's nose wiv." Having delivered this profound judgment, Toby carried the handkerchief to Carl, who spread it over the wounded man's face. "That prewents her seeing him, and prewents his seeing the vay to the cave." "Who eber knowed you's sech a powerful smart chil'?" said old Toby, amazed. A new perception of Carl's character had burst suddenly, with a wonderful light, upon his dazzled understanding. In the terror of their first encounter, in this strange place, he had comprehended nothing of the situation. He had not even remembered that he last saw Carl in the guard-house, with irons on his wrists. It was like a fragment of some dream to find him here, holding the lifeless Lysander in his arms. But now he remembered; now he comprehended. Carl had saved him from torture by engaging to bring this man to the cave; whom by some miracle of courage and valor, he had overcome and captured, and brought thus far over the lonely rocks. All was yet vague to the old negro's mind; but it was nevertheless strange, great, prodigious. And this lad, this Carl, whom Penn had brought, a sort of vagabond, a little hungry beggar, to Mr. Villars's house--that is to say, Toby's; whom the vain, tender, pompous, affectionate old servant had had the immense satisfaction of adopting into the family, patronizing, scolding, tyrannizing over, and tenderly loving; who had always been to him "Dat chil'!" "dat good-for-nuffin'!" "dat mis'ble Carl!"--the same now loomed before his imagination a hero. The simple spreading of the handkerchief over the face appeared to him a master-stroke of cool sagacity. He himself, with all that stupendous wisdom of his, would not have thought of that! He actually found himself on the point of saying "Massa Carl!" Ah, this foolish old negro is not the only person who, in these times of national trouble, has been thus astonished! Carl is not the only hero who has suddenly emerged, to thrilled and wondering eyes, from the disguises of common life. How many a beloved "good-for-nothing" has gone from our streets and firesides, to reappear far off in a vision of glory! The school-fellows know not their comrade; the mother knows not her own son. The stripling, whose outgoing and incoming were so familiar to us,--impulsive, fun-loving, a little vain, a little selfish, apt to be cross when the supper was not ready, apt to come late and make you cross when the supper was ready and waiting,--who ever guessed what nobleness was in him! His country called, and he rose up a patriot. The fatigue of marches, the hardships of camp and bivouac, the hard fare, the injustice that must be submitted to, all the terrible trials of the body's strength and the soul's patient endurance,--these he bore with the superb buoyancy of spirit which denotes the hero. Who was it that caught up the colors, and rushed forward with them into the thick of the battle, after the fifth man who attempted it had been shot down? Not that village loafer, who used to go about the streets dressed so shabbily? Yes, the same. He fell, covered with wounds and glory. The rusty, and seemingly useless instrument we saw hang so long idle on the walls of society, none dreamed to be a trumpet of sonorous note until the Soul came and blew a blast. And what has become of that white-gloved, perfumed, handsome cousin of yours, devoted to his pleasures, weary even of those,--to whom life, with all its luxuries, had become a bore? He fell in the trenches at Wagner. He had distinguished himself by his daring, his hardihood, his fiery love of liberty. When the nation's alarum beat, his manhood stood erect; he shook himself; all his past frivolities were no more than dust to the mane of this young lion. The war has proved useful if only in this, that it has developed the latent heroism in our young men, and taught us what is in humanity, in our fellows, in ourselves. Because it has called into action all this generosity and courage, if for no other cause, let us forgive its cruelty, though the chair of the beloved one be vacant, the bed unslept in, and the hand cold that penned the letters in that sacred drawer, which cannot even now be opened without grief. As Toby had never been conscious what stuff there was in Carl, so he had never known how much he really loved, admired, and relied upon him. He stood staring at him there in the moonlight as if he then for the first time perceived what a little prodigy he was. "Take holt, why don't you?" said Carl. And this time Toby obeyed: he secretly acknowledged the authority of a master. "Sartin, sah!" He had checked himself when on the point of saying "Massa Carl;" but the respectful "sah" slipped from his tongue before he was aware of it. Among the bushes, and in the shadows of the rocks, they bore the body in swiftness and silence. Salina followed. In the cave the usual fire was burning; by the light of which only Virginia and her father were to be seen. The sisters fell into each other's arms. Salina was softened: here, after all her sufferings, was refuge at last: here, in the warmth of a father's and a sister's affection, was the only comfort she could hope for now, in the world she had found so bitter. "Who is with you?" said the old man. "Toby? and Carl? What is the matter?" "I vants Mr. Hapgood, or Pomp, or Cudjo!" said Carl, laying down his burden. "They have gone to bury the man in the rawine," said Virginia. Carl opened great eyes. "The man in the rawine? That's vair Ropes and the soldiers have gone." "What soldiers?--Who is this?" "This is their waliant captain! I am wery sorry, ladies, but I have given him a leetle nose-pleed. Some vater, Toby! Your handkersheaf, ma'am, and wery much obliged." Salina stooped to take the handkerchief. A flash of the fire shone upon the uncovered face. The eyes opened; they looked up, and met hers looking down. "Lysander!" "Sal, is it you? Where am I, anyhow?" And the husband tried to raise himself. "Carl, what's this?" "Don't be wiolent!" said Carl, gently laying him down again, "and I vill tell you. I vas your prisoner, and I vas showing you the cave. Veil, this is the cave; but things is a little inwerted. You are my prisoner." "Is that so?" said the astonished Lysander. "Wery much so," replied Carl. "Didn't somebody knock me on the head?" "I shouldn't be wastly surprised if somepody _did_ knock you on the head." "Was it you?" "I rather sushpect it vas me." Lysander rubbed his bruised temple feebly, looking amazed. "But how came _she_ here?" "It vas she and Toby we saw going into the cave." "What's that?"--to Toby, bringing a gourd. "It is vater; it vill improve your wysiognomy. You can trink a little. You feel pretty sound in your witals, don't you? I vas careful not to hurt your witals," said Carl, kindly, raising Sprowl's head and holding the water for him to drink. Lysander, ungrateful, instead of drinking, started up with sudden fury, struck the gourd from him with one hand, and thrust the other into the pocket where his pistol was, at last accounts. "Vat is vanting?" Carl inquired, complacently. Lysander, fumbling in vain for his weapon, muttered, "Vengeance!" "Wery good," said Carl. "Ve vill discuss the question of wengeance, if you like."' And drawing the pistol from _his_ pocket, he coolly presented it at Sprowl's head. "Vat for you dodge? You think, maybe, the discussion vould not be greatly to your adwantage?" Lysander felt for his sword, found that gone also, and muttered again, "Villain!" "Did somepody say somepody is a willain?" remarked Carl. "I should not be wery much surprised if that vas so. Willains nowdays is cheap. I have known a great wariety since secesh times pegan. But as for your particular case, sir, I peg to give some adwice. There is some ladies present, and you must keep quiet. Do you remember how I vas kept quiet ven I vas _your_ prisoner? I had pracelets on. And do you remember I vas putting some supper in my pocket ven you took me to show you the cave? Veil, I make von great mishtake; instead of supper, vat I vas putting in my pocket vas them wery pracelets!" And Carl produced the handcuffs. At that moment Penn and Cudjo arrived; and Lysander, observing them, submitted to his fate with beautiful resignation. The irons were put on, and Carl mounted guard over him with the pistol. XXXVIII. _LOVE IN THE WILDERNESS._ Cudjo was highly exasperated to find strangers in the cave. He became quickly reconciled to the presence of Virginia's sister, but not to that of Lysander. To pacify him, Carl made him a present of the sword which he had removed from the captain's noble person on arriving. Cudjo received the weapon with unbounded delight, and proceeded to adjust the belt to his own Ethiopian waist. It mattered little with him that he got the scabbard on the wrong side of his body: a sword was a sword; and he wore it in awkward and ridiculous fashion, strutting up and down in the fire-lighted cave, to the envy and disgust of old Toby, the rage of Lysander, and the amusement of the rest. Penn meanwhile related to his friends his evening's adventures. He had gone down to the ravine with the negroes to bury the horse and his dead rider. He was keeping watch while they worked; the man was interred, and they were digging a pit for the animal, when they discovered the approach of the soldiers, and retired to a hiding-place close by. There they lay concealed, whilst Ropes and his men descended to the spot, exhumed the corpse with Cudjo's shovel, made their comments upon it, and put it back into the ground. During this operation it had required all Pomp's authority, and the restraint of his strong hand, to keep Cudjo from pouncing upon his old enemy and former overseer, Silas Ropes. "There were three of us," said Penn, "and only three of them, besides Pepperill; and no doubt a struggle would have resulted in our favor. But we did not want to be troubled with prisoners; and Pomp and I could not see that anything was to be gained by killing them. Besides, we knew they had a strong reserve within call. So we waited patiently until they finished their work, and climbed up out of the ravine; then we climbed up after them. We thought their main object must be to find the cave, and Pomp strongly suspected Pepperill of treachery. We found a large number of soldiers lying under some bushes, and crept near enough to hear what they were saying. They were going to take the cave by surprise, and an order had just come for them to move farther up the mountain. They set off with scarcely any noise, reminding me of the 'Forty Thieves,' as they filed away in the moonlight, and disappeared among the bushes and shadows. Pomp is on their trail now; he has his rifle with him, and it may be heard from if he sees them change their course and approach too near the cave." Penn had come in for his musket. It was the same that had fallen from the hands of the man Griffin at the moment when that unhappy rebel was in the act of charging bayonet at his breast. Assuring Virginia--who could not conceal her alarm at seeing him take it from its corner--that he was merely going out to reconnoitre, he left the cave. He was gone several hours. At length he and Pomp returned together. The moon had long since set, but it was beautiful starlight; and, themselves unseen, they had watched carefully the movements of the soldiers. "You would have laughed to have been in my place, Carl!" said Penn, laying his hand affectionately on the shoulder of his beloved pupil. "They besieged the ledge where your imaginary cave is for full two hours after I went out, apparently without daring to go very near it." "I suppose," replied Carl, "they vas vaiting for me and the captain. It vas really too pad now for us to make them lose so much waluable time! But they vill excuse Mishter Shprowl; his absence is unawoidable." And lifting his brows with a commiserating expression, he gave a comical side-glance from under them at the languishing Lysander. All laughed at the lad's humor except the captain himself--and Salina. After besieging the imaginary cave as Penn had described, several of the confederates, he said, at last ventured with extreme caution to approach it. "And found," added Carl, "they had been made the wictims of von leetle stratagem!" "I suppose so," said Penn; "for immediately an unusual stir took place amongst them." "In searching for the entrance," laughed Pomp, leaning on his rifle, "they came close under a juniper-tree I had climbed into, and I could hear them cursing the little Dutchman----" "I suppose that vas me," smiled the good-natured Carl. "And the 'pig-headed captain' who had gone off with him." "The pig-headed captain is this indiwidual"--indicating Sprowl. "But it is wery unjust to be cursing him, for it vas not his fault. It vas my legs and Toby's that conweyed him; and he had a handkersheaf over his face for a wail." "I suspected how it was, even before I met Penn and learned what had happened. I am sorry to see this fellow in this place,"--Pomp turned a frowning look at the corner where Lysander lay,--"but now that he is here, he must stay." Carl, upon whom the only noticeable effect produced by his exciting adventure was a lively disposition to talk, quite unusual with him, entered upon a full explanation of the circumstances which had led to Lysander's capture. His narrative was altogether so simple, so honest, so droll, that even the bitter Salina had to smile at it, while all the rest, the old clergyman included, joined in a hearty laugh of admiring approval at its conclusion. "I don't see but that you did the best that could be done," said Pomp. "At all events, the villains seem to have been completely baffled. The last I saw of them they were retreating through the burned woods, as if afraid to have daylight find them on the mountain." The daylight had now come; and Penn, who went out to take an observation, could discover no trace of the vanished rebels. The eastern sky was like a sheet of diaphanous silver, faintly crimsoned above the edges of the hills with streaks of the brightening dawn. All the valley below was inundated by a lake of level mist, whose subtle wave made islands of the hills, and shining inlets of the intervales. Above this sea of white silence rose the mountain ranges, inexpressibly calm and beautiful, fresh from their bath of starlight and dew, and empurpled with softest tints of the early morning. Penn heard a footstep, and felt a touch on his arm. Was it the beauty of the earth and sky that made him shiver with so sudden and sweet a thrill? or was it the lovely presence at his side, in whom was incarnated, for him, all the beauty, all the light, all the joy of the universe? It was Virginia, who leaned so gently on his arm, that not the slight pressure of her weight, but rather the impalpable shock of bliss her very nearness brought, made him aware of her approach. Toby followed, supporting her along the shelf of rock--a dark cloud in the wake of that rosy and perfumed dawn. "O, how delicious it is out here!" said the voice, which, if we were to describe it from the lover's point of view, could be likened only to the songs of birds, the musical utterance of purest flutes, or the blowing of wild winds through those grand harp-strings, the mountain pines; for there was more of poetry and passion compressed in the heart of this quiet young Quaker than we shall venture to give breath to in these pages. "It is--delicious!" he quiveringly answered, in his happy confusion blending _her_ with his perception of the daybreak. She inhaled deep draughts of the mountain air. "How I love it! The breath of trees, and grass, and flowers is in it,--those dear friends of mine, that I pine for, shut up here in prison!" "Do you?" said Penn, vaguely, half wishing that he was a flower, a blade of grass, or a tree, so that she might pine for him. "The air of the cave," she said, "is cold; it is odorless. The cave seems to me like the great, chill hearts of some of your profound philosophers! Some of those tremendous books father makes me read to him came out of such hearts, I am sure; great hollow caverns, full of mystery and darkness, and so cold and dull they make me shudder to touch them;--but don't you, for the world, tell him I said so,--for, to please him, I let him think I am ever so much edified by everything that he likes." "What sort of books _do_ you like?" "O, I like books with daylight in them! I want them to be living, upper-air, joyous books. There must be sunshine, and birds, and brooks,--human nature, life, suffering, aspiration, and----" "And love?" "Of course, there should be a little love in books, since there is sometimes a little, I believe, in real life." But she touched this subject with such airy lightness,--just hovering over it for an instant, and then away, like a butterfly not to be caught,--that Penn felt a jealous trouble. "How long," she added immediately, "do you imagine we shall have to stay here?" "It is impossible to say," replied Penn, turning with reluctance to the more practical topic. "One would think that the government cannot leave us much longer subject to this atrocious tyranny. An army may be already marching to our relief. But it may be weeks, it may be months, and I am not sure," he added seriously, "but it may be years, before Tennessee is relieved." "Why, that is terrible! Toby says that poor old man, Mr. Ellerton, who assisted you to escape, was caught and hung by some of the soldiers yesterday." "I have no doubt but it is true. Although he had returned to his home, he was known to be a Unionist, and probably he was suspected of having aided us; in which case not even his white hairs could save him." "But it is horrible! They have commenced woman-whipping. And Toby says a negro was hung six times a couple of days ago, and afterwards cut to pieces, for saying to another negro he met, 'Good news; Lincoln's army is coming!' What is going to become of us, if relief doesn't arrive soon? O, to look at the beautiful world we are driven from by these wicked, wicked men!" "And are you so very weary of the cave?" Penn gave her a look full of electric tenderness, which seemed to say, "Have not I been with you? and am I nothing to you?" She smiled, and her voice was tremulous as she answered,-- "I wish I could go out into the sunshine again! But I have not been unhappy. Indeed, I think I have been very happy." There was an indescribable pause; Virginia's eyes modestly veiled, her face suffused with a blissful light, as if her soul saw some soft and exquisite dream; while Penn's bosom swelled with the long undulations of hope and transport. Toby still lingered in the entrance of the cave. "Toby," said Penn, such a radiance flashing from his brow as the negro had never seen before, "my good Toby,"--and what ineffable human sympathy vibrated in his tones!--"I wish you would go in and tell our friends that the enemy has quite disappeared: will you?" "Yes, massa!" said Toby, a ray of that happiness penetrating even the old freedman's breast. For such is the beautiful law of our nature, that love cannot be concealed; it cannot be monopolized by one, nor yet by two; but when its divine glow is kindled in any soul, it beams forth from the eyes, it thrills in the tones of the voice, it breathes from all the invisible magnetic pores of being, and sheds sunshine and warmth on all. Toby went. Then an arm of manly strength, yet of all manly gentleness, stole about the waist of the girl, and drew her softly, close, closer; while something else, impalpable, ravishing, holy, drew her by a still more potent attraction; until, for the first time in her young and pure life, her mouth met another mouth with the soul's virgin kiss. Her lips had kissed many times before, but her soul never. How long it lasted, that sweet perturbation, that fervent experience of a touch, neither, I suppose, ever knew; for at such times a moment is an eternity. As a lightning flash in a dark night reveals, for a dazzling instant, a world concealed before, so the electric interchange of two hearts charged with love's lightning seems to open the very doors of infinity; and it is the glory of heaven that shines upon them. Not a word was spoken. Then Penn held Virginia before him, and looked deep into her eyes, and said, with a strange tremor of lip and voice,--using the gentle speech of the Friends, into which old familiar channel his thoughts flowed naturally in moments of strong feeling,-- "Wherever this dear face smiles upon me, there is my sunshine. I must be very selfish; for notwithstanding all the dangers and discomforts by which I see thee and thy father surrounded, the hours we have passed together here have been the happiest of my life. Yea, and suffering and privation would be never anything to me, if I could always have thee with me, Virginia!" How different, meanwhile, was the scene within the cave! How chafed the fiery Lysander! How spitefully Salina bit her lips ever at sight of him! And these two had once been lovers, and had seen rainbows span their future also! Is it love that unites such, or is it only the yearning for love? For love, the reality, fuses all qualities, and brings into harmony all clashing chords. Toby entered, the gleam of others' happiness still in his countenance. "De enemy hab dis'peared; all gone down in de frog." "The frog, Toby?" said Mr. Villars. "Yes, sar; right smart frog down 'ar in de volley!" "He means, a fog in the walley," said Carl. XXXIX. _A COUNCIL OF WAR._ Owing to the disturbances of the night the old clergyman had slept little. He now lay down on the couch, and soon sank into a profound slumber. When he awoke he heard the hum of voices. The cave was filled with armed men. "It is Mr. Stackridge and his friends," said Virginia. "They have come to hold a council of war; and they look upon you as their grand sachem." "I have brought them here," said Pomp, "at their request--all except Deslow." "Where is he?" "Deslow, I believe, has deserted!" said Stackridge. "Ah! What makes you think so?" "Well, I've watched him right close, and I've seen a good deal of what's been working in his mind. He's one o' them fools that believe Slavery is God; and he can't get over it. Pomp, here, saved our lives in the fire the other night; and Deslow couldn't stand it. To owe his life to a runaway slave--that was too dreadful!" said Stackridge with savage sarcasm. "He's a man that would rather be roasted alive, and see his country ruined, I suppose, than do anything that might damage in the least degree his divine institution! There's the difference 'twixt him and me. Sence slavery has made war agin' the Union, and turned us out of our homes, I say, by the Lord! let it go down to hell, as it desarves!" "You use strong language, neighbor!" "I do; and it's time, I reckon, when strong language, and strong actions too, are called fur. You hate a man that you've befriended, and that's turned traitor agin' ye, worse'n you hate an open inemy, don't ye? Wal, I've befriended slavery, and it's turned traitor agin' me, and all I hold most sacred in this world, and I'm jest getting my eyes open to it; and so I say, let it go down! I've no patience with such men as Deslow, and I'm glad, on the whole, he's gone. He don't belong with us anyhow. I say, any man that loves any kind of property, or any party, or institution, better than he loves the old Union"--Stackridge said this with tears of passion in his eyes,--"such a man belongs with the rebels, and the sooner we sift 'em out of our ranks the better." "When did he go?" "Some of us were out foraging again last night; Withers and Deslow with the rest. Tell what he said to you, Withers." The group of fugitives had gathered about the bed on which the old clergyman sat. Withers was scraping his long horny nails with a huge jackknife. "He says to me, says he, 'Withers, we've got inter a bad scrape.' 'How so?' says I; for I thought we war gittin' out of a right bad scrape when we got out of that temp'rary jail. 'The wust hain't happened yet,' says he. 'That's bad,' says I, 'fur it's allus good fur a feller to know the wust has happened.' And so I told him a little story. Says I, 'When I was a little boy 'bout that high, I was helping my daddy one day secure some hay. Wal, it looked like rain, and we put in right smart till the fust sprinkles begun to fall,--great drops, big as ox-eyes,--and they skeert me, for I war awful 'fraid of gittin' wet. So what did I do but run and git under some boards. My daddy war so busy he didn't see me, till bime-by he come that way, rolling up the hay-cocks to kill, and looked, and thar I war under the pile o' boards, curled up like a hedgehog to keep dry. 'Josh,' says he, 'what ye doin' thar? Why ain't ye to work?' ''Fraid o' gittin' wet!' says I. 'Pon that he didn't say a word, but jest come and took me by the collar, and led me to a little run close by, and jest casoused me in the water, head over heels, and then jest pulled me out agin. 'Now,' says he, 'ye can go to work, and you won't be the leastest mite afeard o' gittin' wet. Wal, 'twas about so. I didn't mind the rain, arter that. 'Wal, Deslow,' says I, 'that larnt me a lesson; and ever sence I've always thought 'twas a good thing fur us, when trouble comes, to have the wust happen, and know it's the wust, fur then we'se prepared fur't, and ain't no longer to be skeert by a little shower.' That's what I said to Deslow." And Withers continued scraping his nails. "Very good philosophy, indeed!" said Mr. Villars. "And what did he reply?" "He said, when the wust happened to us, we'd find we had no home, no property, and no country left; and fur his part he had been thinking we'd better go and give ourselves up, make peace with the authorities, and take the oath of allegiance. 'Lincoln won't send no army to relieve us yet a-while,' says he, 'and even if he does, you know, victory for the Federals means the death of our institootions! So I see where the shoe pinched with him; and I said, 'If that continners to be your ways of thinkin', I hain't the least objections to partin' comp'ny with ye, as the house dog said to the skunk; only,' says I, 'don't ye go to betrayin' us, if you conclude to go.' Soon arter that we separated, and that's the last any on us have seen of him." "They've begun to whip women, too," said Stackridge. "But, by right good luck, when this scamp here--" glowering upon Lysander--"sent to have my wife whipped, he got his own mother whipped in her place! He's a connection o' your family, I know, Mr. Villars; but I never spile a story for relation's sake." "Nor need you, friend Stackridge. Sorry I am for that deluded young man; but he reaps what he has sown, and he has only himself to blame." "'Twas a regular secesh operation, that of having his own mother strung up," said Captain Grudd. "They are working against their own interests and families without knowing it. When they think they are destroying the Union, they are destroying their own honor and influence; for so it 'ill be sure to turn out." "It was Liberty they intended to have beaten," said Penn; "but they will find that it is the back of their own mother, Slavery, that receives the rods." "Just what I meant to say; but it took the professor to put it into the right shape. By the way, neighbors, we owe the professor an apology. Some of us found fault with his views of slavery and secession; but we've all come around to 'em pretty generally, I believe, by this time. Here's my hand, professor, and let me say I think you was right enough in all but one thing--your plaguy non-resistance." "He has thought better of that," said Mr. Villars, pleasantly. "Yes, zhentlemen," said Carl, anxious to exonerate his friend, "he has been conwerted." "We have found that out, to his credit," said Stackridge. And, one after another, all took Penn cordially by the hand. "We are all brothers in one cause, OUR COUNTRY," said Penn. Nor did he stop when the hand of the last patriot was shaken; he took the hand of Pomp also. "We are all men in the sight of God!" His heart was full; there was a thrill of fervent emotion in his voice. His calm young face, his firm and finely-cut features, always noticeable for a certain massiveness and strength, were singularly illumined. He went on, the light of the cave-fire throwing its ruddy flash on the group. "We are all His children. He has brought us together here for a purpose. The work to be done is for all men, for humanity: it is God's work. To that we should be willing to give everything--even our lives; even our selfish prejudices, dearer to some than their lives. I believe that upon the success of our cause depends, not the prosperity of any class of men, or of any race of men, only, but of all men, and all races. For America marches in the van of human progress, and if she falters, if she ignobly turns back, woe is to the world! Perhaps you do not see this yet; but never mind. One thing we all see--a path straight before us, our duty to our country. We must put every other consideration aside, forget all minor differences, and unite in this the defence of the nation's life." An involuntary burst of applause testified how ardently the hearts of the patriots responded to these words. Some wrung Penn's hand again. Pomp meanwhile, erect, and proud as a prince, with his arms folded upon his massive and swelling chest, smiled with deep and quiet satisfaction at the scene. There was another who smiled, too, her face suffused with love and pride ineffable, as her eyes watched the young Quaker, and her soul drank in his words. "That's the sentiment!" said Stackridge. "And now, what is to be done? We have been disappointed in one thing. Our friends don't join us. One reason is, no doubt, they hain't got arms. But the main reason is, they look upon our cause as desperate. Desperate or not, it can't be helped, as I see. With or without help, we must fight it through, or go back, like that putty-head Deslow, and take the oath of allegiance to the bogus government. Mr. Villars, you're wise, and we want your opinion." "That, I fear, will be worth little to you!" answered the old man, bowing his head with true humility. "It seems to me that you are not to rely upon any open assistance from your friends. And sorry I am to add, I think you should not rely, either, upon any immediate aid from the government. The government has its hands full. The time is coming when you who have eyes will see the old flag once more floating on the breezes of East Tennessee. But it may be long first. And in the mean time it is your duty to look out for yourselves." "That is it," said Stackridge. "But how?" "It seems to me that your retreat cannot remain long concealed. Therefore, this is what I advise. Make your preparations to disperse at any moment. You may be compelled to hide for months in the mountains and woods, hunted continually, and never permitted to sleep in safety twice in the same place. That will be the fate of hundreds. There is but one thing better for you to do. It is this. Force your way over the mountains into Kentucky, join the national army, and hasten its advance." "And you?" said Captain Grudd. The old man smiled with beautiful serenity. "Perhaps I shall have my choice, after all. You remember what that was? To remain in the hands of our enemies. I ought never to have attempted to escape. I cannot help myself; I am only a burden to you. My daughters cannot continue to be with me here in this cave; and, if I am to be separated from them, I may as well be in a confederate prison as elsewhere. If the traitors seek my life, they are welcome to it." "O, father! what do you say!" exclaimed Virginia, in terror at his words. "I advise what I feel to be best. I will give myself up to the military authorities. You, and Salina, if she chooses, will, I am certain, be permitted to go to your friends in Ohio. But before I take this step, let all here who have strong arms to lend their country be already on their way over the mountains. Penn and Carl must go with them. Nor do I forget Pomp and Cudjo. They shall go too, and you will protect them." Penn turned suddenly pale. It was the soundness of the good old man's counsel that terrified him. Separation from Virginia! She to be left at the mercy of the confederates! This was the one thing in the world he had personally to dread. "It may be good advice," he said. "It is certainly a noble self-sacrifice, Mr. Villars proposes. But I do not believe there is one here who will consent to it. I say, let us keep together. If necessary, we can die together. We cannot separate, if by so doing we must leave him behind." He spoke with intense feeling, yet his words were but feebly echoed by the patriots. The truth was, they were already convinced that they ought to be making their way out of the state, and had said so among themselves; but, being unwilling to abandon the old minister, and knowing well that he could never think of undertaking the terrible journey they saw before them, hither they had come to hear what he had to suggest. "What do you think, Pomp?" Penn asked, in despair. "I think that what Mr. Villars advises these men to do is the best thing." Penn was stupefied. He saw that he stood alone, opposed to the general opinion. And something within himself said that he was selfish, that he was wrong. He did not venture to glance at Virginia, but bent his eyes downward with a stunned expression at the floor of the cave. "But as for himself, and us, I am not so sure. There are recesses in this cave that cannot easily be discovered. He shall remain, and we will stay and take care of him, if he will." These calm words of the negro sounded like a reprieve to Penn's soul. He caught eagerly at the suggestion. "Yes, if there must be a separation, Pomp is right. If many go, it will be believed that all are gone, and the rest can remain in safety." "You are all too generous towards me," said the old minister. "But I have nothing more to say. I am very patient. I am willing to accept whatever God sends, and to wait his own blessed time for it. When you, Penn, were sick in my house, and the ruffians were coming to kill you, and I could not determine what to do, the question was decided for me: Providence decided it by taking you, by what seemed a miracle, beyond the reach of all of us. So I believe this question, which troubles us now, will be decided for us soon. Something is to happen that will show us plainly what must be done." So it was: something was indeed to happen, sooner even than he supposed. XL. _THE WONDERS OF THE CAVE._ The other inmates of the cave had breakfasted whilst the old clergyman was asleep. Toby was now occupied in preparing his dish of coffee, and Mr. Villars invited the patriots to remain and take a cup with him. Penn noticed Cudjo's discontent at seeing Toby usurp his function. He remembered also a rare pleasure he had been promising himself whenever he should find Cudjo at leisure and circumstances favorable for his purpose. "Now is our time," he whispered Virginia. "Will Salina come too?" "What to do?" Salina asked. "To explore the cave," said Penn, courteously, yet trembling lest the invitation should be accepted. She excused herself: she was feeling extremely fatigued; much to Penn's relief--that is to say, regret, as he hypocritically gave her to understand. She smiled: though she had declined, Virginia was going, and she thought he looked consoled. "What does anybody care for me?" she said bitterly to herself. It was to save her the pain of a slight that Penn, always too honest to resort to dissimulation from selfish motives, had assumed towards her a regard he did not feel. But the little artifice failed. She saw she was not wanted, and was jealous--angry with him, with Virginia, with herself. For thus it is with the discontented and envious. They cannot endure to see others happy without them. They gladly make the most of a slight, pressing it like a thistle to the breast, and embracing it all the more fiercely as it pierces and wounds. But he who has humility and love in his heart says consolingly at such times, "If they can be happy without me, why, Heaven be thanked! If I am neglected, then I must draw upon the infinite resources within myself. And if I am unloved, whose fault is it but my own? I will cultivate that sweetness of soul, the grace, and goodness, and affection, which shall compel love!" Something like this Carl found occasion to say to himself; for if you think he saw the master he loved, and her who was dear to him as ever sister was to younger brother, depart with Cudjo and the torches, without longing to go with them and share their pleasure, you know not the heart of the boy. He was almost choking with tears as he saw the torches go out of sight. But just as he had arrived at this philosophical conclusion, O joy! what did he see? Penn returning! Yes, and hastening straight to him! "Carl, why don't you come too?" There was no mistaking the sincerity of Penn's frank, animated face. Again the tears came into Carl's eyes; but this time they were tears of gratitude. "Vould you really be pleased to have me?" "Certainly, Carl! Virginia and I both spoke of it, and wondered why we had not thought to ask you before." "Then I vill get my wery goot friend the captain to excuse me. I sushpect he vill be wexed to part from me; but I shall take care that the ties that bind us shall not be proken." In pursuance of this friendly design, Carl produced a good strong cord which he had found in the cave. This he attached to the handcuffs by a knot in the middle; then, carrying the two ends in opposite directions around one of the giant's stools, he fastened them securely on the side farthest from the prisoner. This done, he gave the pistol to Toby, and invested him with the important and highly gratifying office of guarding "dat Shprowl." "If you see him too much unhappy for my absence, and trying for some diwersion by making himself free," said Carl, instructing him in the use of the weapon, "you shall shust cock it _so_,--present it at his head or stomach, vichever is conwenient--_so_,--then pull the trigger as you please, till he is vunce more quiet. That is all. Now I shall say goot pie to him till I come pack." "Why don't you kill and eat him?" asked Withers, watching the boy's operations with humorous enjoyment. "Him?" said Carl, dryly. "Thank ye, sir; I am not fond of weal." As Pomp and the patriots remained in the cave, it was not anticipated that Lysander would give any trouble. With Carl at his side, Penn bore the torch above his head, and plunged into the darkness, which seemed to retreat before them only to reappear behind, surrounding and pursuing their little circle of light as it advanced. A gallery, tortuous, lofty, sculptured by the gnomes into grotesque and astonishing forms, led from the inhabited vestibule to the wonders beyond. They had gone but a few rods when they saw a faint glimmer before them, which increased to a mild yellowish radiance flickering on the walls. It was the light of Cudjo's torch. They found Cudjo and Virginia waiting for them at the entrance of a long and spacious hall, whose floor was heaped with fragments of rock, some of huge size, which had evidently fallen from the roof. "De cave whar us lives, des' like dis yer when me find um in de fust place," the negro was saying to Virginia. "Right smart stuns dar." "What did you do with them?" "Tuk all me could tote to make your little dressum-room wiv. Lef' de big 'uns fur cheers when me hab comp'ny, hiah yah! When Pomp come, him help me place 'em around scrumptious like. Pomp bery strong--lif' like you neber see!" Climbing over the stones, they reached, at the farther end of the hall, an abrupt termination of the floor. A black abyss yawned beyond. In its invisible depths the moan of waters could be heard. Virginia, who had been thrilled with wonder and fear, standing in the hall of the stones, and thinking of those crushing masses showered from the roof, now found it impossible not to yield to the terrors of her excited imagination. "I cannot go any farther!" she said, recoiling from the gulf, and drawing Penn back from it. "Come right 'long!" cried Cudjo; "no trouble, missis!" "See, he has piled stones in here and made some very good and safe stairs. Take my torch, Carl, and follow; Cudjo will go before with his. Now, one step at a time. I will not let thee fall." Thus assured, she ventured to make the descent. A strong arm was about her waist; a strong and supporting spirit was at her side; and from that moment she felt no fear. The limestone, out of which the cave was formed, lay in nearly horizontal strata; and, at the bottom of Cudjo's stairs, they came upon another level floor. It was smooth and free from rubbish. A gray vault glimmered above their heads in the torchlight. The walls showed strange and grotesque forms in bas-relief, similar to those of the first gallery: here a couchant lion, so distinctly outlined that it seemed as if it must have been chiselled by human art; an Indian sitting in a posture of woe, with his face buried in his hands; an Arctic hunter wrestling with a polar bear; the head of a turbaned Turk; and, most wonderful of all, the semblance of a vine (Penn named it "Jonah's gourd"), which spread its massive branches on the wall, and, climbing under the arched roof, hung its heavy fruit above their heads. Close by "Jonah's gourd" a little stream gushed from the side of the rock, and fell into a fathomless well. The torches were held over it, and the visitors looked down. Solid darkness was below. Carl took from his pocket a stone. "It is the same," he said, "that Mishter Sprowl pumped his head against. I thought I should find some use for it; and now let's see." He dropped it into the well. It sunk without a sound, the noise of its distant fall being lost in the solemn and profound murmur of the descending water. "What make de cave, anyhow?" asked Cudjo. "The wery question I vas going to ask," said Carl. "It will take but a few words to tell you all I know about it," said Penn. "Water containing carbonic acid gas has the quality of dissolving such rock as this part of the mountain is made of. It is limestone; and the water, working its way through it, dissolves it as it would sugar, only very slowly. Do you understand?" "O, yes, massa! de carbunkum asses tote it away!" Penn smiled, and continued his explanation, addressing himself to Carl. "So, little by little, the interior of the rock is worn, until these great cavities are formed." "But what comes o' de rock?" cried Cudjo; "dat's de question!" "What becomes of the sugar that dissolves in your coffee?" "Soaks up, I reckon; so ye can't see it widout it settles." "Just so with the limestone, Cudjo. It _soaks up_, as you say. And see!--I will show you where a little of it has settled. Notice this long white spear hanging from the roof." "Dat? Dat ar a stun icicle. Me broke de pint off oncet, but 'pears like it growed agin. Times de water draps from it right smart." "A good idea--a stone icicle! It grew as an icicle grows downward from the eaves. It was formed by the particles of lime in the water, which have collected there and hardened into what is called _stalactite_. These curious smooth white folds of stone under it, which look so much like a cushion, were formed by the water as it dropped. This is called _stalagmite_." "Heap o' dem 'ar sticktights furder 'long hyar," observed Cudjo, anxious to be showing the wonders. They came into a vast chamber, from the floor of which rose against the darkness columns resembling a grove of petrified forest trees. The flaming torches, raised aloft in the midst of them, revealed, supported by them, a wonderful gothic roof, with cornice, and frieze, and groined arches, like the interior of a cathedral. A very distinct fresco could also be seen, formed by mineral incrustations, on the ceiling and walls. On a cloudy background could be traced forms of men and beasts, of forests and flowers, armies, castles, and ships, not sculptured like the figures before described, but designed by the subtile pencil of some sprite, who, Virginia suggested, must have been the subterranean brother of the Frost. "How wonderful!" she said. "And is it not strange how Nature copies herself, reproducing silently here in the dark the very same forms we find in the world above! Here is a rose, perfect!" "With petals of pure white gypsum," said Penn. Whilst they were talking, Cudjo passed on. They followed a little distance, then halted. The light of his torch had gone out in the blackness, and the sound of his footsteps had died away. Carl remained with the other torch; and there they stood together, without speaking, in the midst of immense darkness ingulfing their little isle of light, and silence the most intense. Suddenly they heard a voice far off, singing; then two, then three voices; then a chorus filling the heart of the mountain with a strange spiritual melody. Virginia was enraptured, and Carl amazed. Penn, who had known what was coming, looked upon them with pride and delight. At length the music, growing faint and fainter, melted and was lost in the mysterious vaults through which it had seemed to wander and soar away. It was a minute after all was still before either spoke. "Certainly," Virginia exclaimed, "if I had not heard of a similar effect produced in the Mammoth Cave, I should never have believed that marvellous chorus was sung by a single voice!" "A single woice!" repeated Carl, incredulous. "There vas more as a dozen woices!" "Right, Carl!" laughed Penn. "The first was Cudjo's; and all the rest were those, of the nymph Echo and her companions." They continued their course through the halls of the echoes, and soon came to an arched passage, at the entrance of which Penn paused and placed the torch in a niche. A projection of the rock prevented the light from shining before them, yet their way was softly illumined from beyond, as by a dim phosphorescence. They advanced, and in a moment their eyes, grown accustomed to the obscurity, came upon a scene of surprising and magical beauty. "The Grotto of Undine," said Penn. It was, to all appearances, a nearly spherical concavity, some thirty yards in length, and perhaps twenty in perpendicular diameter. Carl's torch was concealed in the niche, and Cudjo's was nowhere visible; yet the whole interior was luminous with a dim and silvery halo. A narrow corridor ran round the sides, and resembled a dark ring swimming in nebulous light, midway between the upper and nether hemispheres of the wondrous hollow globe. Within this horizontal rim, floor there was none; and they stood upon its brink; and, looking up, they saw the marvellous vault all sparkling with stars and beaming with pale, pendent, taper, crystalline flames, noiseless and still; and, looking down, beheld beneath their feet, and shining with a yet more soft and dreamy lustre, the perfect counterpart of the vault above. Penn held Virginia upon the verge. A bewildering ecstasy captivated her reason as she gazed. They seemed to be really in the grotto of some nymph who had fled the instant she saw her privacy invaded, or veiled the immortal mystery and loveliness of her charms in some mesh of the glimmering nimbus that baffled and entangled the sight. Save one or two stifled cries of rapture from Virginia and Carl, not a syllable was uttered: perfect stillness prevailed, until Penn said, in a whisper,-- "Wouldst thou like to see the face of Undine? Bend forward. Do not fear: I hold thee!" By gentle compulsion he induced her to comply. She bent over the brink, and looked down, when, lo! out of the hazy effulgence beneath, emerged a face looking up at her--a face dimly seen, yet full of vague wonder and surprise--a face of unrivalled sweetness and beauty, Penn thought. What did Virginia think?--for it was the reflection of her own. "O, Penn! how it startled me!" "But isn't she a Grace? Isn't she loveliness itself?" "I hope you think so!" she whispered, with arch frankness, a sweet coquettish confidence ravishing to his soul. "I do!" And in the privacy of telling her so, his lips just brushed her ear. Did you ever, in whispering some secret trifle, some all-important, heavenly nothing, just brush the dearest little ear in the world with your lips? or, in listening to the syllables of divine nonsense, feel the warm breath and light touch of the magnetic thrilling mouth? Then you know something of what Penn and Virginia experienced for a brief moment in the Grotto of Undine. Just then a duplicate glow, like a double sunrise, one part above and the other below the horizon, appeared at the farther end of the grotto. It increased, until they saw come forth from behind an upright rock an upright torch; and at the same time, from behind a suspended rock beneath, an inverted torch. Immediately after two Cudjoes came in sight; one standing erect on the rock above, and the other standing upside down on--or rather under--the rock below. "Take your torch, Carl," said Penn, "and go around and meet him." The boy returned to the niche; and presently two Carls, with two torches, were seen moving around the rim of the corridor, one upright above, the other walking miraculously, head downwards, below. The two Carls had not reached the rock, when the two Cudjoes stooped, and took up each a stone and threw them. One fell _upward_ (so to speak), as the other fell downward: they met in the centre: there was a strange clash, which echoed through the hollow halls; and in a moment the entire nether hemisphere of the enchanted grotto was shattered into numberless flashing and undulating fragments. Virginia had already perceived that the appearance of a concave sphere was an illusion produced by the ceiling lighted by Cudjo's hidden torch, and mirrored in a floor of glassy water. Yet she was entirely unprepared for this astonishing result; and at sight of the Cudjo beneath instantaneously annihilated by the plashing of a stone, she started back with a scream. Fortunately, Penn still held her close, no doubt in a fit of abstraction, forgetting that his arms were no longer necessary to prevent her falling, as when she leaned to look at the shadowy Undine. "All those stalactites," said he, as the two torches were held towards the roof, "are of the most beautiful crystalline structure; and the spaces between are all studded with brilliant spars. The first time I was here, it was April; the mountain springs were full, and every one of these _stone icicles_ was dripping with water that percolated through the strata above. The effect was almost as surprising as what we saw before Cudjo cast the stone. The surface of the pool seemed all leaping and alive with perpetual showers of dancing pearls. But now the springs are low, or the water has found another channel. Yet this basin is always full." "Why, so it is! I had no idea the water was so near!" And Virginia, stooping, dipped her hand. The mirrored crystals were still coruscating and waving in the ripples, as they passed around the rim of rock, and followed Cudjo into a scarcely less beautiful chamber beyond. Here was no water; but in its place was a floor of alabaster, from which arose a great variety of pure white stalagmites, to meet each its twin stalactite pendent from above. In some cases they did actually meet and grow together in perfect pillars, reaching from floor to roof. "The stalagmites are very beautiful," said Virginia; "but the stalactites are still more beautiful." "I think," said Penn, "there is a moral truth symbolized by them. As the rock above gives forth its streaming life, it benefits and beautifies the rock below, while at the same time it adorns still more richly its own beautiful breast. So it always is with Charity: it blesses him that receives, but it blesses far more richly him that gives." "O, must we pass on?" said Virginia, casting longing eyes towards all those lovely forms. "We are to return the same way," replied Penn. "But now Cudjo seems to be in a hurry." "Dat's de last ob de sticktights," cried the black, standing at the end of the colonnade, and waving his torch above his head. "Now we's comin' to de run." "Come," said Penn, "and I will show thee what Hood must have meant by the 'dark arch of the black flowing river.'" A stupendous cavern of seemingly endless extent opened before them. Cudjo ran on ahead, shouting wildly under the hollow, reverberating dome, and waving his torch, which soon appeared far off, like a flaming star amid a night of darkness. Then there were two stars, which separated, and, standing one above the other, remained stationary. "Listen!" said Penn. And they heard the liquid murmur of flowing water. He took the torch from Carl, and advancing towards the right wall of the cavern, showed, flowing out of it, through a black, arched opening, a river of inky blackness. It rolled, with scarce a ripple, slow, and solemn, and still, out of that impenetrable mystery, and swept along between the wall on one side and a rocky bank on the other. By this bank they followed it, until they came to a natural bridge, formed by a limestone cliff, through which it had worn its channel, and under which it disappeared. On this bridge they found Cudjo perched above the water with his torch. They passed the bridge without crossing,--for the farther end abutted high upon the cavern wall,--and found the river again flowing out on the lower side. Few words were spoken. The vastness of the cave, the darkness, the mystery, the inky and solemn stream pursuing its noiseless course, impressed them all. Suddenly Virginia exclaimed,-- "Light ahead!" though Carl was with her, and Cudjo now walked behind. It was a gray glimmer, which rapidly grew to daylight as they advanced. "It is the chasm, or sink, where the roof of the cave has fallen in," said Penn. While he spoke, a muffled rustling of wings was heard above their heads. They looked up, and saw numbers of large black bats, startled by the torches, darting hither and thither under the dismal vault. Birds, too, flew out from their hiding-places as they advanced, and flapped and screamed in the awful gloom. To save the torches for their return, Cudjo now extinguished them. They walked in the brightening twilight along the bank of the stream, and found, to the surprise and delight of Virginia, some delicate ferns and pale green shrubs growing in the crevices of the rock. Vegetation increased as they proceeded, until they arrived at the sink, and saw before them steep banks covered with vines, thickets, and forest trees. The river, whose former course had evidently been stopped by the falling in of the forest, here made a curve to the right around the banks, and half disappeared in a channel it had hollowed for itself under the cliff. Here they left it, and climbed to the open day. "How strangely yellow the sunshine looks!" said Virginia. "It seems as though I had colored glasses on. And how sultry the air!" She looked up at the towering rocks that walled the chasm, and at the trees upon whose roots she stood, and whose tops waved in the summer breeze and sunshine, at the level of the mountain slope so far above. She could also see, on the summit of the cliffs, the charred skeletons of trees the late fire had destroyed. "It was here," said Penn, "that Stackridge and his friends escaped. This leaning tree with its low branches forms a sort of ladder to the limbs of that larger one; and by these it is easy to climb----" As he was speaking, all eyes were turned upwards; when suddenly Cudjo uttered a warning whistle, and dropped flat upon the ground. "A man!" said Carl, crouching at the foot of the tree. Penn did not fall or crouch, nor did Virginia scream, although, looking up through the scant leafage, they saw, standing on the cliff, and looking down straight at them, at the same time waving his hand exultantly, one whom they well knew--their enemy, Silas Ropes. XLI. _PROMETHEUS BOUND._ At the wave of the lieutenant's hand, a squad of soldiers rushed to the spot. In a minute their muskets were pointed downwards, and aimed. "Fly!" said Penn, thrusting Virginia from him. "Carl, take her away!" The boy drew her back down the rocks, following Cudjo, who was descending on all fours, like an ape. She turned her face in terror to look after Penn. There he stood, where she had left him, intrepid, his fine head uncovered, looking steadfastly up at the men on the cliff, and waving his hat, defiantly. At once she recognized his noble self-sacrifice. It was his object to attract their fire, and so shield her from the bullets as she fled. She struggled from Carl's grasp. "O, Penn," she cried, extending her hands beseechingly, and starting to return to him. "Fire!" shouted Silas Ropes. Crack! went a gun, immediately succeeded by an irregular volley, like a string of exploding fire-crackers. Penn, expecting death, saw first the rapid flashes, then the soldiers half concealed by the smoke of their own guns. The smoke cleared, and there he still stood, smiling--for Virginia was unhurt. "Your practice is very poor!" he shouted up at the soldiers; and, putting on his hat, he walked calmly away. The bullets had struck the trees and flattened on the stones all around him; but he was untouched. And before the rebels could reload their pieces, he was safe with his companions in the cavern. He found Cudjo hastily relighting his torch. Virginia was sitting on a stone where Carl had placed her; powerless with the reaction of fear; her countenance, white as that of a snow-image in the gloom, turned upon Penn as if she knew not whether it was really he, or his apparition. She did not rise to meet him. She could not speak. Her eyes were as the eyes of one that beholds a miracle of God's mercy. "Is no guns here?" cried Carl. "De men hab all urn's guns,"' said Cudjo, over his kindlings. "Me gwine fotch 'em!" And, his torch lighted, he darted away. In a minute he was out of sight and hearing; only the flame he bore could be seen dancing like an ignis fatuus in the darkness of the cavern. "O, if I had only that pistol, Carl!" said Penn. "I could manage to defend the chasm with it until they come. But wishes won't help us. Virginia, Deslow has turned traitor! He must have known his friends were going this morning to visit thy father, or else he could not so well have chosen his time for betraying them." He lighted his torch, and lifted Virginia to her feet. "Have no fear. Even if the rebels get possession here, the subterranean passages can be held by a dozen men against a hundred." "I am not afraid now; I am quite strong." "That is well. Carl, take the light and go with her." "And vat shall you do?" "I will stay and watch the movements of the soldiers." "Wery goot. But I have vun little obshection." "What is it?" "You know the vay petter, and you vill take her safer as I can. But my eyes is wery wigorous, and I vill engage to vatch the cusses myself." "Thou art right, my Carl!" said Penn, who indeed felt that it was for him, and for no other, to convey Virginia back to her father and safety. He crept upon the rocks, and took a last observation of the cliffs. Not a soldier was in sight. But that fact did not delight him much. "They fear a possible shot or two. No doubt they are making preparations, and when all is ready they will descend. I only hope they will delay long enough! Farewell, Carl!" "Goot pie, Penn! Goot pie, Wirginie!" cried Carl, with stout heart and cheery voice. And as he saw them depart,--Penn's arm supporting her,--listened for the last murmur of their voices, and watched for the last glimmer of the torch as it was swallowed by the darkness, and he was left alone, he continued to smile grimly; but his eyes were dim. "They are wery happy together! And I susphect the time vill come ven he vill marry her; and then they vill neither of 'em care much for me. Veil, I shall love 'em, and wish 'em happy all the same!" With which thought he smiled still more resolutely than before, and squeezed the tears from his eyes very tenderly, in order, probably, to keep those useful organs as "wigorous" as possible for the work before him. * * * * * Handcuffed and securely bound to the rock, that modern Prometheus, Captain Lysander Sprowl, like his mythical prototype, felt the vulture's beak in his vitals. Chagrin devoured his liver. An overflow of southern bile was the result, and he turned yellow to the whites of his eyes. Old Toby noticed the phenomenon. Poor old Toby, with that foolish head and large tropical heart of his, knew no better than to feel a movement of compassion. "Kin uh do any ting fur ye, sar?" The unfeigned sympathy of the question gave the wily Prometheus his cue. He uttered a feeble moan, and studied to look as much sicker than he was as possible. Pity at the sight made the old negro forget much which a white man would have been apt to remember--the disgrace this wretch had brought upon "the family;" and the recent cruel whipping, from which his own back was still sore. "Ye pooty sick, sar?" "Water!" gasped Lysander. The patriots had finished their coffee and taken their guns. Toby ran to them. "Some on ye be so good as keep an eye skinned on de prisoner, while I's gittin' him a drink!" He hastened with the gourd to a dark interior niche where a little trickling spring dripped, drop by drop, into a basin hollowed in the rocky floor. As he bore it, cool and brimming, to his captive-patient, Withers said,-- "I don't keer! it's a sight to make most white folks ashamed of their Christianity, to see that old nigger waiting on that rascal, 'fore his own back has done smarting!" "If, as I believe," said Mr. Villars, "men stand approved before God, not for their pride of intellect or of birth, but for the love that is in their hearts, who can doubt but there will be higher seats in heaven for many a poor black man than for their haughty masters?" "According to that," replied Withers, "maybe some besides the haughty masters will be a little astonished if they ever git into heaven--nigger-haters that won't set in a car, or a meeting-house, or to see a theatre-play, if there's a nigger allowed the same privilege! Now I never was any thing of an emancipationist; but by George! if there's anything I detest, it's this etarnal and unreasonable prejudice agin' niggers! How do you account for it, Mr. Villars?" "Prejudice," said the old man, "is always a mark of narrowness and ignorance. You might almost, I think, decide the question of a man's Christianity by his answer to this: 'What is your feeling towards the negro?' The larger his heart and mind, the more compassionate and generous will be his views. But where you find most bigotry and ignorance, there you will find the negro hated most violently. I think there are men in the free states whose sins of prejudice and blind passion against the unhappy race are greater than those of the slaveholders themselves." "Our interest is in our property--that's nat'ral; but what possesses them to want to see the nigger's face held tight to the grindstone, and never let up?" said Withers. "Their howl now is, 'Put down the rebellion! but don't tech slavery, and don't bring in the nigger!' As if, arter dogs had been killing my sheep, you should preach to me, 'Save your sheep, neighbor, but don't agitate the dog question! You mustn't tech the dogs!' I say, if the dogs begin the trouble, they must take the consequences, even if my dog's one." "They maintain," said Grudd, "that, no matter what slavery may have done, there is no power in the constitution to destroy it." "I am reminded of a story my daughter Virginia was reading to me not long ago,--how the great polar bear is sometimes killed. The hunter has a spear, near the pointed end of which is securely fastened a strong cross-piece. The bear, you know, is aggressive; he advances, meets the levelled shaft, seizes the cross-piece with his powerful arms, and with a growl of rage hugs the spear-head into his heart. Now, slavery is just such another great, stupid, ferocious monster. The constitution is the spear of Liberty. The cross-piece, if you like, is the republican policy which has been nailed to it, and which has given the bear a hold upon it. He is hugging it into his heart. He is destroying himself." The story was scarcely ended when Cudjo leaped into the circle, crying,-- "De sogers! de sogers!" "Where?" said Pomp, instinctively springing to his rifle. "In de sink! Dey fire onto we and de young lady!" "Any one hurt?" "No. Massa Hapgood cotch de bullets in him's hat!" for this was the impression the negro had brought away with him. "Hull passel sogers! Sile Ropes,--seed him fust ob all!" It was some moments before the patriots fully comprehended this alarming intelligence. But Pomp understood it instantly. "Gentlemen, will you fight? Your side of the house is attacked!" There was a moment's confusion. Then those who had not already taken their guns, sprang to them. They had brought lanterns, which were now burning. They plunged into the gallery, following Pomp. Cudjo ran for his sword, drew it from the scabbard, and ran yelling after them. The sudden tumult died in the depths of the cavern; and all was still again before those left behind had recovered from their astonishment. There was one whose astonishment was largely mixed with joy. A moment since he was lying like a man near the last gasp; but now he started up, singularly forgetful of his dying condition, until reminded of it by feeling the restraint of the rope and seeing Toby. Lysander sank back with a groan. "'Pears like you's a little more chirk," said Toby. "My head! my head!" said Lysander. "My skull is fractured. Can't you loose the rope a little? The strain on my wrists is--" ending the sentence with a faint moan. Had Toby forgotten the strain on _his_ wrists, and the anguish of the thumbs, when this same cruel Lysander had him strung up? "Bery sorry, 'deed, sar! But I can't unloosen de rope fur ye." And, full of pity as he was, the old negro resolutely remained faithful to his charge. Sprowl tried complaints, coaxing, promises, but in vain. "Well, then," said he, "I have only one request to make. Let me see my wife, and ask her forgiveness before I die." "Dat am bery reason'ble; I'll speak to her, sar." And, without losing sight of his prisoner, Toby went to Cudjo's pantry, now Virginia's dressing-room, into which Salina had retreated, and notified her of the dying request. Salina was in one of her most discontented moods. What had she fled to the mountain for? she angrily asked herself. After the first gush of grateful emotion on meeting her father and sister, she had begun quickly to see that she was not wanted there. Then she looked around despairingly on the dismal accommodations of the cave. She had not that sustaining affection, that nobleness of purpose, which enabled her father and sister to endure so cheerfully all the hardships of their present situation. The rude, coarse life up there, the inconveniences, the miseries, which provoked only smiles of patience from them, filled her with disgust and spleen. But there was one sorer sight to those irritated eyes than all else they saw--her captive husband. She could not forget that he _was_ her husband; and, whether she loved or hated him, she could not bear to witness his degradation. Yet she could not keep her eyes off of him; and so she had shut herself up. "He wishes to speak with me? To ask my forgiveness? Well! he shall have a chance!" She went and stood over the prisoner, looking down upon him coldly, but with compressed lips. "Well, what do you want of me?" Sprowl made a motion for Toby to retire. Humbly the old negro obeyed, feeling that he ought not to intrude upon the interview; yet keeping his eye still on the prisoner, and his hand on the pistol. "Sal,"--in a low voice, looking up at her, and showing his manacled hands,--"are you pleased to see me in this condition?" "I'd rather see you dead! If I were you, I'd kill myself!" "There's a knife on the table behind you. Give it to me, free my hands, and you won't have to repeat your advice." She merely glanced over her shoulder at the knife, then bent her scowling looks once more on him. "A captain in the confederate army! outwitted and taken prisoner by a boy! kept a prisoner by an old negro! This, then, is the military glory you bragged of in advance! And I was going to be so proud of being your wife! Well, I am proud!" There was gall in her words. They made Lysander writhe. "Bad luck will happen, you know. Once out of this scrape, you'll see what I'll do! Come, Sal, now be good to me." "Good to you! I've tried that, and what did I get for it?" "I own I've given you good cause to hate me. I'm sorry for it. The truth is, we never understood each other, Sal. You was always quick and sharp yourself; you'll confess that. You know how easy it is to irritate me; and I'm a devil when in a passion. But all that's past. Hate me, if you will--I deserve it. But you don't want to see me eternally disgraced, I know." She laughed disdainfully. "If you will disgrace yourself, how can I help it?" "The other end of the cave is attacked, and it is sure to be carried. I shall soon be in the hands of my own men. If I don't succeed in doing something for myself first, it'll be impossible for me to regain the position I've lost." "Well, do something for yourself! What hinders you?" "This cursed rope! I wouldn't mind the handcuffs if the rope was away. Just a touch with that knife--that's all, Sal." "Yes! and then what would you do?" "Run." "And lose no time in sending your men to attack this end of the cave, too! O, I know you!" "I swear to you, Sal! I never will take advantage of it in that way, if you will do me just this little favor. It will be worth my life to me; and it shall cost you nothing, nor your friends." "Hush! I know too well what your promises amount to. How can I depend even upon your oath? There's no truth or honor in you!" "Well?" said Lysander, despairingly. "Well, I am going to help you, for all that. Only it must not appear as if I did it. And you shall keep your oath,--or one of us shall die for it! Now be still!" She walked back past the block that served as a table, and, when between it and Toby, quietly took the knife from it, concealing it in her sleeve. "Don't come for me to hear any more dying requests," she said to the old negro, with a sneer. "Your prisoner will survive. Only give him a little coffee, if there is any. Here is some: I will wait upon him." And, carrying the coffee, she dropped the knife at Lysander's side. XLII. _PROMETHEUS UNBOUND._ Five minutes later Penn and Virginia arrived. Penn ran eagerly for his musket. At the same time, looking about the cave, he was surprised to see only the old clergyman sitting by the fire, and Prometheus reclining by his rock. "Where is Salina? Where is Toby?" "Toby has just left his charge to see what discovery Salina has made outside. She went out previously and thought she saw soldiers." At that moment Toby came running in. "Dar's some men way down by the ravine! O, sar! I's bery glad you's come, sar!" Having announced the discovery, and greeted Penn and Virginia, he went to look at his prisoner. He had been absent from him but a minute: he found him lying as he had left him, and did not reflect, simple old soul, how much may be secretly accomplished by a desperate villain in that brief space of time. Penn took Pomp's glass, climbed along the rocky shelf, peered over the thickets, and saw on the bank of the ravine, where Salina pointed them out to him, several men. They were some distance below Gad's Leap (as he named the place where the spy met his death), and seemed to be occupied in extinguishing a fire. He levelled the glass. The recent burning of the trees and undergrowth had cleared the field for its operation. His eye sparkled as he lowered it. "I recognize one of our friends in a new uniform!"--handing the glass to Salina. Returning to the cave, he added, in Virginia's ear,-- "Augustus Bythewood!" The bright young brow contracted: "Not coming here?" "I trust not. Yet his proximity means mischief. Pomp will be interested!" He took his torch and gun. There was no time for adieus. In a moment he was gone. There was one who had been waiting with anxious eyes and handcuffed hands to see him go. Meanwhile Mr. Villars had called Toby to him, and said, in a low voice,-- "Is all right with your prisoner?" "O, yes; he am bery quiet, 'pears like." "You must look out for him. He is crafty. I feel that all is not right. When you were out, I thought I heard something like the sawing or tearing of a cord. Look to him, Toby." "O, yes, sar, I shall!" And the confident old negro approached the rock. There lay the rope about the base of it, still firmly tied on the side opposite the prisoner. And there crouched he, in the same posture of durance as before, except that now he had his legs well under him. His handcuffed hands lay on the rope. "Right glad ter see ye convanescent, sar!" Toby was bending over, examining his captive with a grin of satisfaction; when the latter, in a weak voice, made a humble request. "I wish you would put on my cap." "Wiv all de pleasure in de wuld, sar." The cap had been thrown off purposely. Unsuspecting old Toby! The pistol was in his pocket. He stooped to pick up the cap and place it on Sprowl's head; when, like a jumping devil in a box when the cover is touched, up leaped Lysander on his legs, knocking him down with the handcuffs, and springing over him. Before the old man was fully aware of what had happened, and long before he had regained his feet, Lysander was in the thickets. In his hurry he thrust his wife remorselessly from the ledge before him, and flung her rudely down upon the sharp boughs and stones, as he sped by her. There Toby found her, when he came too late with his pistol. Her hands were cut; but she did not care for her hands. Ingratitude wounds more cruelly than sharp-edged rocks. Penn had judged correctly in two particulars. Deslow had turned traitor. And the personage in the new uniform down by the ravine was Lieutenant-Colonel Bythewood. Deslow had gone straight to head-quarters after quitting Withers the previous night, given himself up, taken the oath of allegiance to the confederacy, and engaged to join the army or provide a substitute. As if this were not enough, he had also been required to expose the secret retreat of his late companions. To this, we know not whether reluctantly, he had consented; and it was this act of treachery that had brought Silas Ropes to the sink, and Bythewood to the ravine. Advantage had been taken of the fog in the morning to march back again, up the mountain, the men who had marched down, baffled and inglorious, after the wild-goose chase Carl led them the night before. Bythewood commanded the expedition at his own request, being particularly interested in two persons it was designed to capture--Virginia and Pomp. It is supposed that he took a sinister interest in Penn also. But Bythewood was not anxious to deprive Ropes of his laurels; and perhaps he felt himself to be too fine a gentleman to mix in a vulgar fight. He accordingly sent Ropes forward to surprise the patriots at the sink, while he moved with a small force cautiously up towards Gad's Leap, with two objects in view. One was, to make some discovery, if possible, with regard to the missing Lysander; the other, to intercept the retreat of the fugitives, should they be driven from the cave through the opening unknown to Deslow, but which he believed to be in this direction. The firing on the right apprised Augustus that the attack had commenced. This was the signal for him to advance boldly up from the ravine, and establish himself on an elevation commanding a view of the slopes. Here he had been discovered very opportunely by Salina, who was seeking some pretext for calling Toby from his prisoner. In the shade of some bushes that had escaped the fire, he sat comfortably smoking his cigar on one end of a log, which was smoking on its own account at the other end. "Put out that fire, some of you," said Augustus. This was scarcely done, when suddenly a man came leaping down the slope, holding his hands together in a very singular manner. Bythewood started to his feet. "Deuce take me!" said he, "if it ain't Lysander! But what's the matter with his hands, sergeant?" "Looks to me as though he had bracelets on," replied the experienced sergeant. Some men were despatched to meet and bring the captain in. The sergeant found a key in his pocket to unlock the handcuffs. Then Lysander told the story of his capture, which, though modified to suit himself, excited Bythewood's derision. This stung the proud captain, who, to wash the stain from his honor, proposed to take a squad of men and surprise the cave. Fired by the prospect of seeing Virginia in his power, Augustus had but one important order to give: "Bring your prisoners to me here!" Instead of proceeding directly to the cave, Lysander used strategy. He knew that if his movements were observed, and their object suspected, Virginia would have ample time to escape with her father and old Toby into the interior caverns, where it might be extremely difficult to discover them. He accordingly started in the direction of the sink, as if with intent to reënforce the soldiers fighting there; then, dropping suddenly into a hollow, he made a short turn to the left, and advanced swiftly, under cover of rocks and bushes, towards the ledge that concealed the cave. * * * * * "How _could_ you let him go, Toby!" cried Virginia, filled with consternation at the prisoner's escape. For she saw all the mischievous consequences that were likely to follow in the track of that fatal error: Cudjo's secret, so long faithfully kept, now in evil hour betrayed; the cave attacked and captured, and the brave men fighting at the sink, believing their retreat secure, taken suddenly in the rear; and so disaster, if not death, resulting to her father, to Penn, to all. The anguish of her tones pierced the poor old negro's soul. "Dunno', missis, no more'n you do! 'Pears like he done gnawed off de rope wiv his teef!" For Lysander, having used the knife, had hidden it under the skins on which he sat. Then Salina spoke, and denounced herself. After all the pains she had taken to conceal her agency in Sprowl's escape,--inconsistent, impetuous, filled with rage against herself and him,--she exclaimed,-- "I did it! Here is the knife I gave him!" Virginia stood white and dumb, looking at her sister. Toby could only tear his old white wool and groan. "Salina," said her father, solemnly, "you have done a very treacherous and wicked thing! I pity you!" Severest reproaches could not have stung her as these words, and the terrified look of her sister, stung the proud and sensitive Salina. "I have done a damnable thing! I know it. Do you ask what made me? The devil made me. I knew it was the devil at the time; but I did it." "O, what shall we do, father?" said Virginia. "There is nothing you can do, my daughter, unless you can reach our friends and warn them." "O," she said, in despair, "there is not a lamp or a torch! All have been taken!" "And it is well! It would take you at least an hour to go and return; and that man--" Mr. Villars would never, if he could help it, speak Lysander's name--"will be here again before that time, if he is coming." "He is not coming," said Salina. "He swore to me that he would not take advantage of his escape to betray or injure any of you. He will keep his oath. If he does not----" She paused. There was a long, painful silence; the old man musing, Virginia wringing her hands, Toby keeping watch outside. "Listen!" said Salina. "I am a woman. But I will defend this place. I will stand there, and not a man shall enter till I am dead. As for you, Jinny, take _him_, and go. You can hide somewhere in the caves. Leave me and Toby. I will not ask you to forgive me; but perhaps some time you will think differently of me from what you do now." "Sister!" said Virginia, with emotion, "I do forgive you! God will forgive you too; for he knows better than we do how unhappy you have been, and that you could not, perhaps, have done differently from what you have done." Salina was touched. She threw her arms about Virginia's neck. "O, I have been a bad, selfish girl! I have made both you and father very unhappy; and you have been only too kind to me always! Now leave me alone--go! I hope I shall not trouble you much longer." She brushed back her hair from her large white forehead, and smiled a strange and vacant smile. Virginia saw that her wish was to die. "Sister," she said gently, "we will all stay together, if you stay. We must not give up this place! Our friends are lost--we are lost--if we give it up! Perhaps we can do something. Indeed, I think we can! If we only had arms! Women have used arms before now!" Toby entered. "Dey ain't comin' dis yer way, nohow! Dey's gwine off to de norf, hull passel on 'em." "Give me that pistol, Toby," said Salina. "You can use Cudjo's axe, if we are attacked. Place it where you can reach it, and then return to your lookout. Don't be deceived; but warn us at once if there is danger." "My children," said the old man, "come near to me! I would I could look upon you once; for I feel that a separation is near. Dear daughters!"--he took a hand of each,--"if I am to leave you, grieve not for me; but love one another. Love one another. To you, Salina, more especially, I say this; for though I know that deep down in your heart there is a fountain of affection, you are apt to repress your best feelings, and to cherish uncharitable thoughts. For your own good, O, do not do so any more! Believe in God. Be a child of God. Then no misfortune can happen to you. My children, there is no great misfortune, other than this--to lose our faith in God, and our love for one another. I do not fear bodily harm, for that is comparatively nothing. For many years I have been blind; yet have I been blest with sight; for night and day I have seen God. And as there is a more precious sight than that of the eyes, so there is a more precious life than this of the body. The life of the spirit is love and faith. Let me know that you have this, and I shall no longer fear for you. You will be happy, wherever you are. Why is it I feel such trust that Virginia will be provided for? Salina, let your heart be like hers, and I shall no longer fear for you!" "I wish it was! I wish it was!" said Salina, pouring out the anguish of her heart in those words. "But I cannot make it so. I cannot be good! I am--Salina! Is there fatality in a name?" "I know the infirmity of your natural disposition, my child. I know, too, what circumstances have done to embitter it. Our heavenly Father will take all that into account. Yet there is no one who has not within himself faults and temptations to contend with. Many have far greater than yours to combat, and yet they conquer gloriously. I cannot say more. My children, the hour has come which is to decide much for us all. Remember my legacy to you,--Have Faith and Love." They knelt before him. He laid his hands upon their heads, and in a brief and fervent prayer blessed them. Both were sobbing. Tears ran down his cheeks also; but his countenance was bright in its uplifted serenity, wearing a strange expression of grandeur and of joy. XLIII. _THE COMBAT._ Pomp, rifle in hand, bearing a torch, led the patriots on their rapid return through the caverns. "Lights down!" he said, as they approached the vicinity of the sink. "We shall see them; but they must not see us." They halted at the natural bridge; the torch was extinguished, and the patriots placed their lanterns under a rock. They then advanced as swiftly as possible in the obscurity, along the bank of the stream. In the hall of the bats they met Carl, who had seen their lights and come towards them. "Hurry! hurry!" he said. "They are coming down the trees like the devil's monkeys! a whole carawan proke loose!" Captain Grudd commanded the patriots; but Pomp commanded Captain Grudd. "Quick, and make no noise! We have every advantage; the darkness is on our side--those loose rocks will shelter us." They advanced until within a hundred yards of where the shaft of daylight came down. There they could distinguish, in the shining cleft under the brow of the cavern, and above the rocky embankment, the forms of their assailants. Some had already gained a footing. Others were descending the tree-trunks in a dark chain, each link the body of a rebel. "We must stop that!" said Pomp. The men were deployed forward rapidly, and a halt ordered, each choosing his position. "Ready! Aim!" At that moment, half a dozen men of the attacking party advanced, feeling their way over the rocks down which Penn and his companions had been seen to escape. The leader, shielding his eyes with his hand, peered into the gloom of the cavern. Coming from the light, he could see nothing distinctly. Suddenly he paused: had he heard the words of command whispered? or was he impressed by the awful mystery and silence? "Fire!" said Captain Grudd. Instantly a jagged line of flashes leaped across the breast of the darkness, accompanied by a detonation truly terrible. Each gun with its echoes, in those cavernous solitudes, thundered like a whole park of artillery: what, then, was the effect of the volley? The patriots were themselves appalled by it. The mountain trembled, and a gusty roar swept through its shuddering chambers, throbbing and pulsing long after the smoke of the discharge had cleared away. Pomp laughed quietly, while Withers exclaimed, "By the Etarnal! if I didn't fancy the hull ruf of the mountain had caved in!" "Load!" said Captain Grudd, sternly. The rebels advancing over the rocks had suddenly disappeared, having either fallen in the crevices or scrambled back up the bank while hidden from view by the smoke. The chain descending the tree had broken; those near the ground leaped down or slid, while those above seemed seized by a wild impulse to climb back with all haste to the summit of the wall. A few threw away their guns, which fell upon the heads of those below. At the same time those below might have been seen scampering to places of shelter behind rocks and trees. If ever panic were excusable, this surely was. Since the patriots were terrified by their own firing, we need not wonder at the alarm of the rebels. Some had seen the flashes sever the darkness, and their comrades fall; while all had felt the earthquake and the thundering. To those at the entrance it had seemed that these were the jaws and throat of a monster mountain-huge, which at their approach spat flame and bellowed. "Now is our time! Clear them out!" said Grudd. "Rush in and finish them with the bayonet!" said Stackridge. Six of the guns had bayonets, and his was one of them. "Not yet!" said Pomp. "They will fire on you from above. We must first attend to that. Shall I show you? Then do as I do!" Instinctively they accepted his lead. Loading his piece, he ran forward until, himself concealed under the brow of the cavern, he could see the rebels in the tree and on the cliff. "Once more! All together!" he said, taking aim. "Give the word, captain!" The men knelt among the loosely tumbled rocks, which served at once as a breastwork and as rests for their guns. The projecting roof of the cave was over them; through the obscure opening they pointed their pieces. Above them, in the full light, were the frightened confederates, some on the tree, some on the cliff, some leaping from the tree to the cliff; while their comrades in the sink lurked on the side opposite that where the patriots were. "Take the cusses on the top of the rocks!" said Stackridge. "The rest are harmless." "It's all them in the tree can do to take keer of themselves," added Withers. "Reg'lar secesh! All they ax is to be let alone." Grudd gave the word. Flame from a dozen muzzles shot upwards from the edge of the pit. When the smoke rolled away, the cliff was cleared. Not a rebel was to be seen, except those in the tree franticly scrambling to get out, and two others. One of these had fallen on the cliff: his head and one arm hung horribly over the brink. The other, in his too eager haste to escape from the tree, had slipped from the limb, and been saved from dashing to pieces on the rocks below only by a projection of the wall, to which he had caught, and where he now clung, a dozen feet from the top, and far above the river that rolled black and slow in its channel beneath the cliff. "Now with your bayonets!" said Pomp. "This way!" There were six bayonets before; now there were eight. "That Carl is worth his weight in gold!" said the enthusiastic Stackridge. While the patriots, preparing for their second volley, were getting positions among the rocks on the left, Carl had crept up the embankment in front, and brought away two muskets from two dead rebels. These were they who had fallen at the first fire. Both guns had bayonets. Pomp took one; Carl kept the other. Cudjo with his sword accompanied the charging party; Grudd and the rest remaining at their post, ready to pick off any rebel that should appear on the cliff. Swift and stealthy as a panther, Pomp crept around still farther to the left, under the projecting wall, raising his head cautiously now and then to look for the fugitives. "As I expected! They are over there, afraid to follow the stream into the cave, and hesitating whether to make a rush for the tree. All ready?" He looked around on his little force and smiled. Instead of eight bayonets, there were now nine. Penn had arrived. "All ready!" answered Stackridge. Pomp bounded upon the rocks and over them, with a yell which the rest took up as they followed, charging headlong after him. Cudjo, brandishing his sword, leaped and yelled with the foremost--a figure fantastically terrible. Penn, with the fiery Stackridge on one side, and his beloved Carl on the other, forgot that he had ever been a Quaker, hating strife. Not that he loved it now; but, remembering that these were the deadly foes of his country, and of those he loved, and feeling it a righteous duty to exterminate them, he went to the work, not like an apprentice, but a master,--without fear, self-possessed, impetuous, kindled with fierce excitement. The rebels in the sink, fifteen in number, had had time to rally from their panic; and they now seemed inclined to make resistance. They were behind a natural breastwork, similar to that which had sheltered the patriots on the other side. They levelled their guns hastily and fired. One of the patriots fell: it was Withers. "Give it to them!" shouted Pomp. "Every cussed scoundrel of 'em!" Stackridge cried. "Kill! kill! kill!" shrieked Cudjo. "Surrender! surrender!" thundered Penn. With such cries they charged over the rocks, straight at the faces and breasts of the confederates. Some turned to fly; but beyond them was the unknown darkness into which the river flowed: they recoiled aghast from that. A few stood their ground. The bayonet, which Penn had first made acquaintance with when it was thrust at his own breast, he shoved through the shoulder of a rebel whose clubbed musket was descending on Carl's head. Three inches of the blade come out of his back; and, bearing him downwards in his irresistible onset, Penn literally pinned him to the ground. Cudjo slashed another hideously across the face with the sword. Pomp took the first prisoner: it was Dan Pepperill. The rest soon followed Dan's example, cried quarter, and threw down their arms. "Quarter!" gasped the wretch Penn had pinned. "You spoke too late--I am sorry!" said Penn, with austere pity, as, placing his foot across the man's armpit to hold him while he pulled, he put forth his strength, and drew out the steel. A gush of blood followed, and, with a groan, the soldier swooned. "It is one of them wagabonds that gave you the tar and fedders!" said Carl. "And assisted at my hanging afterwards!" added Penn, remembering the ghastly face. Thus retribution followed these men. Gad and Griffin he had seen dead. Was it any satisfaction for him to feel that he was thus avenged? I think, not much. The devil of revenge had no place in his soul; and never for any personal wrong he had received would he have wished to see bloody violence done. The prisoners were disarmed, and ordered to remain where they were. "Bring the wounded to me," said Pomp, hastening back to the spot where Withers had fallen. Stackridge and another were lifting the fallen patriot and bearing him to the shelter of the cave. Pomp assisted, skilfully and tenderly. Then followed those who bore away the wounded prisoners and the guns that had been captured. Pepperill had been ordered to help. He and Carl carried the man whose face Cudjo had slashed. This was the only rebel who had fought obstinately: he had not given up until an arm was broken, and he was blinded by his own blood. Penn and Devitt brought up the rear with the swooning soldier. When half way over they were fired upon by the rebels rallying to the edge of the cliff. Grudd and his men responded sharply, covering their retreat. Penn felt a bullet graze his shoulder. It made but a slight flesh wound there; but, passing down, it entered the heart of the wounded man, whose swoon became the swoon of death. This was the only serious result of the confederate fire. "I am glad I did not kill him!" said Penn, as they laid the corpse beside the stream. Then out of the mask of blood which covered the face of the stout fellow who had fought so well, there issued a voice that spoke, in a strange tongue, these words:-- "_Was hat man mir gethan? Wo bin ich, mutter?_" But the words were not strange to Carl; neither was the voice strange. "Fritz! Fritz!" he answered, in the same language, "is it you?" "I am Fritz Minnevich; that is true. And you, I think, are my cousin Carl." They laid the wounded man near the stream, where Pomp was examining Withers's hurt. "O, Fritz!" said Carl, "how came you here?" "They said the Yankees were coming to take our farm. So Hans and I enlisted to fight. I got in here because I was ordered. We do as we are ordered. It was we who whipped the woman. We whipped her well. I hope my good looks will not be spoiled; for that would grieve our mother." Thus the soldier talked in his native tongue, while Carl, in sorrow and silence, washed the blood from his face. He remembered he was his father's brother's son; a good fellow, in his way; dull, but faithful; and he had not always treated him cruelly. Indeed, Carl thought not of his cruelty now at all, but only of the good times they had had together, in days when they were friends, and Frau Minnevich had not taught her boys to be as ill-natured as herself. "What for do you do this, Carl?" said Fritz. "There is no cause that you should be kind to me. I did you some ill turns. You did right to run away. But our father swears you shall have your share of the property if you ever come back for it, and the Yankees do not take it." "It is all lies they tell you about the Yankees!" said Carl. "O Pomp! this is my cousin--see what you can do for him." Pomp had been reluctantly convinced that he could do nothing for Withers: his wound was mortal. And Withers had said to him, in cheerful, feeble tones, "I feel I'm about to the eend of my tether. So don't waste yer time on me." So Pomp turned his attention to the Minnevich. But Penn and Stackridge remained with the dying patriot. "Wish ye had a Union flag to wrap me in when I'm dead, boys! That's what I've fit fur; that's what I meant to die fur, if 'twas so ordered. It's all right, boys! Jest look arter my family a little, won't ye? And don't give up old Tennessee!" These were his last words. Penn and Stackridge rejoined their comrades in the fight. "Shoot him! shoot him! shoot him!" cried Cudjo, in a frenzy of excitement, pointing at the rebel who had fallen from the tree upon the projection of the chasm wall. "Him dar! Dat Sile Ropes!" "Ropes?" said Penn, looking up through the opening. "That he!"--raising his gun. "But he can do no harm there; and he can't get out." "Don' ye see? Dey's got a rope to help him wif! Gib him a shot fust! O, gib him a shot!" The projection to which the lieutenant clung was a broken shelf less than half a yard in breadth. There he cowered in abject terror betwixt two dangers, that of falling if he attempted to move, and that of being picked off if he remained stationary and in sight. To avoid both, he got upon his hands and knees, and hid his face in the angle of the ledge, leaving the posterior part of his person prominent, no doubt thinking, like an ostrich, that if his head was in a hole, he was safe. The very ludicrousness of his situation saved him. The patriots reserved him to laugh at, and fired over him at the rebels on the cliff. At each shot, Silas could be seen to root his nose still more industriously into the rock. At length, however, as Cudjo had declared, a rope was brought and let down to him. "Take hold there!" shouted the rebels on the cliff. Ropes could feel the cord dangling on his back. "Tie it around your waist!" Silas, without daring to look up, put out his hand, which groped awkwardly and blindly for the rope as it swung to and fro all around it. Finally, he seized it, but ran imminent risk of falling as he drew it under his body. At length he seemed to have it secured; but in his hurry and trepidation he had fastened it considerably nearer his hips than his arms. The result, when the rebels above began to haul, can be imagined. Hips and heels were hoisted, while arms and head hung down, causing him to resemble very strikingly a frog hooked on for bait at the end of a fish-line. The affrighted face drawn out of its hole, looked down ridiculously hideous into the rocky and bristling gulf over which he swung. "Fire!" said Captain Grudd. The volley was aimed, not at Silas, but at those who were hauling him up. Cudjo shrieked with frantic joy, expecting to see his old enemy plunge head foremost among the stones on the bank of the stream. Such, no doubt, would have been the result, but for one sturdy and brave fellow at the rope. The rest, struck either with bullets or terror, fell back, loosing their hold. But this man clung fast, imperturbable. Alone, slowly, hand over hand, he hauled and hauled; grim, unterrified, faithful. But it was a tedious and laborious task for one, even the stoutest. The man had but a precarious foothold, and the rope rubbed hard on the edge of the cliff. Cudjo shrieked again, this time with despair at seeing his former overseer about to escape. "That's a plucky fellow!" said Stackridge, with stern admiration of the soldier's courage. "I like his grit; but he must stop that!" He reached for a loaded gun. He took Carl's. The boy turned pale, but said never a word, setting his lips firmly as he looked up at the cliff. Silas was swinging. The soldier was pulling in the rope, hitch by hitch, over the ledge. Stackridge took deliberate aim, and fired. For a moment no very surprising effect was perceptible, only the man stopped hauling. Then he went down on one knee, paying out several inches of the rope, and letting the suspended Silas dip accordingly. It became evident that he was hit; he still grasped the rope, but it began to glide through his hands. Silas set up a howl. "Hold me! hold me!"--at the same time extending all his fingers to grasp the rocks. The brave fellow made one last effort, and took a turn of the rope about his wrist. It did not slip through his hands any more. But soon _he_ began to slip--forward--forward--on both knees now--his head reeling like that of a drunken man, and at last pitching heavily over the cliff. Some of the cowards who had deserted their post sprang to save him; but too late: the man was gone. It was fortunate for Silas that he had been let down several feet thus gradually. He was near the ledge from which he had been lifted, and had just time to grasp it again and crawl upon it, when the man fell, turning a complete somerset over him, fearful to witness! revolving slowly in his swift descent through the air; still holding with tenacious grip the rope; plunging through the boughs like a mere log tumbled from the cliff, and striking the rocks below--dead. He had taken the rope with him; and Silas had been preserved from sharing his fate only by a lucky accident. The knot at his hips loosened itself as he clutched the ledge, and let the coil fly off as the man shot down. Not a gun was fired: rebels and patriots seemed struck dumb with horror at the brave fellow's fate. Then Carl whispered,-- "That vas my other cousin! That vas Hans!" "Cudjo! Cudjo! what are you about?" cried Penn. The black did not answer. Beside himself with excitement, he ran to the leaning tree and climbed it like an ape. The naked sword gleamed among the twigs. Reaching the trunk of the tall tree he ascended that as nimbly, never stopping until he had reached the upper limbs. There was one that branched towards the ledge where Silas clung. At a glance choosing that, Cudjo ran out upon it, until it bent beneath his weight. There he tried in vain to reach his ancient enemy with the sword; the distance was too great, even for his long arms. "Sile Ropes! ye ol' oberseer! g'e know Cudjo? Me Cudjo!" he yelled, slashing the end of the branch as if it had been his victim's flesh. "'Member de lickins? 'Member my gal ye got away? Now ye git yer pay!" While he was raving thus, one of the soldiers above, sheltering himself from the fire of the patriots by lying almost flat on the ground, levelled his gun at the half-crazed negro's breast, and pulled the trigger. A flash--a report--the sword fell, and went clattering down upon the rocks. Cudjo turned one wild look upward, clapping his hand to his breast. Then, with a terrible grimace, he cast his eyes down again at Ropes,--crept still farther out on the branch,--and leaped. Silas had his nose in the angle of the ledge again, and scarcely knew what had happened until he felt the negro alight on his back and fling his arms about him. "Cudjo shot! Cudjo die! But you go too, Sile Ropes!" As he gibbered forth these words, his long hands found the lieutenant's throat, and tightened upon it. A fearfully quiet moment ensued; then living and dying rolled together from the ledge, and dropped into the chasm. They struck the body of the dead Hans; that broke the fall; and Cudjo was beneath his victim. Ropes, stunned only, struggled to rise; but, held in that deadly embrace, he only succeeded in rolling himself down the embankment, Cudjo accompanying. The stream flowed beneath, black, with scarce a murmur. Silas neither saw nor heard it; but, continuing to struggle, and so continuing to roll, he reached the verge of the rocks, and fell with a splash into the current. Penn ran to the spot just in time to see the two bodies disappear together; the dying Cudjo and the drowning Silas sinking as one, and drifting away into the cavernous darkness of the subterranean river. XLIV. _HOW AUGUSTUS FINALLY PROPOSED._ After this there was a lull; and Penn, who had forgotten every thing else whilst the conflict was raging, remembered that he had seen Bythewood at the ravine, and hastened to inform Pomp of the circumstance. The death of Cudjo had plunged Pomp into a fit of stern, sad reverie. His surgical task performed, he stood leaning on his rifle, gazing abstractedly at the darkly gliding waves, when Penn's communication roused him. "Ha!" said he, with a slight start. "We must look to that! The danger here is over for the present, and two or three of us can be spared." "Shall I go, too?" said Carl. "It is time I vas seeing to my prisoner." "Come," said Pomp. And the three set out to return. Having but slight anticipations of trouble from the side of the ravine, they came suddenly, wholly unprepared, upon a scene which filled them with horror and amazement. The prisoner, as we know, had fled. We left him on his way back to the cave with a squad of men. Since which time, this is what had occurred. The assailants had approached so stealthily over the ledges, below which Toby was stationed, looking intently for them in another direction, that he had no suspicions of their coming until they suddenly dropped upon him as from the clouds. He had no time to run for his axe; and he had scarcely given the alarm when he was overpowered, knocked down, and rolled out of the way off the rocks. The assailants then, with Lysander at their head, rushed to the entrance of the cave. But there they encountered unexpected resistance: the two sisters--Salina with the pistol, Virginia with the axe. "Hello! Sal!" cried Lysander, recoiling into the arms of his men; "what the devil do you mean?" "I mean to kill you, or any man that sets foot in this place! That is what I mean!" There could be no doubt about it: her eyes, her attitude, her whole form, from head to foot, looked what she said. She was flushed; a smile of wild and reckless scorn curved her mouth, and her countenance gleamed with a wicked light. By her side was Virginia, with the uplifted axe, expressing no less determination by her posture and looks, though she did not speak, though there was no smile on her pale lips, and though her features were as white as death. "It's no use, gals!" said Sprowl. "Don't make fools of yourselves! You won't be hurt; but I'm bound to come in!"' "Do not attempt it! You have broken your oath to me. But I have made an oath I shall not break!" What that oath was Salina did not say; but Lysander's changing color betrayed that he guessed it pretty well. "I don't care a d--n for you! Virginia, drop that axe, and come out here with your father, and I pledge my sacred honor that neither of you shall receive the least harm." "Your sacred honor!" sneered Salina. But Virginia said nothing. She stood like a clothed statue; only the eyes through which the fire of the excited spirit shone were not those of a statue; and the advanced white arm, beautiful and bare, from which the loose sleeve fell as it reared the axe, was of God's sculpture, not man's. She seemed not to hear Lysander; for the promise of safety for herself was as nothing to her: she felt that she was there to defend, with her life, if needs were, the friends whom he had betrayed. Only a holy and great purpose like this could have nerved that gentle nature for such work, and made those tender sinews firm as steel. There was something slightly devilish in the aspect of Salina; but Virginia was all the angel; yet it was the angel roused to strife. "Call off your gals, Mr. Villars!" said Sprowl. "Lysander!" said the solemn voice of the old minister from within, "hear me! We are but three here, as you see: a blind and helpless old man and two girls. Why do you follow to persecute us? Go your way, and learn to be a man. The business you are engaged in is unworthy of a man. My daughters do right to defend this place, which you, false and ungrateful, have betrayed. Attempt nothing farther; for we are not afraid to die!" "Go in, boys!" shouted Lysander, himself shrinking aside to let the soldiers pass. Salina fired the pistol--not at the soldiers. "She has shot me!" said Lysander, staggering back. "Kill the fiend! kill her!" Instantly two bayonets darted at her breast. One of them was struck down by Virginia's axe, which half severed the soldier's wrist. But before the axe could rise and descend again, the other bayonet had done its work; and the soldiers rushed in. It was all over in a minute. The axe was seized and wrenched violently away. Toby lay senseless on the rocks without. Lysander was leaning dizzily, clutching at the ledge, a ghastly whiteness settling about the gay mustache, and a strange glassiness dimming his eyes. The soldiers had possession. Virginia was a prisoner, and her father; but not Salina. There was the body which had been hers, transfixed by the bayonet, and fallen upon the ground: that was palpable: but who shall capture the escaping soul? When Penn and his companions arrived, not a living person was there; but alone, stretched upon the cold stone floor, where the gray light from the entrance fell,--pulseless, pallid, with pale hands crossed peacefully on her breast, hiding the wound, and features faintly smiling in their stony calm,--lay the corpse of her that was Salina. The fair cup that had brimmed with the bitterness of life was shattered. The soul that drank thereat had fled away in haughtiness and scorn. Toby, groaning on the stones outside, felt somebody shaking him, and heard the voice of Carl asking how he was. "Dunno'; sort o' common," said the old negro, trying to rise. He knew nothing of what had happened, except that he had been fallen upon and beaten down: for the rest, it was useless to question him: not even Penn's agonies of doubt and fear could rouse his recollection. * * * * * Lieutenant-colonel Bythewood had committed the error of an officer green in his profession. The cave surprised, and the prisoners taken, the men retired in all haste, simply because they had received no orders to the contrary. Thus no advantage whatever was taken of the very important position which had been gained. Leaving the dead behind, and carrying off the wounded and the prisoners, the sergeant, upon whom the command devolved after his captain was disabled, lost no time in reporting to the lieutenant-colonel. Augustus stood up to receive the report and the prisoners,--extremely pale, but appearing preternaturally courteous and composed. He bowed very low to the old clergyman (who, he forgot, could not witness and appreciate that graceful act of homage), and expressed infinite regret that "his duty had rendered it necessary," and so forth. Then turning to Virginia, whose look was scarcely less stony than that of her dead sister in the cave, he bowed low to her also, but without speaking, and without raising his eyes to her face. "Have this old gentleman carried to his own house, and see that every attention is paid to him." "And my daughter?" said the blind old man, meekly. "She shall follow you. I will myself accompany her." "And my dead child up yonder?" "She shall be brought to you at the earliest possible moment." "And my faithful servant?" "He shall be cared for." "Thank you." And Mr. Villars bowed his white head upon his breast. "Take the captain immediately to the hospital! And you fellow with the hacked wrist, go with him." The number of men required to execute these orders (since both the old clergyman and the wounded captain had to be carried) left Augustus almost alone with Virginia. Having previously sent off all his available force to Ropes at the sink, in answer to a pressing call for reënforcements, he had now only the sergeant and two men at his beck. But perhaps this was as he wished it to be. He approached Virginia, and, bowing formally, still without speaking, offered her his arm. "Thank you. I can walk without assistance." Like marble still, but with the same wild fire in her eyes. "The only favor I ask of you is to be permitted to leave you." Bythewood made a motion to the sergeant, who removed his men farther off. "I wish to have a few words of conversation with you, Miss Villars. I beg you to be seated here in the shade." Virginia remained standing, regarding him with features pale and firm as when she held the axe. It was evident to her that here was another struggle before her, scarcely less to be dreaded than the first. Augustus looked at her, and smiled pallidly. "If eyes could kill, Miss Villars, I think yours would kill me!" "If polite cruelty can kill, YOU HAVE killed my sister!" "O, I beg your pardon, dear Miss Villars, but it was not I!" "I beg no pardon, but I say it WAS you! And now you will murder my father--perhaps me." "O, my excellent young lady, how you have misunderstood me! By Heaven, I swear!"--his voice shook with sincere emotion,--"if I have committed a fault, it has been for the love of you! Such faults surely may be pardoned. Virginia! will you accept my life as an atonement for all I have done amiss? You shall bear my name, possess my wealth, and, if you do not like the cause I am engaged in, I will throw up my commission to-morrow. I will take you to France--Italy--Switzerland--wherever you wish to go. Nor do I forget your father. Whatever you ask for him shall be granted. I have money--influence--position--every thing that can make you happy." There was a minute's pause, the intense glances of the girl piercing through and through that pale, polite mask to his soul. A selfish, chivalrous man; not a great villain, by any means; moved by a genuine, eager, unscrupulous passion for her--sincere at least in that; one who might be influenced to good, and made a most convenient and devoted husband: this she saw. "Well, what more?" "What more? Ah, you are thinking of your friends--I should say, of your friend! It is natural. I have no ill will against him. Whatever you ask for him shall be granted. At a word from me, the fighting up there ceases; and he and the rest shall be permitted to go wherever they choose, unharmed." "Well, and if I reject your generous offer?" Augustus smiled as he answered, with a hard, inexorable purpose in his tones,-- "Then, much as I love you, I can do nothing!" "Nothing for my father?" "Nothing!" "Nor for me?" "Not even for you!" "Why, then, God pity us all!" said Virginia, calmly. "Truly you may say, God pity you! For do you know what will happen? Your father will die in prison: you will never see him again. Your friends will be massacred to a man. I will be frank with you: to a man they will be given to the sword. They are but a dozen; we are fifty--a hundred--a thousand, if necessary. The sink has already been taken, and a force is on its way to occupy this end of the cave. If your friends hold out, they will be starved. If they fight, they will be bayoneted and shot. If they surrender, every living man of them shall be hung. There is no help for them. Lincoln's army, that has been coming so long, is a chimera; it will never come. The power is all in our hands; and not even God can help them. That sounds blasphemous, I know; but it is true. They are doomed. But I can save them--and you can save them." "And what is to become of me?" asked Virginia, calmly as before. "Your future is entirely in your own hands. On the one side, what I have promised. On the other----" Augustus thought he heard a crackling of sticks, and looked around. "On the other,"--Virginia took up the unfinished speech,--"the fate of a friendless, fatherless, Union-loving woman in this chivalrous south! I know how you treat such women. I know what awaits me on that side. And I accept it. My friends can die. My father can die; and I can. All this I accept; all the rest, you and your offers, I reject. I would not be your wife to save the world. Because I not only do not love you, but because I detest you. You have my answer." With swelling breast and set teeth Augustus kept his eyes upon her for full a minute, then replied, in a low voice shaken by passion,-- "I hoped your decision would be different. But it is spoken. I cannot hope to change it?" "Can you change these rocks under our feet with empty words?" she said, with a white smile. "All is over, then! Without cause you hate me, Miss Villars. Hitherto, in all that has happened to you and your friends, I have been blameless. If in the future I am not so, remember it is your own fault." Then the fire flashed into Virginia's cheeks, and indignation rang in her tones as she denounced the falsehood. "Hitherto, in the wrong that has happened to me and my friends, you have NOT been blameless! In the future you cannot do more to injure us than you have already done, or meant to do. Look at me, and listen while I prove what I say." Again there was a slight noise in the thicket behind them, and he would have been glad to make that an excuse for leaving her a moment; but her spirit held him. "I listen," he said, inwardly quaking at he knew not what. "Do you remember the night my father was arrested?" "I do." "And how you that day took a journey to be away from us in our trouble?" "I certainly took a short journey that day, but--" his eyes flickering with the uneasiness of guilt. "And do you remember a conversation you had with Lysander under a bridge?" His face suddenly flushed purple. "The villain has betrayed me!" he thought. Then he stammered, "I hope you have not been listening to any of that fellow's slanders!" "You talked with Lysander under the bridge. Your conversation was heard, every word of it, by a third person, who lay concealed under the planks, behind you." "A villanous spy!" articulated Augustus. "No spy--but the man you two were at that moment seeking to kill: Penn Hapgood, the Schoolmaster." It was a blow. Poor Bythewood, too luxurious and inert to be a great villain, was only a weak one; and, wounded in his most sensitive point, his pride, he writhed for a space with unutterable chagrin and rage. Then he recovered himself. He had heard the worst; and now there was nothing left for him but to cast down and trample with his feet (so to speak) the mask that had been torn from his face. "Very well! You think you know me, then!"--He seized her wrists.--"Now hear me! I am not to be spurned like a dog, even by the foot of the woman I love. You reject, despise, insult me. As for me, I say this: all shall be as I have pronounced. Your father, your lover,--not Fate itself shall intervene to save them! And as for you----" Again he heard a rustling by the ravine; this time so near that it startled him. He looked quickly around, and saw, slowly peering through the bushes, a dark human face. Had it been the terrible front of the Fate he had just defied, the soul of Augustus Bythewood could not have shrunk with a more sudden and appalling fear. It was the face of Pomp. XLV. _MASTER AND SLAVE CHANGE PLACES._ The sergeant and his men were several rods distant: the bush through which that menacing visage peered was within as many feet. Augustus reached for his revolver. "Make a single move--speak a single word--and you are food for the buzzards!" came a whisper from the bush that well might chill his blood. "You know this rifle--and you know me!" And in the negro's face shone a persuasive glitter of the old, untamable, torrid ferocity of his tribe--not pleasing to Augustus. "What do you want?" "Give your revolver to that girl--instantly!" "I have men within call!" "So have I." Through the bush, advancing noiselessly, came the straight steel barrel of a rifle that had never missed fire but once: that was when it had been aimed by Augustus at the head of Pomp. Now it was aimed by Pomp at the head of Augustus; and it was hardly to be expected that it would be so obliging as to remember that one fault, and, for the sake of fairness, repeat it, now that positions were reversed. Bythewood hesitated, in mortal fear. "Obey me! I shall not speak again!" And there was heard in the bush another slight noise, too short, quick, and clicking, to be the crackle of a twig. Neither was that pleasing to the mind of Augustus. He turned, and with trembling hand made Virginia a present of the revolver. "Do you know how to use it?" Pomp asked. She nodded, breathless. "And you will use it if necessary?" She nodded again, and held the weapon prepared. "Now,"--to Bythewood,--"send those men away." "What do you mean to do?" "I mean to spare their lives and yours, if you obey me. To kill you without much delay if you do not." "If you shoot,"--Bythewood was beginning to regain his dignity,--"they will rush to the spot before you can escape, and avenge me well!" A superb, masterful smile mounted to the ebon visage, and the answer came from the bush,-- "Look where the bowlder lies, up there by the ravine. You will see a twinkle of steel among the leaves. There are guns aimed at your men. You understand." Perhaps Augustus did not distinguish the guns; but he understood. At a signal, his men would be shot down. "I would prefer not to shed blood. So decide and that quickly!" said Pomp. "And if I comply?" "Comply readily with all I shall demand of you, and not a hair of your head shall be harmed. Now I count ten. At the word ten, I send a bullet through your heart if those men are still there." He commenced, like one telling the strokes of a tolling bell: "One----two----three----four----five----" "Sergeant," called Augustus, "take your men and report to Lieutenant Ropes at the sink." "A fine time to be taken up with a love affair!" growled the sergeant, as he obeyed. "Now what?" said Bythewood, under an air of bravado concealing the despair of his heart. "Come!" said Pomp, with savage impatience,--for he knew well that, if Bythewood had not yet learned of Ropes's death, messengers must be on the way to him, and therefore not a moment was to be lost. He opened the bushes. Augustus crept into them: Virginia followed. But then suddenly the negro seemed to change his plans, the spirit and firmness of the girl inspiring him with a fresh idea. "Miss Villars, we are going to the cave. Look down the ravine there;--you see this path is rough." "O, I can go anywhere, you know!" "But haste is necessary. You shall return the way you came. Take this man with you. If you are seen by his soldiers, they will think all is well. Make him go before. Shoot him if he turns his head. Dare you?" "I will!" said Virginia. "Keep near the ravine. My rifle will be there. If you have any difficulty, I will end it. Now march!"--thrusting Bythewood out of the thicket.--"Straight on!--Carry your pistol cocked, young lady!" Bitterly then did the noble Augustus repent him of having sent his guard away: "I ought to have died first!" But it was too late to recall them; and there was no way left him but to yield--or appear to yield--implicit obedience. What a situation for a son of the chivalrous south! He had reviled Lysander for having been made prisoner by a boy; and here was he, the haughty, the proud, the ambitious, overawed by a negro's threats, and carried away captive by a girl! However, he had a hope--a desperate one, indeed. He would watch for an opportunity, wheel suddenly upon Virginia, seize the pistol, and escape,--risking a shot from it, which he knew she was firmly determined to deliver in case of need (for had he not seen the soldier's gashed wrist?)--and risking also (what was more serious still) a shot from the rifle in the ravine. But when they came to the bowlder, there the resolution he had taken fell back leaden and dead upon his heart. He had, on reflection, concluded that the twinkle of guns in the leaves there was but a fiction of the wily African brain. As he passed, however, he perceived two guns peeping through. He knew not what exultant hearts were behind them,--what eager eyes beneath the boughs were watching him, led thus tamely into captivity; but he was impressed with a wholesome respect for them, and from that moment thought no more of escape. As Virginia approached the cave with her prisoner, the two guns, having followed them closely all the way, came up out of the ravine. They were accompanied by Penn and Carl. In the gladness of that sight Virginia almost forgot her dead sister and her captive father. Those two dear familiar faces beamed upon her with joy and triumph. But there was one who was not so glad. This Quaker schoolmaster, turned fighting man, was the last person Augustus (who was unpleasantly reminded of the conversation under the bridge) would have wished to see under such embarrassing circumstances. In the cave was Toby, wailing over the dead body of Salina. But at sight of the living sister he rose up and was comforted. Pomp had remained to cover the retreat. When all were safely arrived, he came bounding into the cave, jubilant. His bold and sagacious plans were thus far successful; and it only remained to carry them out with the same inexorable energy. "Sit here." Augustus took one of the giant's stools. "I have a few words to say to this man: in the mean while, one of you"--turning to Penn and Carl--"hasten to the sink, and ask Stackridge to send me as many men as he can spare. Bring a couple of the prisoners--we shall need them." "I'll go!" Carl cried with alacrity. "And," added Pomp, "if there are any wounded needing my assistance, have them brought here. I shall not, probably, be able to go to them." While he was giving these directions, with the air of one who felt that he had a momentous task before him, Bythewood sat on the rock, his head heavy and hot, his feet like clods of ice, and his heart collapsing with intolerable suspense. The gloom of the cave, and the strangeness of all things in it; the sight of the corpse near the entrance,--of Toby, at Virginia's suggestion, wiping up the pools of blood,--Virginia herself perfectly calm; Penn carefully untying and straightening the pieces of rope that had served to bind Lysander,--all this impressed him powerfully. "I suppose," said he, "I am to be treated as a prisoner of war." Pomp smiled. "Answer me a question. If you had caught me, would you have treated me as a prisoner of war?--Yes or no; we have no time for parley." "No," said Augustus, frankly. "Very well! I have caught you!" Fearfully significant words to the prisoner, who remembered all his injustice to this man, and the tortures he had prepared for him when he should be taken! But he had not been taken. On the contrary, he, the slave, could stand there, calm and smiling, before him, the master, and say, with peculiar and compressed emphasis, "_Very well! I have caught you!_" "You promised that not a hair of my head should be injured." "The hair of your head is not the flesh of your body. No, I will not injure _the hair_!"--Pomp waited for his prisoner to take in all the horrible suggestiveness of this equivocation; then resumed. "Is not that what you would have said to me if you had found me in your power after making me such a promise? The black man has no rights which the white man is bound to respect! The most solemn pledges made by one of your race to one of mine are to be heeded only so long as suits your convenience. Did you not promise your dying brother in your presence to give me my freedom? Answer,--yes or no." "Yes," faltered Augustus. "And did you give it me?" "No." And Augustus felt that out of his own mouth he was condemned. "Well, I shall keep my promise better than you kept yours. Comply with all I demand of you (this is what I said), and no part of you, neither flesh nor hair, shall be harmed." "What do you demand of me?" "This. Here are pen and ink. Write as I dictate." "What?" "An order to have the fighting on your side discontinued, and your forces withdrawn." Augustus hesitated to take the pen. "I have no words to waste. If you do not comply readily with what I require, it is no object for me that you should comply at all." Penn came and stood by Pomp, looking calm and determined as he. Virginia came also, and looked upon the prisoner, without a smile, without a frown, but strangely serious and still. These were the three against whom he had sinned in the days of his power and pride; and now his shame was bare before them. He took the quill, bit the feather-end of it in supreme perplexity of soul, then wrote. "Very well," said Pomp, reading the order. "But you have forgotten to sign it." Augustus signed. "Now write again. A letter to your colonel. Mr. Hapgood, please dictate the terms." Penn understood the whole scheme; he had consulted with Virginia, and he was prepared. "A safe conduct for Mr. Villars, his daughter and servants, beyond the confederate lines. This is all I have to insist upon." "I," said Pomp, "ask more. The man who betrayed us must be sent here." "If you mean Sprowl," said Bythewood, "his wife has no doubt saved the trouble." "Not Sprowl, but Deslow." Bythewood was terrified. Pomp had spoken with the positiveness of clear knowledge and unalterable determination. But how was it possible to comply with his demand? Deslow had been promised not only pardon, but protection from the very men he betrayed! Therefore he could not be given up to them without the most cowardly and shameful perfidy. "I have no influence whatever with the military authorities," the prisoner said, after taking ample time for consideration. "You forget what you boasted to Sprowl, under the bridge," said Penn. "You forget what you just now boasted to me," said Virginia. "Call it boasting," said Bythewood, doggedly. "Absolutely, I have not the power to effect what you require." "It is your misfortune, then," said Pomp. "To have boasted so, and now to fail to perform, will simply cost you your life. Will you write? or not?" The prisoner remained sullen, abject, silent, for some seconds. Then, with a deep breath which shook all his frame, and an expression of the most agonizing despair on his face, he took the pen. "I will write; but I assure you it will do no good." "So much the worse for you," was the grim response. Mechanically and briefly Bythewood drew up a paper, signed his name, and shoved it across the table. "Does that suit you?" Pomp did not offer to take it. "If it suits you, well. I shall not read it. It is not the letter that interests us; it is the result." Bythewood suddenly drew back the paper, pondered its contents a moment, and cast it into the fire. "I think I had better write another." "I think so too. I fear you have not done what you might to impress upon the colonel's mind the importance of these simple terms--a safe conduct for Mr. Villars and family, the troops withdrawn entirely from the mountains, and Deslow delivered here to-night. This is plain enough; and you see the rest of us ask nothing for ourselves. I advise you to write freely. Open your mind to your friend. And beware,"--Pomp perceived by a strange expression which had come into the prisoner's face that this counsel was necessary,--"beware that he does not misunderstand you, and send a force to rescue you from our hands. If such a thing is attempted, this cave will be found barricaded. With what, you wonder? With those stones? With your dead body, my friend!" After that hint, it was evident Augustus did not choose to write what had first entered his mind on learning that his address to the colonel was not to be examined. Penn handed him a fresh sheet, and he filled it--a long and confidential letter, of which we regret that no copy now exists. Before it was finished, Carl returned, accompanied by four of the patriots and two of the prisoners. One of these last was Pepperill. He was immediately paroled, and sent off to the sink with the order that had been previously written. The letter completed, it was folded, sealed, and despatched by the other prisoner to Colonel Derring's head-quarters. "Do you believe Deslow will be delivered up?" said Stackridge, in consultation with Penn in a corner of the cave; the farmer's gray eye gleaming with anticipated vengeance. "I believe the confederate authorities, as a general thing, are capable of any meanness. Their policy is fraud, their whole system is one of injustice and selfishness. If Derring, who is Bythewood's devoted friend, can find means to give up the traitor without too gross an exposure of his perfidy, he will do it. But I regret that Pomp insisted on that hard condition. He was determined, and it was useless to reason with him." "And he is right!" said Stackridge. "Deslow, if guilty, must pay for this day's work!" "There is no doubt of his guilt. Pepperill knew of it--he whispered it to Pomp at the sink." "Then Deslow dies the death! He was sworn to us! He was sworn to Pomp; and Pomp had saved his life! The blood of Withers, my best friend----" The farmer's voice was lost in a throe of rage and grief. "And the blood of Cudjo, whom Pomp loved!" said Penn. "I feel all you feel--all Pomp feels. But for me, I would leave vengeance with the Lord." "So would I," said Pomp, standing behind him, composed and grand. "And I would be the Lord's instrument, when called. I am called. Deslow comes to me, or I go to him." "Then the Lord have mercy on his soul!" XLVI. _THE TRAITOR._ The news of the disaster at the sink, and of the loss of prisoners, had reached Colonel Derring, and he was preparing to forward reënforcements, when Bythewood's letter arrived. Of the colonel's reflections on the receipt of that singular missive little is known. He was unwontedly cross and abstracted for an hour. At the end of that time he asked for the renegade Deslow. At the end of another hour Deslow had been found and brought to head-quarters. The colonel, having now quite recovered his equanimity of temper, received him with the most flattering attentions. "You have done an honorable and patriotic work, Mr. Deslow. Your friends are coming to terms. Bythewood is at this moment engaged in an amicable conference with them. Your example has had a most salutary effect. They all desire to give themselves up on similar terms. But they will not believe as yet that you have been pardoned and received into favor." The dark brow of the traitor brightened. "And they have no suspicions?" "None whatever. They do not imagine you had anything to do with the discovery of their retreat. Now, I've been thinking you might help along matters immensely, if you would go up and join Bythewood, and represent to your friends the folly of holding out any longer, and show them the advantage of following your example." Deslow felt strong misgivings about undertaking this delicate business. But persuasions, flatteries, and promises prevailed upon him at last. And at sundown he set out, accompanied by the man who had brought Bythewood's letter. In consequence of the messenger's long absence, it was beginning to be feared, by those who had sent him, that he had gone on a fruitless errand. Evening came. There was sadness on the faces of Penn and Virginia, as they sat by the corpse of Salina. Pomp was gloomy and silent. Bythewood, bound to Lysander's rock, sat waiting, with feelings we will not seek to penetrate, for the answer to his letter. In that letter he had mentioned, among other things, a certain pair of horses that were in his stable. Had he known that the colonel, during his hour of moroseness, had gone over to look at these horses, and that he was now driving them about the village, well satisfied with the munificent bribe, he would, no doubt, have felt easier in his mind. "You will not go to your father to-night," said Penn, having looked out into the gathering darkness, and returned to Virginia's side. "We have one night more together. May be it is the last." Carl was comforting his wounded cousin, who had been brought and placed on some skins on the floor. The patriots were holding a consultation. Suddenly the sentinel at the door announced an arrival; and to the amazement of all, the messenger entered, followed by Deslow. The traitor came in, smiling in most friendly fashion upon his late companions, even offering his hand to Pomp, who did not accept it. Then he saw in the faces that looked upon him a stern and terrible triumph. By the rock he beheld Bythewood bound. And his heart sank. The messenger brought a letter for Augustus. Pomp took it. "This interests us!" he said, breaking the seal. "Excuse me, sir!"--to Bythewood.--"I was once your servant; and I had forgotten that circumstances have slightly changed! As your hands are confined, I will read it for you." He read aloud. "Dear Gus: This is an awful bad scrape you have got into; but I suppose I must get you out of it. Villars shall have passports, and an escort, if he likes. I'll keep the soldiers from the mountains. The hardest thing to arrange is the Deslow affair. I don't care a curse for the fellow but I don't want the name of giving him up. So, if I succeed in sending him, keep mum. Probably _he_ never will come away to tell a tale." "Yours, etc., Derring." "P. S. Thank you for the horses." Then Pomp turned and looked upon the traitor, who had been himself betrayed. His ghastly face was of the color of grayish yellow parchment. His hat was in his hand, and his short, stiff hair stood erect with terror. If up to this moment there had been any doubt of his guilt in Pomp's mind, it vanished. The wretch had not the power to proclaim his innocence, or to plead for mercy. No explanations were needed: he understood all: with that vivid perception of truth which often comes with the approach of death, he knew that he was there to die. "Have you anything to confess?" Pomp said to him, with the solemnity of a priest preparing a sacrifice. "If so, speak, for your time is short." Deslow said nothing: indeed, his organs of speech were paralyzed. "Very well: then I will tell you, we know all. We trusted you. You have betrayed us. Withers is dead: you killed him. Cudjo is dead: his blood is upon your soul. For this you are now to die." There was another besides Deslow whom these calm and terrible words appalled. It was Bythewood, who feared lest, after all he had accomplished, his turn might come next. It was some time before the fear-stricken culprit could recover the power of speech. Then, in a sudden, hoarse, and scarcely articulate shriek, his voice burst forth:-- "Save me! save me!" He rushed to where the patriots stood. But they thrust him back sternly. "This is Pomp's business. Deal with him!" "Will no one save me? Will no one speak for my life?" These words were ejaculated with the ghastly accent and volubility of terror. "Your life is forfeited. Pomp saved it once; now he takes it. It is just," said Stackridge. "My God! my God! my God!" Thrice the doomed man uttered that sacred name with wild despair, and with intervals of strange and silent horror between. "Then I must die!" "_I_ will speak for you," said a voice of solemn compassion. And Penn stepped forward. "You? you? you will?" "Do not hope too much. Pomp is inexorable as he is just. But I will plead for you." "O, do! do! There is something in his face--I cannot bear it--but you can move him!" Pomp was leaning thoughtfully by one of the giant's stools. Penn drew near to him. Deslow crouched behind, his whole frame shaking visibly. "Pomp, if you love me, grant me this one favor. Leave this wretch to his God. What satisfaction can there be in taking the life of so degraded and abject a creature?" "There is satisfaction in justice," replied Pomp, quietly smiling. "O, but the satisfaction there is in mercy is infinitely sweeter! Forgiveness is a holy thing, Pomp! It brings the blessing of Heaven with it, and it is more effective than vengeance. This man has a wife; he has children; think of them!" These words, and many more to the same purpose, Penn poured forth with all the earnestness of his soul. He pleaded; he argued; he left no means untried to melt that adamantine will. In vain all. When he finished, Pomp took his hand in one of his, and laying the other kindly on his shoulder, said in his deepest, tenderest tones,-- "I have heard you because I love you. What you say is just. But another thing is just--that this man should die. Ask anything but this of me, and you will see how gladly I will grant all you desire." "I have done."--Penn turned sadly away.--"It is as I feared. Deslow, I will not flatter you. There is no hope." Then Deslow, regaining somewhat of his manhood, drew himself up, and prepared to meet his fate. "Soon?" he asked, more firmly than he had yet spoken. "Now," said Pomp. He lighted a lantern. "You must go with me. There are eyes here that would not look upon your death." He took his rifle. "Go before." And he conducted his victim into the recesses in the cave. They came to the well, into the unfathomable mystery of which Carl had dropped the stone. There Pomp stopped. "This is your grave. Would you take a look at it?" He held the lantern over the fearful place. The falling waters made in those unimaginable depths the noise of far-off thunders. Half dead with fear already, the wretch looked down into the hideous pit. "Must I die?" he uttered in a ghastly whisper. "You must! I will shoot you first in mercy to you; for I am not cruel. Have you prayers to make? I will wait." Deslow sank upon his knees. He tried to confess himself to God, to commit his soul with decency into His hands. But the words of his petition stuck in his throat: the dread of immediate death absorbed all feeling else. Pomp, who had retired a short distance, supposed he had made an end. "Are you ready?" he asked, placing his lantern on the rock, and poising his rifle. "I cannot pray!" said Deslow. "Send for a minister--for Mr. Villars!--I cannot die so." "It is too late," answered Pomp, sorrowful, yet stern. "Mr. Villars has been carried away by the soldiers you sent. If you cannot pray for yourself, then there is none to pray for you." Scarce had he spoken, when out of the darkness behind him came a voice, saying with solemn sweetness, as if an angel responded from the invisible profound,-- "I will pray for him!" He turned, and saw in the lantern's misty glimmer a spectral form advancing. It drew near. It was a female figure, shadowy, noiseless; the right hand raised with piteous entreaty; the countenance pale to whiteness,--its fresh and youthful beauty clothed with sadness and compassion as with a veil. It was Virginia. All the way through the dismal galleries of the cave, and down Cudjo's stairs, she had followed the executioner and his victim, in order to plead at the last moment for that mercy for which Penn had pleaded in vain. Struck with amazement, Pomp gazed at her for a moment as if she had been really a spirit. "How came you here?" She laid one hand upon his arm; with the other she pointed upwards; her eyes all the while shining upon him with a wondrous brilliancy, which was of the spirit indeed, and not of the flesh. "Heaven sent me to pray for him--and for you." "For me, Miss Villars?" "For you, Pomp!"--Her voice also had that strange melting quality which comes only from the soul. It was low, and full of love and sorrow. "For if you slay this man, then you will have more need of prayers than he." Pomp was shaken. The touch on his arm, the tones of that voice, the electric light of those inspired eyes, moved him with a power that penetrated to his inmost soul. Yet he retained his haughty firmness, and said coldly,-- "If there had been mercy for this man, Penn would have obtained it. The hardest thing I ever did was to deny him. What is there to be said which he did not say?" "O, he spoke earnestly and well!" replied Virginia. "I wondered how you could listen to him and not yield. But he is a man; and as a man he gave up all hope when reason failed, and he saw you so implacable. But I would never have given up. I would have clung to your knees, and pleaded with you so long as there was breath in me to ask or heart to feel. I would not have let you go till you had shown mercy to this poor man!"--(Deslow had crawled to her feet: there he knelt grovelling),--"and to yourself, Pomp! If he dies repenting, and you kill him unrelenting, I would rather be he than you. When we shut the gate of mercy on others we shut it on ourselves. For all that you have done for my father and friends, and for me, I am filled with gratitude and friendship. Your manly traits have inspired me with an admiration that was almost hero-worship. For this reason I would save you from a great crime. O, Pomp, if only for my sake, do not annihilate the noble and grand image of you which has built itself up in my heart, and leave only the memory of a strange horror and dread in its place!" Pomp had turned his eyes away from hers, knowing that if he continued to be fascinated by them, he must end by yielding. He drooped his head, leaning on his rifle, and looking down upon the wretch at their feet. A strong convulsion shook his whole frame, as she ceased speaking. There was silence for some seconds. Then he spoke, still without raising his eyes, in a deep, subdued voice. "This man is the hater of my race. He is of those who rob us of our labor, our lives, our wives, and children, and happiness. They enslave both body and soul. They damn us with ignorance and vice. To take from us the profits of our toil is little; but they take from us our manhood also. Yet here he came, and accepted life and safety at my hands. He made an oath, and I made an oath. His oath was never to betray my poor Cudjo's secret. The oath I made was to kill him as I would a dog if his should be broken. It has been broken. My poor Cudjo is dead. Withers is dead. Your sister is dead. I see it to be just that this traitor too should now die!" Again he poised his rifle. But Virginia threw herself upon the victim, covering with her own pure bosom his miserable, guilty breast. Pomp smiled. "Do not fear. For your sake I have pardoned him." "O, this is the noblest act of your life, Pomp!" she exclaimed, clasping his hand with joy and gratitude. He looked in her face. A great weight was taken from his soul. His countenance was bright and glad. "Do you think it was not a bitter cup for me? You have taken it from me, and I thank you. But Bythewood must not know I have relented. We have yet a work to do with him." Then those who had been left behind in the cave, listening for the death-signal, heard the report of a rifle ringing through the chambers of rock. Not long after Pomp and Virginia returned; and Deslow was not with them. Augustus heard--Augustus saw--nor knew he any reason why the fate of Deslow should not presently be his own. "Is justice done?" said Stackridge, with stern eyes fixed on Pomp. "Is justice done?" said Pomp, turning to Virginia. "Justice is done!" she answered, in a serious, firm voice. XLVII. _BREAD ON THE WATERS._ The next morning a singular procession set out from the cave. Stretchers had been framed of the trunks and boughs of saplings, and upon these the dead and wounded of yesterday were placed. They were borne by the prisoners of yesterday, who had been paroled for the purpose. Carl walked by the side of the litter that conveyed his cousin Fritz, talking cheerfully to him in their native tongue. Behind them was carried the dead body of Salina, followed by old Toby with uncovered head. With him went Pepperill, charged with the important business of seeing that all was done for the Villars family which had been stipulated, and of reporting to Pomp at the cave afterwards. Last of all came Virginia, leaning on Penn's arm. He was speaking to her earnestly, in low, quivering tones: she listened with downcast countenance, full of all tender and sad emotions; for they were about to part. Pepperill was intrusted with a second letter from Bythewood to the colonel, couched in these terms:-- "_Deslow was taken last night, and slaughtered in cold blood. The same will happen to me if all is not done as agreed. I am to be retained as a hostage until Pepperill's return. For Heaven's sake, help Mr. Villars and his family off with all convenient despatch, and oblige,_" &c. Virginia was going to try her fortune with her father; but Penn's lot was cast with his friends who remained at the cave. From these he could not honorably separate himself until all danger was over; and, much as he longed to accompany her, he knew well that, even if he should be permitted to do so, his presence would be productive of little good to either her or her father. Moreover, it had been wisely resolved not to demand too much of the military authorities. A safe conduct could be granted with good grace to a blind old minister and his daughter, but not to men who had been in arms against the confederate government. Nor was it thought best to trust or tempt too far these minions of the new slave despotism, whose recklessness of obligations which interest or revenge prompted them to evade, was so notorious. Penn would have attended Virginia to the base of the mountain, risking all things for the melancholy pleasure of prolonging these last moments. But this she would not permit. Hard as it was to utter the word of separation,--to see him return to those solitary and dangerous rocks, not knowing that he would ever be able to leave them, or that she would ever see him again in this world;--still, her love was greater than her selfishness, and she had strength even for that. "No farther now! O, you must go no farther!" And, resolutely pausing, she called to Carl,--for Carl's lot too lay with his. Toby and Pepperill also stopped. "Daniel," said Penn, with impressive solemnity, "into thy hands I commit this precious charge. Be faithful. Good Toby, I trust we shall meet again in God's good time. Farewell! farewell!" And the procession went its way; only Penn and Carl remained gazing after it long, with hearts too full for words. When it was out of sight, and they were turning silently to retrace their steps, they saw a man come out of the woods, and beckon to them. It was a negro--it was Barber Jim. Permitted to approach, he told his story. Since the escape of the arrested Unionists through his cellar, he had been an object of suspicion; and last night his house had been attacked by a mob. He had managed to escape, and was now hiding in the woods to save his life. "Deslow betrayed you with the rest," said Penn; "that explains it." "My wife--my two daughters: what will become of them?" said the wretched man. "And my property, that I have been all this while laying up for them!" "Do not despair, my friend. Your property is mostly real estate, and cannot be so easily appropriated to rebel uses, as the money deposited for me in the bank, from which I was never allowed to draw it! It will wait for you. A kind Providence will care for your family, I am sure. As for you, I do not see what else you can do but share our fortunes. There is one comfort for you,--we are all about as badly off as yourself." "You shall have your pick of some muskets," said Carl, gayly; "and you vill find us as jolly a set of wagabonds as ever you saw!" "Have you plenty of arms?" "Arms is more plenty as prowisions. Vat is vanted is wittles. Vat is vanted most is wegetables. Bears and vild turkeys inwite themselves to be shot, but potatoes keep wery shy, and ve suffers for sour krout." Barber Jim mused. "I will go with you. I am glad," he added, as if to himself, "that I paid Toby off as I did." What he meant by this last remark will be seen. * * * * * Mr. Villars had taken the precaution to invest his available funds in Ohio Railroad stock some time before. Arrived in Cincinnati, he would be able to reap the advantages of this timely forethought. But in the mean time the expenses of a long journey must be defrayed; and he found it impossible now to raise money on his house or household goods. All the ready cash he could command was barely sufficient to afford a decent burial to his daughter. He was discussing this serious difficulty with Virginia, whilst preparations for Salina's funeral and their own departure were going forward simultaneously, when Toby came trotting in, jubilant and breathless, and laid a little dirty bag in his lap. "I's fotched 'em! dar ye got 'em, massa!" And the old negro wiped the sweat from his shining face. "What, Toby! Money!" (for the little bag was heavy). "Where did you get it?" "Gold, sar! Gold, Miss Jinny! Needn't look 'spicious! I neber got 'em by no underground means!" (He meant to say _underhand_.) "I'll jes' 'splain 'bout dat. Ye see, Massa Villars, eber sence ye gib me my freedom, ye been payin' me right smart wages,--seben dollah a monf! Dunno' how much dat ar fur a year, but I reckon it ar a heap! An' you rec'lec' you says to me, you says, 'Hire it out to some honest man, Toby, and ye kin draw inference on it,' you says. So what does I do but go and pay it all to Barber Jim fast as eber you pays me. 'Pears like I neber knowed how much I was wuf, till tudder day he says to me, 'Toby,' he says, 'times is so mighty skeery I's afeard to keep yer money for ye any longer; hyar 'tis fur ye, all in gold.' So he gibs it to me in dis yer little bag, an' I takes it, an' goes an' buries it 'hind de cow shed, whar 'twould keep sweet, ye know, fur de family. An' hyar it ar, shore enough, massa, jes' de ting fur dis yer 'casion!" "So you got it by _underground means_, after all!" said Virginia, with mingled laughter and tears, opening the bag and pouring out the bright eagles. The old clergyman was silent for a space, overcome with emotion. "God bless you for a faithful servant, Toby! and Barber Jim for an honest man." "Dat's nuffin!" said Toby, snuffing and winking ludicrously. "Why shouldn't a cullud pusson hab de right to be honest, well as white folks? If you's gwine to tank anybody, ye better jes' tink and tank yersef! Who gib ol' Toby his freedom, an' den 'pose to pay him wages? Reckon if 't hadn't been fur dat, massa, I neber should hab de bressed chance to do dis yer little ting fur de family!" "We will thank only our heavenly Father, whose tender care we will never doubt, after this!" said the old minister, with deep and solemn joy. "Wust on't is, Jim hissef's got inter trouble now," said Toby. "He hab to put fur de woods; an' his family wants to git to de norf, whar dey tinks he'll mabby be gwine to meet 'em; but dey can't seem to manage it." "O, father, I have an idea! You will have a right to take your _servants_ with you; and Jim's wife and daughters might pass as servants." "I shall be rejoiced to help them in any way. Go and find them, Toby. Thus the bread we cast on the water sometimes returns to us _before_ many days!" XLVIII. _EMANCIPATION OF THE BONDMEN.--CONCLUSION._ A week had elapsed since Augustus became a captive; when, one cloudy afternoon, Dan Pepperill returned alone to the mountain cave. Pomp met him at the entrance. "All safe?" "I be durned if they ain't!" said Dan, exultant. "The ol' man, and the nigger, and the gal, and Jim's wife and darters inter the bargain! Went with 'em myself all the way, by stage and rail, till I seen 'em over the line inter ol' Kentuck'. Durned if I didn't wish I war gwine for good myself." "You shall go now if you will. I have been waiting only for you. Cudjo is dead. All the rest are gone. There is nothing to keep me here. Will you go back to the rebels, or make a push with us for the free states? Speak quick!" Pepperill only groaned. "Nine more have joined since Jim came. They make a strong party, all armed, and determined to fight their way through. They are already twenty miles away; but we will overtake them to-morrow. I am to guide them. I know every cave and defile. Will you come?" "Pomp, ye know I'd be plaguy glad ter; but 'tain't so ter be! I hain't no gre't fancy fur this secesh business, that ar' a fact. But I'm in fur't, and I reckon I sh'll haf' ter put it through;" and Dan heaved a deep sigh of regret. Without knowing it, he was a fatalist. Being too weak or inert to resist the hand of despotism laid upon him, he yielded to its weight and accepted it as destiny. The rebel ranks have been filled with such. Pomp smiled with mingled pity and derision. "Good by, then! I hope this war will do something for your class as well as for mine--you need it as much! Wait here, and you shall have company." He took a lantern, and entered the interior chamber of the cave. After the lapse of many minutes he returned, dragging, as from a dungeon, into the light of day, a wretch who could scarcely have expected ever to behold that blessed boon again,--he was so abject, so filled with joy and trembling. It was Deslow. Then turning to the corner where Augustus sat confined, the negro cut his bonds and lifted him to his feet. Poor Bythewood, rheumatic, stiff in the joints, and terribly wasted by anxiety and chagrin, presented a scarcely less piteous spectacle than Deslow; nor were his fallen spirits revived by the sight of this craven, whom he had supposed to be long since past the memory of the wrong he had done him, and the earthly passion for revenge. "My friends," said Pomp, leading them to the entrance, and showing them to each other in the gray glimmer of that cloudy afternoon, "our little accounts are now closed for the present, and my business with you ends. You are at liberty to depart. Deslow, do not hate too bitterly this man for betraying you into my hands. Remember that you set the example of treachery, and that the cause to which you are both sworn is itself founded on treachery. As for you, Mr. Bythewood, I trust that you will pardon the inconvenience I have found it necessary to subject you to. I have restrained you of your liberty for some days. You restrained me of mine for nearly as many years. I have no longer any ill will towards either of you. Go in peace. I emancipate you. I shall not hunt you with hounds, because I have been your master for a little while. I shall not put iron collars on your necks. I shall neither brand nor beat you. You are free! Does the word sound pleasant to your ears? Think then of those to whom it would sound just as sweet. Has the rule of a hard master seemed grievous to you? Remember those to whom it is no less grievous. If might makes right, then you have been as much my property as ever black man was yours. Is there no law, no justice, but the power of the strongest? You have had a few days' experience of that power, and can judge what a life's experience of it might be. Reflect upon it, my friends." He led them to the opening of the cave. Then he pointed to the clouds. "You cannot see the sun; but the sun is there. You do not see God, through the troubled affairs of this world; but God is over all. He governs, although you have left him quite out of your plans. Your plans are, no doubt, very great and mighty,--but see!"--passing over his knee the cord with which Bythewood had been bound. "This is the chain with which you bind my brothers and sisters. It is strong. You have drawn it very tight about them. But you thought to draw it tighter still, to hold them fast forever; and look, you have broken it!" So saying, he displayed with a smile the two fragments of the rope that had snapped like a mere string in his hands. "So tyranny is made to defeat itself!"--trampling the ends under his feet. "I have said it. Remember!" Uttering these last words, he walked backwards slowly, resumed his rifle and lantern, and disappeared in the dark recesses of the cave. The freed prisoners then, joining Pepperill, took their way slowly down the mountain, sadder if not wiser men. The reappearance of Bythewood was a signal for sending immediately two full companies to capture the cave. They succeeded; but they captured nothing else. Pomp, escaping through the sink, was already miles away on the trail of the refugees. * * * * * Thus ends the story of Cudjo's Cave. Other conclusion, to give it dramatic completeness, it ought, perhaps, to have; but the struggles, of which we have here witnessed the beginning, have not yet ended [Nov., 1863]; and one can scarcely be expected to describe events before they transpire. We may add, however, that Mr. Villars, Virginia, and Toby, arrived safely at their destination,--a small town on the borders of Ohio,--where they were cordially welcomed by relatives of the family. There, three weeks later, they were visited by two very suspicious looking characters,--one a bronzed and bearded young man, robust, rough, with an eye like an eagle's gleaming from under his old slouched hat, whom nobody, I am sure, would ever have taken for a Quaker schoolmaster; the other a stout, ruddy, blue-eyed, laughing, ragged lad of sixteen, who certainly did not pass for a rebel deserter. Strange to say, these pilgrims of the dusty roads and rocky wildernesses were welcomed (not to speak it profanely) like angels from heaven by the old man, his daughter, and Toby,--their brown hands shaken, their coarse, torn clothes embraced, and their sunburnt faces kissed, with a rapture amazing to strangers of the household. They were travelling (as the younger remarked in an accent which betrayed his Teutonic origin) to "Pennsylwany," the home of the elder; and they had come thus far out of their way to make this angels' visit. With these two Barber Jim had journeyed as far as Cincinnati, where he found his family comfortably provided for by persons to whose benevolence Mr. Villars had recommended them. The other refugees had also got safely over the mountains, after a march full of toils and dangers; and nearly all were now in the federal camps. A long history, full of deep and painful interest, might be written concerning the subsequent fortunes of these men, and of their families and neighbors left behind,--a history of hardships, of forced separations and ruined homes,--of starvation in woods and caves to which loyal citizens were driven by the rage of persecution,--and of terrible retribution. Stackridge, Grudd, and many of their brother refugees, had the joy of participating in those military movements of last summer, by which East Tennessee was relieved; of beholding the tremendous ruin which the blind pride of their foes had pulled down upon itself; and of witnessing the jubilee of a patriotic people released from a remorseless and unsparing tyranny. A word of Pomp. Have you read the newspaper stories of a certain negro scout, who, by his intrepidity, intelligence, and wonderful celerity of movement, has rendered such important services to the Army of the Cumberland? He is the man. Dan Pepperill fell in the battle of Stone River, fighting in a cause he never loved--the type of many such. Bythewood, after losing his influence at home, and trying various fortunes, became attached to the staff of the notorious Roger A. Pryor, in whose disgrace he shared, when that long-haired rebel chief was reduced to the ranks for cowardice. As for Carl, he is now a stalwart corporal in the --th Pennsylvania regiment. He serves under a dear friend of his, known as the "Fighting Quaker," and distinguished for that rare combination of military and moral qualities which constitutes the true hero. I regret that I cannot brighten these prosaic last pages with the halo of a wedding. But Penn had said, "Our country first!" and Virginia, heroic as he, had answered bravely, "Go!" Whether they will ever be happily united on earth, who can say? But this we know: the golden halo of the love that maketh one has crowned their united souls, and, with perfect patience and perfect trust, they wait. _L'ENVOY._ The foregoing pages are, as the writer sincerely believes, true to history and life in all important particulars. In order to give form and unity to the narrative, characters and incidents have been brought together within a much narrower compass, both of time and space, than they actually occupied: events have been described as occurring in the summer of 1861, many of which did not take place till some months later; and certain other liberties have been taken with facts. Two separate and distinct caves have been connected, in the story, by expanding both into one, which is for the most part imaginary, but which, I trust, will not be considered as a too improbable fiction in a region where caves and "sinks" abound. Lastly, is an apology needed for the scenes of violence here depicted?--Neither do I, O gentle reader, delight in them. But the book that would be a mirror of evil times, must show some repulsive features. And this book was written, not to please merely, but for a sterner purpose. For peaceful days, a peaceful and sunny literature: and may Heaven hasten the time when there shall be no more strife, and no more human bondage; when under the folds of the starry flag, from the lake chain to the gulf, and from sea to sea, freedom, and peace, and righteousness shall reign; when all men shall love each other, and the nations shall know God! 
30100	----	MARION FAY. A Novel. by ANTHONY TROLLOPE, Author of "Framley Parsonage," "Orley Farm," "The Way We Live Now," etc., etc. In Three Volumes. VOL. I. London: Chapman & Hall, Limited, 11, Henrietta St. 1882 [All Rights reserved.] Bungay: Clay and Taylor, Printers. CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. I. THE MARQUIS OF KINGSBURY. II. LORD HAMPSTEAD. III. THE MARCHIONESS. IV. LADY FRANCES. V. MRS. RODEN. VI. PARADISE ROW. VII. THE POST OFFICE. VIII. MR. GREENWOOD. IX. AT KÖNIGSGRAAF. X. "NOBLESSE OBLIGE." XI. LADY PERSIFLAGE. XII. CASTLE HAUTBOY. XIII. THE BRAESIDE HARRIERS. XIV. COMING HOME FROM HUNTING. XV. MARION FAY AND HER FATHER. XVI. THE WALK BACK TO HENDON. XVII. LORD HAMPSTEAD'S SCHEME. XVIII. HOW THEY LIVED AT TRAFFORD PARK. XIX. LADY AMALDINA'S LOVER. XX. THE SCHEME IS SUCCESSFUL. XXI. WHAT THEY ALL THOUGHT AS THEY WENT HOME. XXII. AGAIN AT TRAFFORD. MARION FAY. CHAPTER I. THE MARQUIS OF KINGSBURY. When Mr. Lionel Trafford went into Parliament for the Borough of Wednesbury as an advanced Radical, it nearly broke the heart of his uncle, the old Marquis of Kingsbury. Among Tories of his day the Marquis had been hyper-Tory,--as were his friends, the Duke of Newcastle, who thought that a man should be allowed to do what he liked with his own, and the Marquis of Londonderry, who, when some such falling-off in the family politics came near him, spoke with indignation of the family treasure which had been expended in defending the family seat. Wednesbury had never been the Marquis's own; but his nephew was so in a peculiar sense. His nephew was necessarily his heir,--the future Marquis,--and the old Marquis never again, politically, held up his head. He was an old man when this occurred, and luckily for him he did not live to see the worse things which came afterwards. The Member for Wednesbury became Marquis and owner of the large family property, but still he kept his politics. He was a Radical Marquis, wedded to all popular measures, not ashamed of his Charter days, and still clamorous for further Parliamentary reform, although it was regularly noted in Dod that the Marquis of Kingsbury was supposed to have strong influence in the Borough of Edgeware. It was so strong that both he and his uncle had put in whom they pleased. His uncle had declined to put him in because of his renegade theories, but he revenged himself by giving the seat to a glib-mouthed tailor, who, to tell the truth, had not done much credit to his choice. But it came to pass that the shade of his uncle was avenged, if it can be supposed that such feelings will affect the eternal rest of a dead Marquis. There grew up a young Lord Hampstead, the son and heir of the Radical Marquis, promising in intelligence and satisfactory in externals, but very difficult to deal with as to the use of his thoughts. They could not keep him at Harrow or at Oxford, because he not only rejected, but would talk openly against, Christian doctrines; a religious boy, but determined not to believe in revealed mysteries. And at twenty-one he declared himself a Republican,--explaining thereby that he disapproved altogether of hereditary honours. He was quite as bad to this Marquis as had been this Marquis to the other. The tailor kept his seat because Lord Hampstead would not even condescend to sit for the family borough. He explained to his father that he had doubts about a Parliament of which one section was hereditary, but was sure that at present he was too young for it. There must surely have been gratification in this to the shade of the departed Marquis. But there was worse than this,--infinitely worse. Lord Hampstead formed a close friendship with a young man, five years older than himself, who was but a clerk in the Post Office. In George Roden, as a man and a companion, there was no special fault to be found. There may be those who think that a Marquis's heir should look for his most intimate friend in a somewhat higher scale of social rank, and that he would more probably serve the purposes of his future life by associating with his equals;--that like to like in friendship is advantageous. The Marquis, his father, certainly thought so in spite of his Radicalism. But he might have been pardoned on the score of Roden's general good gifts,--might have been pardoned even though it were true, as supposed, that to Roden's strong convictions Lord Hampstead owed much of the ultra virus of his political convictions,--might have been pardoned had not there been worse again. At Hendon Hall, the Marquis's lovely suburban seat, the Post Office clerk was made acquainted with Lady Frances Trafford, and they became lovers. The radicalism of a Marquis is apt to be tainted by special considerations in regard to his own family. This Marquis, though he had his exoteric politics, had his esoteric feelings. With him, Liberal as he was, his own blood possessed a peculiar ichor. Though it might be well that men in the mass should be as nearly equal as possible, yet, looking at the state of possibilities and realities as existent, it was clear to him that a Marquis of Kingsbury had been placed on a pedestal. It might be that the state of things was matter for regret. In his grander moments he was certain that it was so. Why should there be a ploughboy unable to open his mouth because of his infirmity, and a Marquis with his own voice very resonant in the House of Lords, and a deputy voice dependent on him in the House of Commons? He had said so very frequently before his son, not knowing then what might be the effect of his own teaching. There had been a certain pride in his heart as he taught these lessons, wrong though it might be that there should be a Marquis and a ploughboy so far reversed by the injustice of Fate. There had been a comfort to him in feeling that Fate had made him the Marquis, and had made some one else the ploughboy. He knew what it was to be a Marquis down to the last inch of aristocratic admeasurement. He would fain that his children should have understood this also. But his lesson had gone deeper than he had intended, and great grief had come of it. The Marquis had been first married to a lady altogether unconnected with noble blood, but whose father had held a position of remarkable ascendancy in the House of Commons. He had never been a Cabinet Minister, because he had persisted in thinking that he could better serve his country by independence. He had been possessed of wealth, and had filled a great place in the social world. In marrying the only daughter of this gentleman the Marquis of Kingsbury had indulged his peculiar taste in regard to Liberalism, and was at the same time held not to have derogated from his rank. She had been a woman of great beauty and of many intellectual gifts,--thoroughly imbued with her father's views, but altogether free from feminine pedantry and that ambition which begrudges to men the rewards of male labour. Had she lived, Lady Frances might probably not have fallen in with the Post Office clerk; nevertheless, had she lived, she would have known the Post Office clerk to be a worthy gentleman. But she had died when her son was about sixteen and her daughter no more than fifteen. Two years afterwards our Marquis had gone among the dukes, and had found for himself another wife. Perhaps the freshness and edge of his political convictions had been blunted by that gradual sinking down among the great peers in general which was natural to his advanced years. A man who has spouted at twenty-five becomes tired of spouting at fifty, if nothing special has come from his spouting. He had been glad when he married Lady Clara Mountressor to think that circumstances as they had occurred at the last election would not make it necessary for him to deliver up the borough to the tailor on any further occasion. The tailor had been drunk at the hustings, and he ventured to hope that before six months were over Lord Hampstead would have so far rectified his frontiers as to be able to take a seat in the House of Commons. Then very quickly there were born three little flaxen-haired boys,--who became at least flaxen-haired as they emerged from their cradles,--Lord Frederic, Lord Augustus, and Lord Gregory. That they must be brought up with ideas becoming the scions of a noble House there could be no doubt. Their mother was every inch a duke's daughter. But, alas, not one of them was likely to become Marquis of Kingsbury. Though born so absolutely in the purple they were but younger sons. This was a silent sorrow;--but when their half sister Lady Frances told their mother openly that she had plighted her troth to the Post Office clerk, that was a sorrow which did not admit of silence. When Lord Hampstead had asked permission to bring his friend to the house there seemed to be no valid reason for refusing him. Low as he had descended amidst the depths of disreputable opinion, it was not supposed that even he would countenance anything so horrible as this. And was there not ground for security in the reticence and dignity of Lady Frances herself? The idea never presented itself to the Marchioness. When she heard that the Post Office clerk was coming she was naturally disgusted. All Lord Hampstead's ideas, doings, and ways were disgusting to her. She was a woman full of high-bred courtesy, and had always been gracious to her son-in-law's friends,--but it had been with a cold grace. Her heart rejected them thoroughly,--as she did him, and, to tell the truth, Lady Frances also. Lady Frances had all her mother's dignity, all her mother's tranquil manner, but something more than her mother's advanced opinions. She, too, had her ideas that the world should gradually be taught to dispense with the distances which separate the dukes and the ploughboys,--gradually, but still with a progressive motion, always tending in that direction. This to her stepmother was disgusting. The Post Office clerk had never before been received at Hendon Hall, though he had been introduced in London by Lord Hampstead to his sister. The Post Office clerk had indeed abstained from coming, having urged his own feelings with his friend as to certain unfitnesses. "A Marquis is as absurd to me as to you," he had said to Lord Hampstead, "but while there are Marquises they should be indulged,--particularly Marchionesses. An over-delicate skin is a nuisance; but if skins have been so trained as not to bear the free air, veils must be allowed for their protection. The object should be to train the skin, not to punish it abruptly. An unfortunate Sybarite Marchioness ought to have her rose leaves. Now I am not a rose leaf." And so he had stayed away. But the argument had been carried on between the friends, and the noble heir had at last prevailed. George Roden was not a rose leaf, but he was found at Hendon to have flowers of beautiful hues and with a sweet scent. Had he not been known to be a Post Office clerk,--could the Marchioness have been allowed to judge of him simply from his personal appearance,--he might have been taken to be as fine a rose leaf as any. He was a tall, fair, strongly-built young man, with short light hair, pleasant grey eyes, an aquiline nose, and small mouth. In his gait and form and face nothing was discernibly more appropriate to Post Office clerks than to the nobility at large. But he was a clerk, and he himself, as he himself declared, knew nothing of his own family,--remembered no relation but his mother. It had come to pass that the house at Hendon had become specially the residence of Lord Hampstead, who would neither have lodgings of his own in London or make part of the family when it occupied Kingsbury House in Park Lane. He would sometimes go abroad, would sometimes appear for a week or two at Trafford Park, the grand seat in Yorkshire. But he preferred the place, half town half country, in the neighbourhood of London, and here George Roden came frequently backwards and forwards after the ice had been broken by a first visit. Sometimes the Marquis would be there, and with him his daughter,--rarely the Marchioness. Then came the time when Lady Frances declared boldly to her stepmother that she had pledged her troth to the Post Office clerk. That happened in June, when Parliament was sitting, and when the flowers at Hendon were at their best. The Marchioness came there for a day or two, and the Post Office clerk on that morning had left the house for his office work, not purposing to come back. Some words had been said which had caused annoyance, and he did not intend to return. When he had been gone about an hour Lady Frances revealed the truth. Her brother at that time was two-and-twenty. She was a year younger. The clerk might perhaps be six years older than the young lady. Had he only been the eldest son of a Marquis, or Earl, or Viscount; had he been but an embryo Baron, he might have done very well. He was a well-spoken youth, yet with a certain modesty, such a one as might easily take the eye of a wished-for though ever so noble a mother-in-law. The little lords had learned to play with him, and it had come about that he was at his ease in the house. The very servants had seemed to forget that he was no more than a clerk, and that he went off by railway into town every morning that he might earn ten shillings by sitting for six hours at his desk. Even the Marchioness had almost trained herself to like him,--as one of those excrescences which are sometimes to be found in noble families, some governess, some chaplain or private secretary, whom chance or merit has elevated in the house, and who thus becomes a trusted friend. Then by chance she heard the name "Frances" without the prefix "Lady," and said a word in haughty anger. The Post Office clerk packed up his portmanteau, and Lady Frances told her story. Lord Hampstead's name was John. He was the Honourable John Trafford, called by courtesy Earl of Hampstead. To the world at large he was Lord Hampstead,--to his friends in general he was Hampstead; to his stepmother he was especially Hampstead,--as would have been her own eldest son the moment he was born had he been born to such good luck. To his father he had become Hampstead lately. In early days there had been some secret family agreement that in spite of conventionalities he should be John among them. The Marquis had latterly suggested that increasing years made this foolish; but the son himself attributed the change to step-maternal influences. But still he was John to his sister, and John to some half-dozen sympathising friends,--and among others to the Post Office clerk. "He has not said a word to me," the sister replied when she was taxed by her brother with seeming partiality for their young visitor. "But he will?" "No girl will ever admit as much as that, John." "But if he should?" "No girl will have an answer ready for such a suggestion." "I know he will." "If so, and if you have wishes to express, you should speak to him." All this made the matter quite clear to her brother. A girl such as was his sister would not so receive a brother's notice as to a proposed overture of love from a Post Office clerk, unless she had brought herself to look at the possibility without abhorrence. "Would it go against the grain with you, John?" This was what the clerk said when he was interrogated by his friend. "There would be difficulties." "Very great difficulties,--difficulties even with you." "I did not say so." "They would come naturally. The last thing that a man can abandon of his social idolatries is the sanctity of the women belonging to him." "God forbid that I should give up anything of the sanctity of my sister." "No; but the idolatry attached to it! It is as well that even a nobleman's daughter should be married if she can find a nobleman or such like to her taste. There is no breach of sanctity in the love,--but so great a wound to the idolatry in the man! Things have not changed so quickly that even you should be free from the feeling. Three hundred years ago, if the man could not be despatched out of the country or to the other world, the girl at least would be locked up. Three hundred years hence the girl and the man will stand together on their own merits. Just in this period of transition it is very hard for such a one as you to free himself altogether from the old trammels." "I make the endeavour." "Most bravely. But, my dear fellow, let this individual thing stand separately, away from politics and abstract ideas. I mean to ask your sister whether I can have her heart, and, as far as her will goes, her hand. If you are displeased I suppose we shall have to part,--for a time. Let theories run ever so high, Love will be stronger than them all." Lord Hampstead at this moment gave no assurance of his good will; but when it came to pass that his sister had given her assurance, then he ranged himself on the side of his friend the clerk. So it came to pass that there was great trouble in the household of the Marquis of Kingsbury. The family went abroad before the end of July, on account of the health of the children. So said the _Morning Post_. Anxious friends inquired in vain what could have befallen those flaxen-haired young Herculeses. Why was it necessary that they should be taken to the Saxon Alps when the beauties and comforts of Trafford Park were so much nearer and so superior? Lady Frances was taken with them, and there were one or two noble intimates among the world of fashion who heard some passing whispers of the truth. When passing whispers creep into the world of fashion they are heard far and wide. CHAPTER II. LORD HAMPSTEAD. Lord Hampstead, though he would not go into Parliament or belong to any London Club, or walk about the streets with a chimney-pot hat, or perform any of his public functions as a young nobleman should do, had, nevertheless, his own amusements and his own extravagances. In the matter of money he was placed outside his father's liberality,--who was himself inclined to be liberal enough,--by the fact that he had inherited a considerable portion of his maternal grandfather's fortune. It might almost be said truly of him that money was no object to him. It was not that he did not often talk about money and think about money. He was very prone to do so, saying that money was the most important factor in the world's justices and injustices. But he was so fortunately circumstanced as to be able to leave money out of his own personal consideration, never being driven by the want of it to deny himself anything, or tempted by a superabundance to expenditure which did not otherwise approve itself to him. To give 10_s._ or 20_s._ a bottle for wine because somebody pretended that it was very fine, or £300 for a horse when one at a £100 would do his work for him, was altogether below his philosophy. By his father's lodge gate there ran an omnibus up to town which he would often use, saying that an omnibus with company was better than a private carriage with none. He was wont to be angry with himself in that he employed a fashionable tailor, declaring that he incurred unnecessary expense merely to save himself the trouble of going elsewhere. In this, however, it may be thought that there was something of pretence, as he was no doubt conscious of good looks, and aware probably that a skilful tailor might add a grace. In his amusements he affected two which are especially expensive. He kept a yacht, in which he was accustomed to absent himself in the summer and autumn, and he had a small hunting establishment in Northamptonshire. Of the former little need be said here, as he spent his time on board much alone, or with friends with whom we need not follow him; but it may be said that everything about the _Free Trader_ was done well,--for such was the name of the vessel. Though he did not pay 10_s._ a bottle for his wine, he paid the best price for sails and cordage, and hired a competent skipper to look after himself and his boat. His hunting was done very much in the same way,--unless it be that in his yachting he was given to be tranquil, and in his hunting he was very fond of hard riding. At Gorse Hall, as his cottage was called, he had all comforts, we may perhaps say much of luxury, around him. It was indeed hardly more than a cottage, having been an old farm-house, and lately converted to its present purpose. There were no noble surroundings, no stately hall, no marble staircases, no costly salon. You entered by a passage which deserved no auguster name, on the right of which was the dining-room; on the left a larger chamber, always called the drawing-room because of the fashion of the name. Beyond that was a smaller retreat in which the owner kept his books. Leading up from the end of the passage there was a steep staircase, a remnant of the old farm-house, and above them five bed-rooms, so that his lordship was limited to the number of four guests. Behind this was the kitchen and the servants' rooms--sufficient, but not more than sufficient, for such a house. Here our young democrat kept half-a-dozen horses, all of them--as men around were used to declare--fit to go, although they were said to have been bought at not more than £100 each. It was supposed to be a crotchet on the part of Lord Hampstead to assert that cheap things were as good as dear, and there were some who believed that he did in truth care as much for his horses as other people. It was certainly a fact that he never would have but one out in a day, and he was wont to declare that Smith took out his second horse chiefly that Jones might know that he did so. Down here, at Gorse Hall, the Post Office clerk had often been received as a visitor,--but not at Gorse Hall had he ever seen Lady Frances. This lord had peculiar ideas about hunting, in reference to sport in general. It was supposed of him, and supposed truly, that no young man in England was more devotedly attached to fox-hunting than he,--and that in want of a fox he would ride after a stag, and in want of a stag after a drag. If everything else failed he would go home across the country, any friend accompanying him, or else alone. Nevertheless, he entertained a vehement hostility against all other sports. Of racing he declared that it had become simply a way of making money, and of all ways the least profitable to the world and the most disreputable. He was never seen on a racecourse. But his enemies declared of him, that though he loved riding he was no judge of an animal's pace, and that he was afraid to bet lest he should lose his money. Against shooting he was still louder. If there was in his country any tradition, any custom, any law hateful to him, it was such as had reference to the preservation of game. The preservation of a fox, he said, stood on a perfectly different basis. The fox was not preserved by law, and when preserved was used for the advantage of all who chose to be present at the amusement. One man in one day would shoot fifty pheasants which had eaten up the food of half-a-dozen human beings. One fox afforded in one day amusement to two hundred sportsmen, and was--or more generally was not--killed during the performance. And the fox during his beneficial life had eaten no corn, nor for the most part geese,--but chiefly rats and such like. What infinitesimal sum had the fox cost the country for every man who rushed after him? Then, what had been the cost of all those pheasants which one shooting cormorant crammed into his huge bag during one day's greedy sport? But it was the public nature of the one amusement and the thoroughly private nature of the other which chiefly affected him. In the hunting-field the farmer's son, if he had a pony, or the butcher-boy out of the town, could come and take his part; and if the butcher-boy could go ahead and keep his place while the man with a red coat and pink boots and with two horses fell behind, the butcher-boy would have the best of it, and incur the displeasure of no one. And the laws, too, by which hunting is governed, if there be laws, are thoroughly democratic in their nature. They are not, he said, made by any Parliament, but are simply assented to on behalf of the common need. It was simply in compliance with opinion that the lands of all men are open to be ridden over by the men of the hunt. In compliance with opinion foxes are preserved. In compliance with opinion coverts are drawn by this or the other pack of hounds. The Legislature had not stepped in to defile the statute book by bye-laws made in favour of the amusements of the rich. If injury were done, the ordinary laws of the country were open to the injured party. Anything in hunting that had grown to be beyond the reach of the law had become so by the force of popular opinion. All of this was reversed in shooting, from any participation in which the poor were debarred by enactments made solely on behalf of the rich. Four or five men in a couple of days would offer up hecatombs of slaughtered animals, in doing which they could only justify themselves by the fact that they were acting as poultry-butchers for the supply of the markets of the country. There was no excitement in it,--simply the firing off of many guns with a rapidity which altogether prevents that competition which is essential to the enjoyment of sport. Then our noble Republican would quote Teufelsdröckh and the memorable epitaph of the partridge-slayer. But it was on the popular and unpopular elements of the two sports that he would most strongly dilate, and on the iniquity of the game-laws as applying to the more aristocratic of the two. It was, however, asserted by the sporting world at large that Hampstead could not hit a haystack. As to fishing, he was almost equally violent, grounding his objection on the tedium and cruelty incident to the pursuit. The first was only a matter of taste, he would allow. If a man could content himself and be happy with an average of one fish to every three days' fishing, that was the man's affair. He could only think that in such case the man himself must be as cold-blooded as the fish which he so seldom succeeded in catching. As to the cruelty, he thought there could be no doubt. When he heard that bishops and ladies delighted themselves in hauling an unfortunate animal about by the gills for more than an hour at a stretch, he was inclined to regret the past piety of the Church and the past tenderness of the sex. When he spoke in this way the cruelty of fox-hunting was of course thrown in his teeth. Did not the poor hunted quadrupeds, when followed hither and thither by a pack of fox-hounds, endure torments as sharp and as prolonged as those inflicted on the fish? In answer to this Lord Hampstead was eloquent and argumentative. As far as we could judge from Nature the condition of the two animals during the process was very different. The salmon with the hook in its throat was in a position certainly not intended by Nature. The fox, using all its gifts to avoid an enemy, was employed exactly as Nature had enjoined. It would be as just to compare a human being impaled alive on a stake with another overburdened with his world's task. The overburdened man might stumble and fall, and so perish. Things would have been hard to him. But not, therefore, could you compare his sufferings with the excruciating agonies of the poor wretch who had been left to linger and starve with an iron rod through his vitals. This argument was thought to be crafty rather than cunning by those who were fond of fishing. But he had another on which, when he had blown off the steam of his eloquence by his sensational description of a salmon impaled by a bishop, he could depend with greater confidence. He would grant,--for the moment, though he was by no means sure of the fact,--but for the moment he would grant that the fox did not enjoy the hunt. Let it be acknowledged--for the sake of the argument--that he was tortured by the hounds rather than elated by the triumphant success of his own manoeuvres. Lord Hampstead "ventured to say,"--this he would put forward in the rationalistic tone with which he was wont to prove the absurdity of hereditary honours,--"that in the infliction of all pain the question as to cruelty or no cruelty was one of relative value." Was it "tanti?" Who can doubt that for a certain maximum of good a certain minimum of suffering may be inflicted without slur to humanity? In hunting, one fox was made to finish his triumphant career, perhaps prematurely, for the advantage of two hundred sportsmen. "Ah, but only for their amusement!" would interpose some humanitarian averse equally to fishing and to hunting. Then his lordship would arise indignantly and would ask his opponent, whether what he called amusement was not as beneficial, as essential, as necessary to the world as even such material good things as bread and meat. Was poetry less valuable than the multiplication table? Man could exist no doubt without fox-hunting. So he could without butter, without wine, or other so-called necessaries;--without ermine tippets, for instance, the original God-invested wearer of which had been doomed to lingering starvation and death when trapped amidst the snow, in order that one lady might be made fine by the agonies of a dozen little furry sufferers. It was all a case of "tanti," he said, and he said that the fox who had saved himself half-a-dozen times and then died nobly on behalf of those who had been instrumental in preserving an existence for him, ought not to complain of the lot which Fate had provided for him among the animals of the earth. It was said, however, in reference to this comparison between fishing and fox-hunting, that Lord Hampstead was altogether deficient in that skill and patience which is necessary for the landing of a salmon. But men, though they laughed at him, still they liked him. He was good-humoured and kindly-hearted. He was liberal in more than his politics. He had, too, a knack of laughing at himself, and his own peculiarities, which went far to redeem them. That a young Earl, an embryo Marquis, the heir of such a house as that of Trafford, should preach a political doctrine which those who heard ignorantly called Communistic, was very dreadful; but the horror of it was mitigated when he declared that no doubt as he got old he should turn Tory like any other Radical. In this there seemed to be a covert allusion to his father. And then they could perceive that his "Communistic" principles did not prevent him from having a good eye to the value of land. He knew what he was about, as an owner of property should do, and certainly rode to hounds as well as any one of the boys of the period. When the idea first presented itself to him that his sister was on the way to fall in love with George Roden, it has to be acknowledged that he was displeased. It had not occurred to him that this peculiar breach would be made on the protected sanctity of his own family. When Roden had spoken to him of this sanctity as one of the "social idolatries," he had not quite been able to contradict him. He had wished to do so both in defence of his own consistency, and also, if it were possible, so as to maintain the sanctity. The "divinity" which "does hedge a king," had been to him no more than a social idolatry. The special respect in which dukes and such like were held was the same. The judge's ermine and the bishop's apron were idolatries. Any outward honour, not earned by the deeds or words of him so honoured, but coming from birth, wealth, or from the doings of another, was an idolatry. Carrying on his arguments, he could not admit the same thing in reference to his sister;--or rather, he would have to admit it if he could not make another plea in defence of the sanctity. His sister was very holy to him;--but that should be because of her nearness to him, because of her sweetness, because of her own gifts, because as her brother he was bound to be her especial knight till she should have chosen some other special knight for herself. But it should not be because she was the daughter, granddaughter, and great-granddaughter of dukes and marquises. It should not be because she was Lady Frances Trafford. Had he himself been a Post Office clerk, then would not this chosen friend have been fit to love her? There were unfitnesses, no doubt, very common in this world, which should make the very idea of love impossible to a woman,--unfitness of character, of habits, of feelings, of education, unfitnesses as to inward personal nobility. He could not say that there were any such which ought to separate his sister and his friend. If it was to be that this sweet sister should some day give her heart to a lover, why not to George Roden as well as to another? There were no such unfitnesses as those of which he would have thought in dealing with the lives of some other girl and some other young man. And yet he was, if not displeased, at any rate dissatisfied. There was something which grated against either his taste, or his judgment,--or perhaps his prejudices. He endeavoured to inquire into himself fairly on this matter, and feared that he was yet the victim of the prejudices of his order. He was wounded in his pride to think that his sister should make herself equal to a clerk in the Post Office. Though he had often endeavoured, only too successfully, to make her understand how little she had in truth received from her high birth, yet he felt that she had received something which should have made the proposal of such a marriage distasteful to her. A man cannot rid himself of a prejudice because he knows or believes it to be a prejudice. That the two, if they continued to wish it, must become man and wife he acknowledged to himself;--but he could not bring himself not to be sorry that it should be so. There were some words on the subject between himself and his father before the Marquis went abroad with his family, which, though they did not reconcile him to the match, lessened the dissatisfaction. His father was angry with him, throwing the blame of this untoward affair on his head, and he was always prone to resent censure thrown by any of his family on his own peculiar tenets. Thus it came to pass that in defending himself he was driven to defend his sister also. The Marquis had not been at Hendon when the revelation was first made, but had heard it in the course of the day from his wife. His Radical tendencies had done very little towards reconciling him to such a proposal. He had never brought his theories home into his own personalities. To be a Radical peer in the House of Lords, and to have sent a Radical tailor to the House of Commons, had been enough, if not too much, to satisfy his own political ideas. To himself and to his valet, to all those immediately touching himself, he had always been the Marquis of Kingsbury. And so also, in his inner heart, the Marchioness was the Marchioness, and Lady Frances Lady Frances. He had never gone through any process of realizing his convictions as his son had done. "Hampstead," he said, "can this possibly be true what your mother has told me?" This took place at the house in Park Lane, to which the Marquis had summoned his son. "Do you mean about Frances and George Roden?" "Of course I mean that." "I supposed you did, sir. I imagined that when you sent for me it was in regard to them. No doubt it is true." "What is true? You speak as though you absolutely approved it." "Then my voice has belied me, for I disapprove of it." "You feel, I hope, how utterly impossible it is." "Not that." "Not that?" "I cannot say that I think it to be impossible,--or even improbable. Knowing the two, as I do, I feel the probability to be on their side." "That they--should be married?" "That is what they intend. I never knew either of them to mean anything which did not sooner or later get itself accomplished." "You'll have to learn it on this occasion. How on earth can it have been brought about?" Lord Hampstead shrugged his shoulders. "Somebody has been very much to blame." "You mean me, sir?" "Somebody has been very much to blame." "Of course, you mean me. I cannot take any blame in the matter. In introducing George Roden to you, and to my mother, and to Frances, I brought you to the knowledge of a highly-educated and extremely well-mannered young man." "Good God!" "I did to my friend what every young man, I suppose, does to his. I should be ashamed of myself to associate with any one who was not a proper guest for my father's table. One does not calculate before that a young man and a young woman shall fall in love with each other." "You see what has happened." "It was extremely natural, no doubt,--though I had not anticipated it. As I told you, I am very sorry. It will cause many heartburns, and some unhappiness." "Unhappiness! I should think so. I must go away,--in the middle of the Session." "It will be worse for her, poor girl." "It will be very bad for her," said the Marquis, speaking as though his mind were quite made up on that matter. "But nobody, as far as I can see, has done anything wrong," continued Lord Hampstead. "When two young people get together whose tastes are similar, and opinions,--whose educations and habits of thought have been the same--" "Habits the same!" "Habits of thought, I said, sir." "You would talk the hind legs off a dog," said the Marquis, bouncing out of the room. It was not unusual with him, in the absolute privacy of his own circle, to revert to language which he would have felt to be unbecoming to him as Marquis of Kingsbury among ordinary people. CHAPTER III. THE MARCHIONESS. Though the departure of the Marquis was much hurried, there were other meetings between Hampstead and the family before the flitting was actually made. "No doubt I will. I am quite with you there," the son said to the father, who had desired him to explain to the young man the impossibility of such a marriage. "I think it would be a misfortune to them both, which should be avoided,--if they can get over their present feelings." "Feelings!" "I suppose there are such feelings, sir?" "Of course he is looking for position--and money." "Not in the least. That might probably be the idea with some young nobleman who would wish to marry into his own class, and to improve his fortune at the same time. With such a one that would be fair enough. He would give and take. With George that would not be honest;--nor would such accusation be true. The position, as you call it, he would feel to be burdensome. As to money, he does not know whether Frances has a shilling or not." "Not a shilling,--unless I give it to her." "He would not think of such a matter." "Then he must be a very imprudent young man, and unfit to have a wife at all." "I cannot admit that,--but suppose he is?" "And yet you think--?" "I think, sir, that it is unfortunate. I have said so ever since I first heard it. I shall tell him exactly what I think. You will have Frances with you, and will of course express your own opinion." The Marquis was far from satisfied with his son, but did not dare to go on further with the argument. In all such discussions he was wont to feel that his son was "talking the hind legs off a dog." His own ideas on concrete points were clear enough to him,--as this present idea that his daughter, Lady Frances Trafford, would outrage all propriety, all fitness, all decency, if she were to give herself in marriage to George Roden, the Post Office clerk. But words were not plenty with him,--or, when plenty, not efficacious,--and he was prone to feel, when beaten in argument, that his opponent was taking an unfair advantage. Thus it was that he often thought, and sometimes said, that those who oppressed him with words would "talk the hind legs off a dog." The Marchioness also expressed her opinion to Hampstead. She was a lady stronger than her husband;--stronger in this, that she never allowed herself to be worsted in any encounter. If words would not serve her occasion at the moment, her countenance would do so,--and if not that, her absence. She could be very eloquent with silence, and strike an adversary dumb by the way in which she would leave a room. She was a tall, handsome woman, with a sublime gait.--"Vera incessu patuit Dea." She had heard, if not the words, then some translation of the words, and had taken them to heart, and borne them with her as her secret motto. To be every inch an aristocrat, in look as in thought, was the object of her life. That such was her highest duty was quite fixed in her mind. It had pleased God to make her a Marchioness,--and should she derogate from God's wish? It had been her one misfortune that God should not also have made her the mother of a future Marquis. Her face, though handsome, was quite impassive, showing nothing of her sorrows or her joys; and her voice was equally under control. No one had ever imagined, not even her husband, that she felt acutely that one blow of fortune. Though Hampstead's politics had been to her abominable, treasonable, blasphemous, she treated him with an extreme courtesy. If there were anything that he wished about the house she would have it done for him. She would endeavour to interest herself about his hunting. And she would pay him a great respect,--to him most onerous,--as being second in all things to the Marquis. Though a Republican blasphemous rebel,--so she thought of him,--he was second to the Marquis. She would fain have taught her little boys to respect him,--as the future head of the family,--had he not been so accustomed to romp with them, to pull them out of their little beds, and toss them about in their night-shirts, that they loved him much too well for respect. It was in vain that their mother strove to teach them to call him Hampstead. Lady Frances had never been specially in her way, but to Lady Frances the stepmother had been perhaps harder than to the stepson, of whose presence as an absolute block to her ambition she was well aware. Lady Frances had no claim to a respect higher than that which was due to her own children. Primogeniture had done nothing for her. She was a Marquis's daughter, but her mother had been only the offspring of a commoner. There was perhaps something of conscience in her feelings towards the two. As Lord Hampstead was undoubtedly in her way, it occurred to her to think that she should not on that account be inimical to him. Lady Frances was not in her way,--and therefore was open to depreciation and dislike without wounds to her conscience; and then, though Hampstead was abominable because of his Republicanism, his implied treason, and blasphemy, yet he was entitled to some excuse as being a man. These things were abominable no doubt in him, but more pardonably abominable than they would be in a woman. Lady Frances had never declared herself to be a Republican or a disbeliever, much less a rebel,--as, indeed, had neither Lord Hampstead. In the presence of her stepmother she was generally silent on matters of political or religious interest. But she was supposed to sympathise with her brother, and was known to be far from properly alive to aristocratic interests. There was never quarrelling between the two, but there was a lack of that friendship which may subsist between a stepmother of thirty-eight and a stepdaughter of twenty-one. Lady Frances was tall and slender, with quiet speaking features, dark in colour, with blue eyes, and hair nearly black. In appearance she was the very opposite of her stepmother, moving quickly and achieving grace as she did so, without a thought, by the natural beauty of her motions. The dignity was there, but without a thought given to it. Not even did the little lords, her brothers, chuck their books and toys about with less idea of demeanour. But the Marchioness never arranged a scarf or buttoned a glove without feeling that it was her duty to button her glove and arrange her scarf as became the Marchioness of Kingsbury. The stepmother wished no evil to Lady Frances,--only that she should be married properly and taken out of the way. Any stupid Earl or mercurial Viscount would have done, so long as the blood and the money had been there. Lady Frances had been felt to be dangerous, and the hope was that the danger might be got rid of by a proper marriage. But not by such a marriage as this! When that accidental calling of the name was first heard and the following avowal made, the Marchioness declared her immediate feelings by a look. It was so that Arthur may have looked when he first heard that his Queen was sinful,--so that Cæsar must have felt when even Brutus struck him. For though Lady Frances had been known to be blind to her own greatness, still this,--this at any rate was not suspected. "You cannot mean it!" the Marchioness had at last said. "I certainly mean it, mamma." Then the Marchioness, with one hand guarding her raiment, and with the other raised high above her shoulder, in an agony of supplication to those deities who arrange the fates of ducal houses, passed slowly out of the room. It was necessary that she should bethink herself before another word was spoken. For some time after that very few words passed between her and the sinner. A dead silence best befitted the occasion;--as, when a child soils her best frock, we put her in the corner with a scolding; but when she tells a fib we quell her little soul within her by a terrible quiescence. To be eloquently indignant without a word is within the compass of the thoughtfully stolid. It was thus that Lady Frances was at first treated by her stepmother. She was, however, at once taken up to London, subjected to the louder anger of her father, and made to prepare for the Saxon Alps. At first, indeed, her immediate destiny was not communicated to her. She was to be taken abroad;--and, in so taking her, it was felt to be well to treat her as the policeman does his prisoner, whom he thinks to be the last person who need be informed as to the whereabouts of the prison. It did leak out quickly, because the Marquis had a castle or château of his own in Saxony;--but that was only an accident. The Marchioness still said little on the matter,--unless in what she might say to her husband in the secret recesses of marital discussion; but before she departed she found it expedient to express herself on one occasion to Lord Hampstead. "Hampstead," she said, "this is a terrible blow that has fallen upon us." "I was surprised myself. I do not know that I should call it exactly a blow." "Not a blow! But of course you mean that it will come to nothing." "What I meant was, that though I regard the proposition as inexpedient--" "Inexpedient!" "Yes;--I think it inexpedient certainly; but there is nothing in it that shocks me." "Nothing that shocks you!" "Marriage in itself is a good thing." "Hampstead, do not talk to me in that way." "But I think it is. If it be good for a young man to marry it must be good for a young woman also. The one makes the other necessary." "But not for such as your sister,--and him--together. You are speaking in that way simply to torment me." "I can only speak as I think. I do agree that it would be inexpedient. She would to a certain extent lose the countenance of her friends--" "Altogether!" "Not altogether,--but to some extent. A certain class of people,--not the best worth knowing,--might be inclined to drop her. However foolish her own friends may be we owe something--even to their folly." "Her friends are not foolish,--her proper friends." "I quite agree with that; but then so many of them are improper." "Hampstead!" "I am afraid that I don't make myself quite clear. But never mind. It would be inexpedient. It would go against the grain with my father, who ought to be consulted." "I should think so." "I quite agree with you. A father ought to be consulted, even though a daughter be of age, so as to be enabled by law to do as she likes with herself. And then there would be money discomforts." "She would not have a shilling." "Not but what I should think it my duty to put that right if there were any real distress." Here spoke the heir, who was already in possession of much, and upon whom the whole property of the family was entailed. "Nevertheless if I can prevent it,--without quarrelling either with one or the other, without saying a hard word,--I shall do so." "It will be your bounden duty." "It is always a man's bounden duty to do what is right. The difficulty is in seeing the way." After this the Marchioness was silent. What she had gained by speaking was very little,--little or nothing. The nature of the opposition he proposed was almost as bad as a sanction, and the reasons he gave for agreeing with her were as hurtful to her feelings as though they had been advanced on the other side. Even the Marquis was not sufficiently struck with horror at the idea that a daughter of his should have condescended to listen to love from a Post Office clerk! On the day before they started Hampstead was enabled to be alone with his sister for a few minutes. "What an absurdity it is," she said, laughing,--"this running away." "It is what you must have expected." "But not the less absurd. Of course I shall go. Just at the moment I have no alternative; as I should have none if they threatened to lock me up, till I got somebody to take my case in hand. But I am as free to do what I please with myself as is papa." "He has got money." "But he is not, therefore, to be a tyrant." "Yes he is;--over an unmarried daughter who has got none. We cannot but obey those on whom we are dependent." "What I mean is, that carrying me away can do no good. You don't suppose, John, that I shall give him up after having once brought myself to say the word! It was very difficult to say;--but ten times harder to be unsaid. I am quite determined,--and quite satisfied." "But they are not." "As regards my father, I am very sorry. As to mamma, she and I are so different in all our thinking that I know beforehand that whatever I might do would displease her. It cannot be helped. Whether it be good or bad I cannot be made such as she is. She came too late. You will not turn against me, John?" "I rather think I shall." "John!" "I may rather say that I have. I do not think your engagement to be wise." "But it has been made," said she. "And may be unmade." "No;--unless by him." "I shall tell him that it ought to be unmade,--for the happiness of both of you." "He will not believe you." Then Lord Hampstead shrugged his shoulders, and thus the conversation was finished. It was now about the end of June, and the Marquis felt it to be a grievance that he should be carried away from the charm of political life in London. In the horror of the first revelation he had yielded, but had since begun to feel that too much was being done in withdrawing him from Parliament. The Conservatives were now in; but during the last Liberal Government he had consented so far to trammel himself with the bonds of office as to become Privy Seal for the concluding six months of its existence, and therefore felt his own importance in a party point of view. But having acceded to his wife he could not now go back, and was sulky. On the evening before their departure he was going to dine out with some of the party. His wife's heart was too deep in the great family question for any gaiety, and she intended to remain at home,--and to look after the final packings-up for the little lords. "I really do not see why you should not have gone without me," the Marquis said, poking his head out of his dressing-room. "Impossible," said the Marchioness. "I don't see it at all." "If he should appear on the scene ready to carry her off, what should I have done?" Then the Marquis drew his head in again, and went on with his dressing. What, indeed, could he do himself if the man were to appear on the scene, and if his daughter should declare herself willing to go off with him? When the Marquis went to his dinner party the Marchioness dined with Lady Frances. There was no one else present but the two servants who waited on them, and hardly a word was spoken. The Marchioness felt that an awful silence was becoming in the situation. Lady Frances merely determined more strongly than ever that the situation should not last very long. She would go abroad now, but would let her father understand that the kind of life planned out for her was one that she could not endure. If she was supposed to have disgraced her position, let her be sent away. As soon as the melancholy meal was over the two ladies separated, the Marchioness going up-stairs among her own children. A more careful, more affectionate, perhaps, I may say, a more idolatrous mother never lived. Every little want belonging to them,--for even little lords have wants,--was a care to her. To see them washed and put in and out of their duds was perhaps the greatest pleasure of her life. To her eyes they were pearls of aristocratic loveliness; and, indeed, they were fine healthy bairns, clean-limbed, bright-eyed, with grand appetites, and never cross as long as they were allowed either to romp and make a noise, or else to sleep. Lord Frederic, the eldest, was already in words of two syllables, and sometimes had a bad time with them. Lord Augustus was the owner of great ivory letters of which he contrived to make playthings. Lord Gregory had not as yet been introduced to any of the torments of education. There was an old English clergyman attached to the family who was supposed to be their tutor, but whose chief duty consisted in finding conversation for the Marquis when there was no one else to talk to him. There was also a French governess and a Swiss maid. But as they both learned English quicker than the children learned French, they were not serviceable for the purpose at first intended. The Marchioness had resolved that her children should talk three or four languages as fluently as their own, and that they should learn them without any of the agonies generally incident to tuition. In that she had not as yet succeeded. She seated herself for a few minutes among the boxes and portmanteaus in the midst of which the children were disporting themselves prior to their final withdrawal to bed. No mother was ever so blessed,--if only, if only! "Mamma," said Lord Frederic, "where's Jack?" "Jack" absolutely was intended to signify Lord Hampstead. "Fred, did not I say that you should not call him Jack?" "He say he is Jack," declared Lord Augustus, rolling up in between his mother's knees with an impetus which would have upset her had she not been a strong woman and accustomed to these attacks. "That is only because he is good-natured, and likes to play with you. You should call him Hampstead." "Mamma, wasn't he christianed?" asked the eldest. "Yes, of course he was christened, my dear," said the mother, sadly,--thinking how very much of the ceremony had been thrown away upon the unbelieving, godless young man. Then she superintended the putting to bed, thinking what a terrible bar to her happiness had been created by that first unfortunate marriage of her husband's. Oh, that she should be stepmother to a daughter who desired to fling herself into the arms of a clerk in the Post Office! And then that an "unchristianed," that an infidel, republican, un-English, heir should stand in the way of her darling boy! She had told herself a thousand times that the Devil was speaking to her when she had dared to wish that,--that Lord Hampstead was not there! She had put down the wish in her heart very often, telling herself that it came from the Devil. She had made a faint struggle to love the young man,--which had resulted in constrained civility. It would have been unnatural to her to love any but her own. Now she thought how glorious her Frederic would have been as Lord Hampstead,--and how infinitely better it would have been, how infinitely better it would be, for all the Traffords, for all the nobles of England, and for the country at large! But in thinking this she knew that she was a sinner, and she endeavoured to crush the sin. Was it not tantamount to wishing that her husband's son was--dead? CHAPTER IV. LADY FRANCES. There is something so sad in the condition of a girl who is known to be in love, and has to undergo the process of being made ashamed of it by her friends, that one wonders that any young woman can bear it. Most young women cannot bear it, and either give up their love or say that they do. A young man who has got into debt, or been plucked,--or even when he has declared himself to be engaged to a penniless young lady, which is worse,--is supposed merely to have gone after his kind, and done what was to be expected of him. The mother never looks at him with that enduring anger by which she intends to wear out the daughter's constancy. The father frets and fumes, pays the debts, prepares the way for a new campaign, and merely shrugs his shoulders about the proposed marriage, which he regards simply as an impossibility. But the girl is held to have disgraced herself. Though it is expected of her, or at any rate hoped, that she will get married in due time, yet the falling in love with a man,--which is, we must suppose, a preliminary step to marriage,--is a wickedness. Even among the ordinary Joneses and Browns of the world we see that it is so. When we are intimate enough with the Browns to be aware of Jane Brown's passion, we understand the father's manner and the mother's look. The very servants about the house are aware that she has given way to her feelings, and treat her accordingly. Her brothers are ashamed of her. Whereas she, if her brother be in love with Jemima Jones, applauds him, sympathizes with him, and encourages him. There are heroines who live through it all, and are true to the end. There are many pseudo-heroines who intend to do so, but break down. The pseudo-heroine generally breaks down when young Smith,--not so very young,--has been taken in as a partner by Messrs. Smith and Walker, and comes in her way, in want of a wife. The persecution is, at any rate, so often efficacious as to make fathers and mothers feel it to be their duty to use it. It need not be said here how high above the ways of the Browns soared the ideas of the Marchioness of Kingsbury. But she felt that it would be her duty to resort to the measures which they would have adopted, and she was determined that the Marquis should do the same. A terrible evil, an incurable evil, had already been inflicted. Many people, alas, would know that Lady Frances had disgraced herself. She, the Marchioness, had been unable to keep the secret from her own sister, Lady Persiflage, and Lady Persiflage would undoubtedly tell it to others. Her own lady's maid knew it. The Marquis himself was the most indiscreet of men. Hampstead would see no cause for secrecy. Roden would, of course, boast of it all through the Post Office. The letter-carriers who attended upon Park Lane would have talked the matter over with the footmen at the area gate. There could be no hope of secrecy. All the young marquises and unmarried earls would know that Lady Frances Trafford was in love with the "postman." But time, and care, and strict precaution might prevent the final misery of a marriage. Then, if the Marquis would be generous, some young Earl, or at least a Baron, might be induced to forget the "postman," and to take the noble lily, soiled, indeed, but made gracious by gilding. Her darlings must suffer. Any excess of money given would be at their cost. But anything would be better than a Post Office clerk for a brother-in-law. Such were the views as to their future life with which the Marchioness intended to accompany her stepdaughter to their Saxon residence. The Marquis, with less of a fixed purpose, was inclined in the same way. "I quite agree that they should be separated;--quite," he said. "It mustn't be heard of;--certainly not; certainly not. Not a shilling,--unless she behaves herself properly. Of course she will have her fortune, but not to bestow it in such a manner as that." His own idea was to see them all settled in the château, and then, if possible, to hurry back to London before the season was quite at an end. His wife laid strong injunctions on him as to absolute secrecy, having forgotten, probably, that she herself had told the whole story to Lady Persiflage. The Marquis quite agreed. Secrecy was indispensable. As for him, was it likely that he should speak of a matter so painful and so near to his heart! Nevertheless he told it all to Mr. Greenwood, the gentleman who acted as tutor, private secretary, and chaplain in the house. Lady Frances had her own ideas, as to this going away and living abroad, very strongly developed in her mind. They intended to persecute her till she should change her purpose. She intended to persecute them till they should change theirs. She knew herself too well, she thought, to have any fear as to her own persistency. That the Marchioness should persuade, or even persecute, her out of an engagement to which she had assented, she felt to be quite out of the question. In her heart she despised the Marchioness,--bearing with her till the time should come in which she would be delivered from the nuisance of surveillance under such a woman. In her father she trusted much, knowing him to be affectionate, believing him to be still opposed to those aristocratic dogmas which were a religion to the Marchioness,--feeling probably that in his very weakness she would find her best strength. If her stepmother should in truth become cruel, then her father would take her part against his wife. There must be a period of discomfort,--say, six months; and then would come the time in which she would be able to say, "I have tried myself, and know my own mind, and I intend to go home and get myself married." She would take care that her declaration to this effect should not come as a sudden blow. The six months should be employed in preparing for it. The Marchioness might be persistent in preaching her views during the six months, but so would Lady Frances be persistent in preaching hers. She had not accepted the man's love when he had offered it, without thinking much about it. The lesson which she had heard in her earlier years from her mother had sunk deep into her very soul,--much more deeply than the teacher of those lessons had supposed. That teacher had never intended to inculcate as a doctrine that rank is a mistake. No one had thought more than she of the incentives provided by rank to high duty. "Noblesse oblige." The lesson had been engraved on her heart, and might have been read in all the doings of her life. But she had endeavoured to make it understood by her children that they should not be over-quick to claim the privileges of rank. Too many such would be showered on them,--too many for their own welfare. Let them never be greedy to take with outstretched hands those good things of which Chance had provided for them so much more than their fair share. Let them remember that after all there was no virtue in having been born a child to a Marquis. Let them remember how much more it was to be a useful man, or a kind woman. So the lessons had been given,--and had gone for more than had been intended. Then all the renown of their father's old politics assisted,--the re-election of the drunken tailor,--the jeerings of friends who were high enough and near enough to dare to jeer,--the convictions of childhood that it was a fine thing, because peculiar for a Marquis and his belongings, to be Radical;--and, added to this, there was contempt for the specially noble graces of their stepmother. Thus it was that Lord Hampstead was brought to his present condition of thinking,--and Lady Frances. Her convictions were quite as strong as his, though they did not assume the same form. With a girl, at an early age, all her outlookings into the world have something to do with love and its consequences. When a young man takes his leaning either towards Liberalism or Conservatism he is not at all actuated by any feeling as to how some possible future young woman may think on the subject. But the girl, if she entertains such ideas at all, dreams of them as befitting the man whom she may some day hope to love. Should she, a Protestant, become a Roman Catholic and then a nun, she feels that in giving up her hope for a man's love she is making the greatest sacrifice in her power for the Saviour she is taking to her heart. If she devotes herself to music, or the pencil, or to languages, the effect which her accomplishments may have on some beau ideal of manhood is present to her mind. From the very first she is dressing herself unconsciously in the mirror of a man's eyes. Quite unconsciously, all this had been present to Lady Frances as month after month and year after year she had formed her strong opinions. She had thought of no man's love,--had thought but little of loving any man,--but in her meditations as to the weaknesses and vanity of rank there had always been present that idea,--how would it be with her if such a one should ask for her hand, such a one as she might find among those of whom she dreamed as being more noble than Dukes, even though they were numbered among the world's proletaries? Then she had told herself that if any such a one should come,--if at any time any should be allowed by herself to come,--he should be estimated by his merits, whether Duke or proletary. With her mind in such a state she had of course been prone to receive kindly the overtures of her brother's friend. What was there missing in him that a girl should require? It was so that she had asked herself the question. As far as manners were concerned, this man was a gentleman. She was quite sure of that. Whether proletary or not, there was nothing about him to offend the taste of the best-born of ladies. That he was better educated than any of the highly-bred young men she saw around her, she was quite sure. He had more to talk about than others. Of his birth and family she knew nothing, but rather prided herself in knowing nothing, because of that doctrine of hers that a man is to be estimated only by what he is himself, and not at all by what he may derive from others. Of his personal appearance, which went far with her, she was very proud. He was certainly a handsome young man, and endowed with all outward gifts of manliness: easy in his gait, but not mindful of it, with motions of his body naturally graceful but never studied, with his head erect, with a laugh in his eye, well-made as to his hands and feet. Neither his intellect nor his political convictions would have recommended a man to her heart, unless there had been something in the outside to please her eye, and from the first moment in which she had met him he had never been afraid of her,--had ventured when he disagreed from her to laugh at her, and even to scold her. There is no barrier in a girl's heart so strong against love as the feeling that the man in question stands in awe of her. She had taken some time before she had given him her answer, and had thought much of the perils before her. She had known that she could not divest herself of her rank. She had acknowledged to herself that, whether it was for good or bad, a Marquis's daughter could not be like another girl. She owed much to her father, much to her brothers, something even to her stepmother. But was the thing she proposed to do of such a nature as to be regarded as an evil to her family? She could see that there had been changes in the ways of the world during the last century,--changes continued from year to year. Rank was not so high as it used to be,--and in consequence those without rank not so low. The Queen's daughter had married a subject. Lords John and Lords Thomas were every day going into this and the other business. There were instances enough of ladies of title doing the very thing which she proposed to herself. Why should a Post Office clerk be lower than another? Then came the great question, whether it behoved her to ask her father. Girls in general ask their mother, and send the lover to the father. She had no mother. She was quite sure that she would not leave her happiness in the hands of the present Marchioness. Were she to ask her father she knew that the matter would be at once settled against her. Her father was too much under the dominion of his wife to be allowed to have an opinion of his own on such a matter. So she declared to herself, and then determined that she would act on her own responsibility. She would accept the man, and then take the first opportunity of telling her stepmother what she had done. And so it was. It was only early on that morning that she had given her answer to George Roden,--and early on that morning she had summoned up her courage, and told her whole story. The station to which she was taken was a large German schloss, very comfortably arranged, with the mountain as a background and the River Elbe running close beneath its terraces, on which the Marquis had spent some money, and made it a residence to be envied by the eyes of all passers-by. It had been bought for its beauty in a freak, but had never been occupied for more than a week at a time till this occasion. Under other circumstances Lady Frances would have been as happy here as the day was long, and had often expressed a desire to be allowed to stay for a while at Königsgraaf. But now, though she made an attempt to regard their sojourn in the place as one of the natural events of their life, she could not shake off the idea of a prison. The Marchioness was determined that the idea of a prison should not be shaken off. In the first few days she said not a word about the objectionable lover, nor did the Marquis. That had been settled between them. But neither was anything said on any other subject. There was a sternness in every motion, and a grim silence seemed to preside in the château, except when the boys were present,--and an attempt was made to separate her from her brothers as much as possible, which she was more inclined to resent than any other ill usage which was adopted towards her. After about a fortnight it was announced that the Marquis was to return to London. He had received letters from "the party" which made it quite necessary that he should be there. When this was told to Lady Frances not a word was said as to the probable duration of their own stay at the château. "Papa," she said, "you are going back to London?" "Yes, my dear. My presence in town is imperatively necessary." "How long are we to stay here?" "How long?" "Yes, papa. I like Königsgraaf very much. I always thought it the prettiest place I know. But I do not like looking forward to staying here without knowing when I am to go away." "You had better ask your mamma, my dear." "Mamma never says anything to me. It would be no good my asking her. Papa, you ought to tell me something before you go away." "Tell you what?" "Or let me tell you something." "What do you want to tell me, Frances?" In saying this he assumed his most angry tone and sternest countenance,--which, however, were not very angry or very stern, and had no effect in frightening his daughter. He did not, in truth, wish to say a word about the Post Office clerk before he made his escape, and would have been very glad to frighten her enough to make her silent had that been possible. "Papa, I want you to know that it will do no good shutting me up there." "Nobody shuts you up." "I mean here in Saxony. Of course I shall stay for some time, but you cannot expect that I shall remain here always." "Who has talked about always?" "I understand that I am brought here to be--out of Mr. Roden's way." "I would rather not speak of that young man." "But, papa,--if he is to be my husband--" "He is not to be your husband." "It will be so, papa, though I should be kept here ever so long. That is what I want you to understand. Having given my word,--and so much more than my word,--I certainly shall not go back from it. I can understand that you should carry me off here so as to try and wean me from it--" "It is quite out of the question; impossible!" "No, papa. If he choose,--and I choose,--no one can prevent us." As she said this she looked him full in the face. "Do you mean to say that you owe no obedience to your parents?" "To you, papa, of course I owe obedience,--to a certain extent. There does come a time, I suppose, in which a daughter may use her own judgment as to her own happiness." "And disgrace all her family?" "I do not think that I shall disgrace mine. What I want you to understand, papa, is this,--that you will not ensure my obedience by keeping me here. I think I should be more likely to be submissive at home. There is an idea in enforced control which is hardly compatible with obedience. I don't suppose you will lock me up." "You have no right to talk to me in that way." "I want to explain that our being here can do no good. When you are gone mamma and I will only be very unhappy together. She won't talk to me, and will look at me as though I were a poor lost creature. I don't think that I am a lost creature at all, but I shall be just as much lost here as though I were at home in England." "When you come to talking you are as bad as your brother," said the Marquis as he left her. Only that the expression was considered to be unfit for female ears, he would have accused her of "talking the hind legs off a dog." When he was gone the life at Königsgraaf became very sombre indeed. Mr. George Roden's name was never mentioned by either of the ladies. There was the Post Office, no doubt, and the Post Office was at first left open to her; but there soon came a time in which she was deprived of this consolation. With such a guardian as the Marchioness, it was not likely that free correspondence should be left open to her. CHAPTER V. MRS. RODEN. George Roden, the Post Office clerk, lived with his mother at Holloway, about three miles from his office. There they occupied a small house which had been taken when their means were smaller even than at present;--for this had been done before the young man had made his way into the official elysium of St. Martin's-le-Grand. This had been effected about five years since, during which time he had risen to an income of £170. As his mother had means of her own amounting to about double as much, and as her personal expenses were small, they were enabled to live in comfort. She was a lady of whom none around knew anything, but there had gone abroad a rumour among her neighbours that there was something of a mystery attached to her, and there existed a prevailing feeling that she was at any rate a well-born lady. Few people at Holloway knew either her or her son. But there were some who condescended to watch them, and to talk about them. It was ascertained that Mrs. Roden usually went to church on Sunday morning, but that her son never did so. It was known, too, that a female friend called upon her regularly once a week; and it was noted in the annals of Holloway that this female friend came always at three o'clock on a Monday. Intelligent observers had become aware that the return visit was made in the course of the week, but not always made on one certain day;--from which circumstances various surmises arose as to the means, whereabouts, and character of the visitor. Mrs. Roden always went in a cab. The lady, whose name was soon known to be Mrs. Vincent, came in a brougham, which for a time was supposed to be her own peculiar property. The man who drove it was so well arrayed as to hat, cravat, and coat, as to leave an impression that he must be a private servant; but one feminine observer, keener than others, saw the man on an unfortunate day descend from his box at a public-house, and knew at once that the trousers were the trousers of a hired driver from a livery-stable. Nevertheless it was manifest that Mrs. Vincent was better to do in the world than Mrs. Roden, because she could afford to hire a would-be private carriage; and it was imagined also that she was a lady accustomed to remain at home of an afternoon, probably with the object of receiving visitors, because Mrs. Roden made her visits indifferently on Thursday, Friday, or Saturday. It was suggested also that Mrs. Vincent was no friend to the young clerk, because it was well known that he was never there when the lady came, and it was supposed that he never accompanied his mother on the return visits. He had, indeed, on one occasion been seen to get out of the cab with his mother at their own door, but it was strongly surmised that she had then picked him up at the Post Office. His official engagements might, indeed, have accounted for all this naturally; but the ladies of Holloway were well aware that the humanity of the Postmaster-General allowed a Saturday half-holiday to his otherwise overworked officials, and they were sure that so good a son as George Roden would occasionally have accompanied his mother, had there been no especial reason against it. From this further surmises arose. Some glance had fallen from the eye of the visitor lady, or perhaps some chance word had been heard from her lips, which created an opinion that she was religious. She probably objected to George Roden because he was anti-religious, or at any rate anti-church, meeting, or chapel-going. It had become quite decided at Holloway that Mrs. Vincent would not put up with the young clerk's infidelity. And it was believed that there had been "words" between the two ladies themselves on the subject of religion,--as to which probably there was no valid foundation, it being an ascertained fact that the two maids who were employed by Mrs. Roden were never known to tell anything of their mistress. It was decided at Holloway that Mrs. Roden and Mrs. Vincent were cousins. They were like enough in face and near enough in age to have been sisters; but old Mrs. Demijohn, of No. 10, Paradise Row, had declared that had George been a nephew his aunt would not have wearied in her endeavour to convert him. In such a case there would have been intimacy in spite of disapproval. But a first cousin once removed might be allowed to go to the Mischief in his own way. Mrs. Vincent was supposed to be the elder cousin,--perhaps three or four years the elder,--and to have therefore something of an authority, but not much. She was stouter, too, less careful to hide what grey hairs years might have produced, and showing manifestly by the nature of her bonnets and shawls that she despised the vanities of the world. Not but that she was always handsomely dressed, as Mrs. Demijohn was very well aware. Less than a hundred a year could not have clothed Mrs. Vincent, whereas Mrs. Roden, as all the world perceived, did not spend half the money. But who does not know that a lady may repudiate vanity in rich silks and cultivate the world in woollen stuffs, or even in calico? Nothing was more certain to Mrs. Demijohn than that Mrs. Vincent was severe, and that Mrs. Roden was soft and gentle. It was assumed also that the two ladies were widows, as no husband or sign of a husband had appeared on the scene. Mrs. Vincent showed manifestly from her deportment, as well as from her title, that she had been a married woman. As to Mrs. Roden, of course, there was no doubt. In regard to all this the reader may take the settled opinions of Mrs. Demijohn and of Holloway as being nearly true. Riddles may be read very accurately by those who will give sufficient attention and ample time to the reading of them. They who will devote twelve hours a day to the unravelling of acrostics, may discover nearly all the enigmas of a weekly newspaper with a separate editor for such difficulties. Mrs. Demijohn had almost arrived at the facts. The two ladies were second cousins. Mrs. Vincent was a widow, was religious, was austere, was fairly well off, and had quarrelled altogether with her distant relative George of the Post Office. Mrs. Roden, though she went to church, was not so well given to religious observances as her cousin would have her. Hence words had come which Mrs. Roden had borne with equanimity, but had received without effect. Nevertheless the two women loved each other dearly, and it was a great part of the life of each of them that these weekly visits should be made. There was one great fact, as to which Mrs. Demijohn and Holloway were in the wrong. Mrs. Roden was not a widow. It was not till the Kingsburys had left London that George told his mother of his engagement. She was well acquainted with his intimacy with Lord Hampstead, and knew that he had been staying at Hendon Hall with the Kingsbury family. There had been no reticence between the mother and son as to these people, in regard to whom she had frequently cautioned him that there was danger in such associations with people moving altogether in a different sphere. In answer to this the son had always declared that he did not see the danger. He had not run after Lord Hampstead. Circumstances had thrown them together. They had originally met each other in a small political debating society, and gradually friendship had grown. The lord had sought him, and not he the lord. That, according to his own idea, had been right. Difference in rank, difference in wealth, difference in social regard required as much as that. He, when he had discovered who was the young man whom he had met, stood off somewhat, and allowed the friendship to spring from the other side. He had been slow to accept favour,--even at first to accept hospitality. But whenever the ice had, as he said, been thoroughly broken, then he thought that there was no reason why they should not pull each other out of the cold water together. As for danger, what was there to fear? The Marchioness would not like it? Very probably. The Marchioness was not very much to Hampstead, and was nothing at all to him. The Marquis would not really like it. Perhaps not. But in choosing a friend a young man is not supposed to follow altogether his father's likings,--much less need the chosen friend follow them. But the Marquis, as George pointed out to his mother, was hardly more like other marquises than the son was like other marquis's sons. There was a Radical strain in the family, as was made clear by that tailor who was still sitting for the borough of Edgeware. Mrs. Roden, however, though she lived so much alone, seeing hardly anything of the world except as Mrs. Vincent might be supposed to represent the world, had learned that the feelings and political convictions of the Marquis were hardly what they had been before he had married his present wife. "You may be sure, George," she had said, "that like to like is as safe a motto for friendship as it is for love." "Not a doubt, mother," he replied; "but before you act upon it you must define 'like.' What makes two men like--or a man and a woman?" "Outside circumstances of the world more than anything else," she answered, boldly. "I would fancy that the inside circumstances of the mind would have more to do with it." She shook her head at him, pleasantly, softly, and lovingly,--but still with a settled purpose of contradiction. "I have admitted all along," he continued, "that low birth--" "I have said nothing of low birth!" Here was a point on which there did not exist full confidence between the mother and son, but in regard to which the mother was always attempting to reassure the son, while he would assume something against himself which she would not allow to pass without an attempt of faint denial. "That birth low by comparison," he continued, going on with his sentence, "should not take upon itself as much as may be allowed to nobility by descent is certain. Though the young prince may be superior in his gifts to the young shoeblack, and would best show his princeliness by cultivating the shoeblack, still the shoeblack should wait to be cultivated. The world has created a state of things in which the shoeblack cannot do otherwise without showing an arrogance and impudence by which he could achieve nothing." "Which, too, would make him black his shoes very badly." "No doubt. That will have to come to pass any way, because the nobler employments to which he will be raised by the appreciating prince will cause him to drop his shoes." "Is Lord Hampstead to cause you to drop the Post Office?" "Not at all. He is not a prince nor am I a shoeblack. Though we are far apart, we are not so far apart as to make such a change essential to our acquaintance. But I was saying-- I don't know what I was saying." "You were defining what 'like' means. But people always get muddled when they attempt definitions," said the mother. "Though it depends somewhat on externals, it has more to do with internals. That is what I mean. A man and woman might live together with most enduring love, though one had been noble and wealthy and the other poor and a nobody. But a thorough brute and a human being of fine conditions can hardly live together and love each other." "That is true," she said. "That I fear is true." "I hope it is true." "It has often to be tried, generally to the great detriment of the better nature." All this, however, had been said before George Roden had spoken a word to Lady Frances, and had referred only to the friendship as it was growing between her son and the young lord. The young lord had come on various occasions to the house at Holloway, and had there made himself thoroughly pleasant to his friend's mother. Lord Hampstead had a way of making himself pleasant in which he never failed when he chose to exercise it. And he did exercise it almost always,--always, indeed, unless he was driven to be courteously disagreeable by opposition to his own peculiar opinion. In shooting, fishing, and other occupations not approved of, he would fall into a line of argument, seemingly and indeed truly good-humoured, which was apt, however, to be aggravating to his opponent. In this way he would make himself thoroughly odious to his stepmother, with whom he had not one sentiment in common. In other respects his manners were invariably sweet, with an assumption of intimacy which was not unbecoming; and thus he had greatly recommended himself to Mrs. Roden. Who does not know the fashion in which the normal young man conducts himself when he is making a morning call? He has come there because he means to be civil. He would not be there unless he wished to make himself popular. He is carrying out some recognized purpose of society. He would fain be agreeable if it were possible. He would enjoy the moment if he could. But it is clearly his conviction that he is bound to get through a certain amount of altogether uninteresting conversation, and then to get himself out of the room with as little awkwardness as may be. Unless there be a pretty girl, and chance favour him with her special companionship, he does not for a moment suppose that any social pleasure is to be enjoyed. That rational amusement can be got out of talking to Mrs. Jones does not enter into his mind. And yet Mrs. Jones is probably a fair specimen of that general society in which every one wishes to mingle. Society is to him generally made up of several parts, each of which is a pain, though the total is deemed to be desirable. The pretty girl episode is no doubt an exception,--though that also has its pains when matter for conversation does not come readily, or when conversation, coming too readily, is rebuked. The morning call may be regarded as a period of unmitigated agony. Now it has to be asserted on Lord Hampstead's behalf that he could talk with almost any Mrs. Jones freely and pleasantly while he remained, and take his departure without that dislocating struggle which is too common. He would make himself at ease, and discourse as though he had known the lady all his life. There is nothing which a woman likes so much as this, and by doing this Lord Hampstead had done much, if not to overcome, at any rate to quiet the sense of danger of which Mrs. Roden had spoken. But this refers to a time in which nothing was known at Holloway as to Lady Frances. Very little had been said of the family between the mother and son. Of the Marquis George Roden had wished to think well, but had hardly succeeded. Of the stepmother he had never even wished to do so. She had from the first been known to him as a woman thoroughly wedded to aristocratic prejudices,--who regarded herself as endowed with certain privileges which made her altogether superior to other human beings. Hampstead himself could not even pretend to respect her. Of her Roden had said very little to his mother, simply speaking of her as the Marchioness, who was in no way related to Hampstead. Of Lady Frances he had simply said that there was a girl there endowed with such a spirit, that of all girls of her class she must surely be the best and noblest. Then his mother had shuddered inwardly, thinking that here too there might be possible danger; but she had shrunk from speaking of the special danger even to her son. "How has the visit gone?" Mrs. Roden asked, when her son had already been some hours in the house. This was after that last visit to Hendon Hall, in which Lady Frances had promised to become his wife. "Pretty well, taking it altogether." "I know that something has disappointed you." "No, indeed, nothing. I have been somewhat abashed." "What have they said to you?" she asked. "Very little but what was kind,--just one word at the last." "Something, I know, has hurt you," said the mother. "Lady Kingsbury has made me aware that she dislikes me thoroughly. It is very odd how one person can do that to another almost without a word spoken." "I told you, George, that there would be danger in going there." "There would be no danger in that if there were nothing more." "What more is there then?" "There would be no danger in that if Lady Kingsbury was simply Hampstead's stepmother." "What more is she?" "She is stepmother also to Lady Frances. Oh, mother!" "George, what has happened?" she asked. "I have asked Lady Frances to be my wife." "Your wife?" "And she has promised." "Oh, George!" "Yes, indeed, mother. Now you can perceive that she indeed may be a danger. When I think of the power of tormenting her stepdaughter which may rest in her hands I can hardly forgive myself for doing as I have done." "And the Marquis?" asked the mother. "I know nothing as yet as to what his feelings may be. I have had no opportunity of speaking to him since the little occurrence took place. A word escaped me, an unthought-of word, which her ladyship overheard, and for which she rebuked me. Then I left the house." "What word?" "Just a common word of greeting, a word that would be common among dear friends, but which, coming from me to her, told all the story. I forgot the prefix which was due from such a one as I am to such as she is. I can understand with what horror I must henceforward be regarded by Lady Kingsbury." "What will the Marquis say?" "I shall be a horror to him also,--an unutterable horror. The idea of contact so vile will cure him at once of all his little Radical longings." "And Hampstead?" "Nothing, I think, can cure Hampstead of his convictions;--but even he is not well pleased." "Has he quarrelled with you?" "No, not that. He is too noble to quarrel on such offence. He is too noble even to take offence on such a cause. But he refuses to believe that good will come of it. And you, mother?" "Oh, George, I doubt, I doubt." "You will not congratulate me?" "What am I to say? I fear more than I can hope." "When I tell you that she is noble at all points, noble in heart, noble in beauty, noble in that dignity which a woman should always carry with her, that she is as sweet a creature as God ever created to bless a man with, will you not then congratulate me?" "I would her birth were other than it is," said the mother. "I would have her altered in nothing," said the son. "Her birth is the smallest thing about her, but such as she is I would have her altered in nothing." CHAPTER VI. PARADISE ROW. About a fortnight after George Roden's return to Holloway,--a fortnight passed by the mother in meditation as to her son's glorious but dangerous love,--Lord Hampstead called at No. 11, Paradise Row. Mrs. Roden lived at No. 11, and Mrs. Demijohn lived at No. 10, the house opposite. There had already been some discussion in Holloway about Lord Hampstead, but nothing had as yet been discovered. He might have been at the house on various previous occasions, but had come in so unpretending a manner as hardly to have done more than to cause himself to be regarded as a stranger in Holloway. He was known to be George's friend, because he had been first seen coming with George on a Saturday afternoon. He had also called on a Sunday and walked away, down the Row, with George. Mrs. Demijohn concluded that he was a brother clerk in the Post Office, and had expressed an opinion that "it did not signify," meaning thereby to imply that Holloway need not interest itself about the stranger. A young Government clerk would naturally have another young Government clerk for his friend. Twice Lord Hampstead had come down in an omnibus from Islington; on which occasion it was remarked that as he did not come on Saturday there must be something wrong. A clerk, with Saturday half-holidays, ought not to be away from his work on Mondays and Tuesdays. Mrs. Duffer, who was regarded in Paradise Row as being very inferior to Mrs. Demijohn, suggested that the young man might, perhaps, not be a Post Office clerk. This, however, was ridiculed. Where should a Post Office clerk find his friends except among Post Office clerks? "Perhaps he is coming after the widow," suggested Mrs. Duffer. But this also was received with dissent. Mrs. Demijohn declared that Post Office clerks knew better than to marry widows with no more than two or three hundred a year, and old enough to be their mothers. "But why does he come on a Tuesday?" asked Mrs. Duffer; "and why does he come alone?" "Oh you dear old Mrs. Duffer!" said Clara Demijohn, the old lady's niece, naturally thinking that it might not be unnatural that handsome young men should come to Paradise Row. All this, however, had been as nothing to what occurred in the Row on the occasion which is now about to be described. "Aunt Jemima," exclaimed Clara Demijohn, looking out of the window, "there's that young man come again to Number Eleven, riding on horseback, with a groom behind to hold him!" "Groom to hold him!" exclaimed Mrs. Demijohn, jumping, with all her rheumatism, quickly from her seat, and trotting to the window. "You look if there aint,--with boots and breeches." "It must be another," said Mrs. Demijohn, after a pause, during which she had been looking intently at the empty saddle of the horse which the groom was leading slowly up and down the Row. "It's the same that came with young Roden that Saturday," said Clara; "only he hadn't been walking, and he looked nicer than ever." "You can hire them all, horses and groom," said Mrs. Demijohn; "but he'd never make his money last till the end of the month if he went on in that way." "They aint hired. They're his own," said Clara. "How do you know, Miss?" "By the colour of his boots, and the way he touched his hat, and because his gloves are clean. He aint a Post Office clerk at all, Aunt Jemima." "I wonder whether he can be coming after the widow," said Mrs. Demijohn. After this Clara escaped out of the room, leaving her aunt fixed at the window. Such a sight as that groom and those two horses moving up and down together had never been seen in the Row before. Clara put on her hat and ran across hurriedly to Mrs. Duffer, who lived at No. 15, next door but one to Mrs. Roden. But she was altogether too late to communicate the news as news. "I knew he wasn't a Post Office clerk," said Mrs. Duffer, who had seen Lord Hampstead ride up the street; "but who he is, or why, or wherefore, it is beyond me to conjecture. But I never will give up my opinion again, talking to your aunt. I suppose she holds out still that he's a Post Office clerk." "She thinks he might have hired them." "Oh my! Hired them!" "But did you ever see anything so noble as the way he got off his horse? As for hire, that's nonsense. He's been getting off that horse every day of his life." Thus it was that Paradise Row was awe-stricken by this last coming of George Roden's friend. It was an odd thing to do,--this riding down to Holloway. No one else would have done it, either lord or Post Office clerk;--with a hired horse or with private property. There was a hot July sunshine, and the roads across from Hendon Hall consisted chiefly of paved streets. But Lord Hampstead always did things as others would not do them. It was too far to walk in the midday sun, and therefore he rode. There would be no servant at Mrs. Roden's house to hold his horse, and therefore he brought one of his own. He did not see why a man on horseback should attract more attention at Holloway than at Hyde Park Corner. Had he guessed the effect which he and his horse would have had in Paradise Row he would have come by some other means. Mrs. Roden at first received him with considerable embarrassment,--which he probably observed, but in speaking to her seemed not to observe. "Very hot, indeed," he said;--"too hot for riding, as I found soon after I started. I suppose George has given up walking for the present." "He still walks home, I think." "If he had declared his purpose of doing so, he'd go on though he had sunstroke every afternoon." "I hope he is not so obstinate as that, my lord." "The most obstinate fellow I ever knew in my life! Though the world were to come to an end, he'd let it come rather than change his purpose. It's all very well for a man to keep his purpose, but he may overdo it." "Has he been very determined lately in anything?" "No;--nothing particular. I haven't seen him for the last week. I want him to come over and dine with me at Hendon one of these days. I'm all alone there." From this Mrs. Roden learnt that Lord Hampstead at any rate did not intend to quarrel with her son, and she learnt also that Lady Frances was no longer staying at the Hall. "I can send him home," continued the lord, "if he can manage to come down by the railway or the omnibus." "I will give him your message, my lord." "Tell him I start on the 21st. My yacht is at Cowes, and I shall go down there on that morning. I shall be away Heaven knows how long;--probably for a month. Vivian will be with me, and we mean to bask away our time in the Norway and Iceland seas, till he goes, like an idiot that he is, to his grouse-shooting. I should like to see George before I start. I said that I was all alone; but Vivian will be with me. George has met him before, and as they didn't cut each other's throats then I suppose they won't now." "I will tell him all that," said Mrs. Roden. Then there was a pause for a moment, after which Lord Hampstead went on in an altered voice. "Has he said anything to you since he was at Hendon;--as to my family, I mean?" "He has told me something." "I was sure he had. I should not have asked unless I had been quite sure. I know that he would tell you anything of that kind. Well?" "What am I to say, Lord Hampstead?" "What has he told you, Mrs. Roden?" "He has spoken to me of your sister." "But what has he said?" "That he loves her." "And that she loves him?" "That he hopes so." "He has said more than that, I take it. They have engaged themselves to each other." "So I understand." "What do you think of it, Mrs. Roden?" "What can I think of it, Lord Hampstead? I hardly dare to think of it at all." "Was it wise?" "I suppose where love is concerned wisdom is not much considered." "But people have to consider it. I hardly know how to think of it. To my idea it was not wise. And yet there is no one living whom I esteem so much as your son." "You are very good, my lord." "There is no goodness in it,--any more than in his liking for me. But I can indulge my fancy without doing harm to others. Lady Kingsbury thinks that I am an idiot because I do not live exclusively with counts and countesses; but in declining to take her advice I do not injure her much. She can talk about me and my infatuations among her friends with a smile. She will not be tortured by any feeling of disgrace. So with my father. He has an idea that I am out-Heroding Herod, he having been Herod;--but there is nothing bitter in it to him. Those fine young gentlemen, my brothers, who are the dearest little chicks in the world, five and six and seven years old, will be able to laugh pleasantly at their elder brother when they grow up, as they will do, among the other idle young swells of the nation. That their brother and George Roden should be always together will not even vex them. They may probably receive some benefit themselves, may achieve some diminution of the folly natural to their position, by their advantage in knowing him. In looking at it all round, as far as that goes, there is not only satisfaction to me, but a certain pride. I am doing no more than I have a right to do. Whatever counter-influence I may introduce among my own people, will be good and wholesome. Do you understand me, Mrs. Roden?" "I think so;--very clearly. I should be dull, if I did not." "But it becomes different when one's sister is concerned. I am thinking of the happiness of other people." "She, I suppose, will think of her own." "Not exclusively, I hope." "No; not that I am sure. But a girl, when she loves--" "Yes; that is all true. But a girl situated like Frances is bound not to,--not to sacrifice those with whom Fame and Fortune have connected her. I can speak plainly to you, Mrs. Roden, because you know what are my own opinions about many things." "George has no sister, no girl belonging to him; but if he had, and you loved her, would you abstain from marrying her lest you should sacrifice your--connections?" "The word has offended you?" "Not in the least. It is a word true to the purpose in hand. I understand the sacrifice you mean. Lady Kingsbury's feelings would be--sacrificed were her daughter,--even her stepdaughter,--to become my boy's husband. She supposes that her girl's birth is superior to my boy's." "There are so many meanings to that word 'birth.'" "I will take it all as you mean, Lord Hampstead, and will not be offended. My boy, as he is, is no match for your sister. Both Lord and Lady Kingsbury would think that there had been--a sacrifice. It might be that those little lords would not in future years be wont to talk at their club of their brother-in-law, the Post Office clerk, as they would of some earl or some duke with whom they might have become connected. Let us pass it by, and acknowledge that there would be--a sacrifice. So there will be should you marry below your degree. The sacrifice would be greater because it would be carried on to some future Marquis of Kingsbury. Would you practise such self-denial as that you demand from your sister?" Lord Hampstead considered the matter a while, and then answered the question. "I do not think that the two cases would be quite analogous." "Where is the difference?" "There is something more delicate, more nice, requiring greater caution in the conduct of a girl than of a man." "Quite so, Lord Hampstead. Where conduct is in question, the girl is bound to submit to stricter laws. I may explain that by saying that the girl is lost for ever who gives herself up to unlawful love,--whereas, for the man, the way back to the world's respect is only too easy, even should he, on that score, have lost aught of the world's respect. The same law runs through every act of a girl's life, as contrasted with the acts of men. But in this act,--the act now supposed of marrying a gentleman whom she loves,--your sister would do nothing which should exclude her from the respect of good men or the society of well-ordered ladies. I do not say that the marriage would be well-assorted. I do not recommend it. Though my boy's heart is dearer to me than anything else can be in the world, I can see that it may be fit that his heart should be made to suffer. But when you talk of the sacrifice which he and your sister are called on to make, so that others should be delivered from lesser sacrifices, I think you should ask what duty would require from yourself. I do not think she would sacrifice the noble blood of the Traffords more effectually than you would by a similar marriage." As she thus spoke she leant forward from her chair on the table, and looked him full in the face. And he felt, as she did so, that she was singularly handsome, greatly gifted, a woman noble to the eye and to the ear. She was pleading for her son,--and he knew that. But she had condescended to use no mean argument. "If you will say that such a law is dominant among your class, and that it is one to which you would submit yourself, I will not repudiate it. But you shall not induce me to consent to it, by even a false idea as to the softer delicacy of the sex. That softer delicacy, with its privileges and duties, shall be made to stand for what it is worth, and to occupy its real ground. If you use it for other mock purposes, then I will quarrel with you." It was thus that she had spoken, and he understood it all. "I am not brought in question," he said slowly. "Cannot you put it to yourself as though you were brought in question? You will at any rate admit that my argument is just." "I hardly know. I must think of it. Such a marriage on my part would not outrage my stepmother, as would that of my sister." "Outrage! You speak, Lord Hampstead, as though your mother would think that your sister would have disgraced herself as a woman!" "I am speaking of her feelings,--not of mine. It would be different were I to marry in the same degree." "Would it? Then I think that perhaps I had better counsel George not to go to Hendon Hall." "My sister is not there. They are all in Germany." "He had better not go where your sister will be thought of." "I would not quarrel with your son for all the world." "It will be better that you should. Do not suppose that I am pleading for him." That, however, was what he did suppose, and that was what she was doing. "I have told him already that I think that the prejudices will be too hard for him, and that he had better give it up before he adds to his own misery, and perhaps to hers. What I have said has not been in the way of pleading,--but only as showing the ground on which I think that such a marriage would be inexpedient. It is not that we, or our sister, are too bad or too low for such contact; but that you, on your side, are not as yet good enough or high enough." "I will not dispute that with you, Mrs. Roden. But you will give him my message?" "Yes; I will give him your message." Then Lord Hampstead, having spent a full hour in the house, took his departure and rode away. "Just an hour," said Clara Demijohn, who was still looking out of Mrs. Duffer's window. "What can they have been talking about?" "I think he must be making up to the widow," said Mrs. Duffer, who was so lost in surprise as to be unable to suggest any new idea. "He'd never have come with saddle horses to do that. She wouldn't be taken by a young man spending his money in that fashion. She'd like saving ways better. But they're his own horses, and his own man, and he's no more after the widow than he's after me," said Clara, laughing. "I wish he were, my dear." "There may be as good as him come yet, Mrs. Duffer. I don't think so much of their having horses and grooms. When they have these things they can't afford to have wives too,--and sometimes they can't afford to pay for either." Then, having seen the last of Lord Hampstead as he rode out of the Row, she went back to her mother's house. But Mrs. Demijohn had been making use of her time while Clara and Mrs. Duffer had been wasting theirs in mere gazing, and making vain surmises. As soon as she found herself alone the old woman got her bonnet and shawl, and going out slily into the Row, made her way down to the end of the street in the direction opposite to that in which the groom was at that moment walking the horses. There she escaped the eyes of her niece and of the neighbours, and was enabled to wait unseen till the man, in his walking, came down to the spot at which she was standing. "My young man," she said in her most winning voice, when the groom came near her. "What is it, Mum?" "You'd like a glass of beer, wouldn't you;--after walking up and down so long?" "No, I wouldn't, not just at present." He knew whom he served, and from whom it would become him to take beer. "I'd be happy to pay for a pint," said Mrs. Demijohn, fingering a fourpenny bit so that he might see it. "Thankye, Mum; no, I takes it reg'lar when I takes it. I'm on dooty just at present." "Your master's horses, I suppose?" "Whose else, Mum? His lordship don't ride generally nobody's 'orses but his own." Here was a success! And the fourpenny bit saved! His lordship! "Of course not," said Mrs. Demijohn. "Why should he?" "Why, indeed, Mum?" "Lord--; Lord--;--Lord who, is he?" The groom poked up his hat, and scratched his head, and bethought himself. A servant generally wishes to do what honour he can to his master. This man had no desire to gratify an inquisitive old woman, but he thought it derogatory to his master and to himself to seem to deny their joint name. "'Ampstead!" he said, looking down very serenely on the lady, and then moved on, not wasting another word. "I knew all along they were something out of the common way," said Mrs. Demijohn as soon as her niece came in. "You haven't found out who it is, aunt?" "You've been with Mrs. Duffer, I suppose. You two'd put your heads together for a week, and then would know nothing." It was not till quite the last thing at night that she told her secret. "He was a peer! He was Lord 'Ampstead!" "A peer!" "He was Lord 'Ampstead, I tell you," said Mrs. Demijohn. "I don't believe there is such a lord," said Clara, as she took herself up to bed. CHAPTER VII. THE POST OFFICE. When George Roden came home that evening the matter was discussed between him and his mother at great length. She was eager with him, if not to abandon his love, at any rate to understand how impossible it was that he should marry Lady Frances. She was very tender with him, full of feeling, full of compassion and sympathy; but she was persistent in declaring that no good could come from such an engagement. But he would not be deterred in the least from his resolution, nor would he accept it as possible that he should be turned from his object by the wishes of any person as long as Lady Frances was true to him. "You speak as if daughters were slaves," he said. "So they are. So women must be;--slaves to the conventions of the world. A young woman can hardly run counter to her family on a question of marriage. She may be persistent enough to overcome objections, but that will be because the objections themselves are not strong enough to stand against her. But here the objections will be very strong." "We will see, mother," he said. She who knew him well perceived that it would be vain to talk to him further. "Oh, yes," he said, "I will go out to Hendon, perhaps on Sunday. That Mr. Vivian is a pleasant fellow, and as Hampstead does not wish to quarrel with me I certainly will not quarrel with him." Roden was generally popular at his office, and had contrived to make his occupation there pleasant to himself and interesting; but he had his little troubles, as will happen to most men in all walks of life. His came to him chiefly from the ill-manners of a fellow-clerk who sat in the same room with him, and at the same desk. There were five who occupied the apartment, an elderly gentleman and four youngsters. The elderly gentleman was a quiet, civil, dull old man, who never made himself disagreeable, and was content to put up with the frivolities of youth, if they did not become too uproarious or antagonistic to discipline. When they did, he had but one word of rebuke. "Mr. Crocker, I will not have it." Beyond that he had never been known to go in the way either of reporting the misconduct of his subordinates to other superior powers, or in quarrelling with the young men himself. Even with Mr. Crocker, who no doubt was troublesome, he contrived to maintain terms of outward friendship. His name was Jerningham, and next to Mr. Jerningham in age came Mr. Crocker, by whose ill-timed witticisms our George Roden was not unfrequently made to suffer. This had sometimes gone so far that Roden had contemplated the necessity of desiring Mr. Crocker to assume that a bond of enmity had been established between them;--or in other words, that they were not "to speak" except on official subjects. But there had been an air of importance about such a proceeding of which Crocker hardly seemed to be worthy; and Roden had abstained, putting off the evil hour from day to day, but still conscious that he must do something to stop vulgarities which were distasteful to him. The two other young men, Mr. Bobbin and Mr. Geraghty, who sat at a table by themselves and were the two junior clerks in that branch of the office, were pleasant and good-humoured enough. They were both young, and as yet not very useful to the Queen. They were apt to come late to their office, and impatient to leave it when the hour of four drew nigh. There would sometimes come a storm through the Department, moved by an unseen but powerful and unsatisfied Æolus, in which Bobbin and Geraghty would be threatened to be blown into infinite space. Minutes would be written and rumours spread about; punishments would be inflicted, and it would be given to be understood that now one and then the other would certainly have to return to his disconsolate family at the very next offence. There was a question at this very moment whether Geraghty, who had come from the sister island about twelve months since, should not be returned to King's County. No doubt he had passed the Civil Service examiners with distinguished applause; but Æolus hated the young Crichtons who came to him with full marks, and had declared that Geraghty, though no doubt a linguist, a philosopher, and a mathematician, was not worth his salt as a Post Office clerk. But he, and Bobbin also, were protected by Mr. Jerningham, and were well liked by George Roden. That Roden was intimate with Lord Hampstead had become known to his fellow-clerks. The knowledge of this association acted somewhat to his advantage and somewhat to his injury. His daily companions could not but feel a reflected honour in their own intimacy with the friend of the eldest son of a Marquis, and were anxious to stand well with one who lived in such high society. Such was natural;--but it was natural also that envy should show itself in ridicule, and that the lord should be thrown in the clerk's teeth when the clerk should be deemed to have given offence. Crocker, when it first became certain that Roden passed much of his time in company with a young lord, had been anxious enough to foregather with the fortunate youth who sat opposite to him; but Roden had not cared much for Crocker's society, and hence it had come to pass that Crocker had devoted himself to jeers and witticisms. Mr. Jerningham, who in his very soul respected a Marquis, and felt something of genuine awe for anything that touched the peerage, held his fortunate junior in unfeigned esteem from the moment in which he became aware of the intimacy. He did in truth think better of the clerk because the clerk had known how to make himself a companion to a lord. He did not want anything for himself. He was too old and settled in life to be desirous of new friendships. He was naturally conscientious, gentle, and unassuming. But Roden rose in his estimation, and Crocker fell, when he became assured that Roden and Lord Hampstead were intimate friends, and that Crocker had dared to jeer at the friendship. A lord is like a new hat. The one on the arm the other on the head are no evidences of mental superiority. But yet they are taken, and not incorrectly taken, as signs of merit. The increased esteem shown by Mr. Jerningham for Roden should, I think, be taken as showing Mr. Jerningham's good sense and general appreciation. The two lads were both on Roden's side. Roden was not a rose, but he lived with a rose, and the lads of course liked the scent of roses. They did not particularly like Crocker, though Crocker had a dash about him which would sometimes win their flattery. Crocker was brave and impudent and self-assuming. They were not as yet sufficiently advanced in life to be able to despise Crocker. Crocker imposed upon them. But should there come anything of real warfare between Crocker and Roden, there could be no doubt but that they would side with Lord Hampstead's friend. Such was the state of the room at the Post Office when Crocker entered it, on the morning of Lord Hampstead's visit to Paradise Row. Crocker was a little late. He was often a little late,--a fact of which Mr. Jerningham ought to have taken more stringent notice than he did. Perhaps Mr. Jerningham rather feared Crocker. Crocker had so read Mr. Jerningham's character as to have become aware that his senior was soft, and perhaps timid. He had so far advanced in this reading as to have learned to think that he could get the better of Mr. Jerningham by being loud and impudent. He had no doubt hitherto been successful, but there were those in the office who believed that the day might come when Mr. Jerningham would rouse himself in his wrath. "Mr. Crocker, you are late," said Mr. Jerningham. "Mr. Jerningham, I am late. I scorn false excuses. Geraghty would say that his watch was wrong. Bobbin would have eaten something that had disagreed with him. Roden would have been detained by his friend, Lord Hampstead." To this Roden made no reply even by a look. "For me, I have to acknowledge that I did not turn out when I was called. Of twenty minutes I have deprived my country; but as my country values so much of my time at only seven-pence-halfpenny, it is hardly worth saying much about it." "You are frequently late." "When the amount has come up to ten pound I will send the Postmaster-General stamps to that amount." He was now standing at his desk, opposite to Roden, to whom he made a low bow. "Mr. George Roden," he said, "I hope that his lordship is quite well." "The only lord with whom I am acquainted is quite well; but I do not know why you should trouble yourself about him." "I think it becoming in one who takes the Queen's pay to show a becoming anxiety as to the Queen's aristocracy. I have the greatest respect for the Marquis of Kingsbury. Have not you, Mr. Jerningham?" "Certainly I have. But if you would go to your work instead of talking so much it would be better for everybody." "I am at my work already. Do you think that I cannot work and talk at the same time? Bobbin, my boy, if you would open that window, do you think it would hurt your complexion?" Bobbin opened the window. "Paddy, where were you last night?" Paddy was Mr. Geraghty. "I was dining, then, with my sister's mother-in-law." "What,--the O'Kelly, the great legislator and Home Ruler, whom his country so loves and Parliament so hates! I don't think any Home Ruler's relative ought to be allowed into the service. Do you, Mr. Jerningham?" "I think Mr. Geraghty, if he will only be a little more careful, will do great credit to the service," said Mr. Jerningham. "I hope that Æolus may think the same." Æolus was the name by which a certain pundit was known at the office;--a violent and imperious Secretary, but not in the main ill-natured. "Æolus, when last I heard of his opinion, seemed to have his doubts about poor Paddy." This was a disagreeable subject, and it was felt by them all that it might better be left in silence. From that time the work of the day was continued with no more than moderate interruptions till the hour of luncheon, when the usual attendant entered with the usual mutton-chops. "I wonder if Lord Hampstead has mutton-chops for luncheon?" asked Crocker. "Why should he not?" asked Mr. Jerningham, foolishly. "There must be some kind of gilded cutlet, upon which the higher members of the aristocracy regale themselves. I suppose, Roden, you must have seen his lordship at lunch." "I dare say I have," said Roden, angrily. He knew that he was annoyed, and was angry with himself at his own annoyance. "Are they golden or only gilded?" asked Crocker. "I believe you mean to make yourself disagreeable," said the other. "Quite the reverse. I mean to make myself agreeable;--only you have soared so high of late that ordinary conversation has no charms for you. Is there any reason why Lord Hampstead's lunch should not be mentioned?" "Certainly there is," said Roden. "Then, upon my life, I cannot see it. If you talked of my mid-day chop I should not take it amiss." "I don't think a fellow should ever talk about another fellow's eating unless he knows the fellow." This came from Bobbin, who intended it well, meaning to fight the battle for Roden as well as he knew how. "Most sapient Bobb," said Crocker, "you seem to be unaware that one young fellow, who is Roden, happens to be the peculiarly intimate friend of the other fellow, who is the Earl of Hampstead. Therefore the law, as so clearly laid down by yourself, has not been infringed. To return to our muttons, as the Frenchman says, what sort of lunch does his lordship eat?" "You are determined to make yourself disagreeable," said Roden. "I appeal to Mr. Jerningham whether I have said anything unbecoming." "If you appeal to me, I think you have," said Mr. Jerningham. "You have, at any rate, been so successful in doing it," continued Roden, "that I must ask you to hold your tongue about Lord Hampstead. It has not been by anything I have said that you have heard of my acquaintance with him. The joke is a bad one, and will become vulgar if repeated." "Vulgar!" cried Crocker, pushing away his plate, and rising from his chair. "I mean ungentlemanlike. I don't want to use hard words, but I will not allow myself to be annoyed." "Hoity, toity," said Crocker, "here's a row because I made a chance allusion to a noble lord. I am to be called vulgar because I mentioned his name." Then he began to whistle. "Mr. Crocker, I will not have it," said Mr. Jerningham, assuming his most angry tone. "You make more noise in the room than all the others put together." "Nevertheless, I do wonder what Lord Hampstead has had for his lunch." This was the last shot, and after that the five gentlemen did in truth settle down to their afternoon's work. When four o'clock came Mr. Jerningham with praiseworthy punctuality took his hat and departed. His wife and three unmarried daughters were waiting for him at Islington, and as he was always in his seat punctually at ten, he was justified in leaving it punctually at four. Crocker swaggered about the room for a minute or two with his hat on, desirous of showing that he was by no means affected by the rebukes which he had received. But he, too, soon went, not having summoned courage to recur to the name of Roden's noble friend. The two lads remained for the sake of saying a word of comfort to Roden, who still sat writing at his desk. "I thought it was very low form," said Bobbin; "Crocker going on like that." "Crocker's a baist," said Geraghty. "What was it to him what anybody eats for his lunch?" continued Bobbin. "Only he likes to have a nobleman's name in his mouth," said Geraghty. "I think it's the hoighth of bad manners talking about anybody's friends unless you happen to know them yourself." "I think it is," said Roden, looking up from his desk. "But I'll tell you what shows worse manners;--that is, a desire to annoy anybody. Crocker likes to be funny, and he thinks there is no fun so good as what he calls taking a rise. I don't know that I'm very fond of Crocker, but it may be as well that we should all think no more about it." Upon this the young men promised that they, at least, would think no more about it, and then took their departure. George Roden soon followed them, for it was not the practice of anybody in that department to remain at work long after four o'clock. Roden as he walked home did think more of the little affair than it deserved,--more at least than he would acknowledge that it deserved. He was angry with himself for bearing it in mind, and yet he did bear it in mind. Could it be that a creature so insignificant as Crocker could annoy him by a mere word or two? But he was annoyed, and did not know how such annoyance could be made to cease. If the man would continue to talk about Lord Hampstead there was nothing by which he could be made to hold his tongue. He could not be kicked, or beaten, or turned out of the room. For any purpose of real assistance Mr. Jerningham was useless. As to complaining to the Æolus of the office that a certain clerk would talk about Lord Hampstead, that of course was out of the question. He had already used strong language, calling the man vulgar and ungentlemanlike, but if a man does not regard strong language what further can an angry victim do to him? Then his thoughts passed on to his connexion with the Marquis of Kingsbury's family generally. Had he not done wrong, at any rate, done foolishly, in thus moving himself out of his own sphere? At the present moment Lady Frances was nearer to him even than Lord Hampstead,--was more important to him and more in his thoughts. Was it not certain that he would give rise to misery rather than to happiness by what had occurred between him and Lady Frances? Was it not probable that he had embittered for her all the life of the lady whom he loved? He had assumed an assured face and a confident smile while declaring to his mother that no power on earth should stand between him and his promised wife,--that she would be able to walk out from her father's hall and marry him as certainly as might the housemaid or the ploughman's daughter go to her lover. But what would be achieved by that if she were to walk out only to encounter misery? The country was so constituted that he and these Traffords were in truth of a different race; as much so as the negro is different from the white man. The Post Office clerk may, indeed, possibly become a Duke; whereas the negro's skin cannot be washed white. But while he and Lady Frances were as they were, the distance between them was so great that no approach could be made between them without disruption. The world might be wrong in this. To his thinking the world was wrong. But while the facts existed they were too strong to be set aside. He could do his duty to the world by struggling to propagate his own opinions, so that the distance might be a little lessened in his own time. He was sure that the distance was being lessened, and with this he thought that he ought to have been contented. The jeering of such a one as Crocker was unimportant though disagreeable, but it sufficed to show the feeling. Such a friendship as his with Lord Hampstead had appeared to Crocker to be ridiculous. Crocker would not have seen the absurdity unless others had seen it also. Even his own mother saw it. Here in England it was accounted so foolish a thing that he, a Post Office clerk, should be hand and glove with such a one as Lord Hampstead, that even a Crocker could raise a laugh against him! What would the world say when it should have become known that he intended to lead Lady Frances to the "hymeneal altar?" As he repeated the words to himself there was something ridiculous even to himself in the idea that the hymeneal altar should ever be mentioned in reference to the adventures of such a person as George Roden, the Post Office clerk. Thinking of all this, he was not in a happy frame of mind when he reached his home in Paradise Row. CHAPTER VIII. MR. GREENWOOD. Roden spent a pleasant evening with his friend and his friend's friend at Hendon Hall before their departure for the yacht,--during which not a word was said or an allusion made to Lady Frances. The day was Sunday, July 20th. The weather was very hot, and the two young men were delighted at the idea of getting away to the cool breezes of the Northern Seas. Vivian also was a clerk in the public service, but he was a clerk very far removed in his position from that filled by George Roden. He was attached to the Foreign Office, and was Junior Private Secretary to Lord Persiflage, who was Secretary of State at that moment. Lord Persiflage and our Marquis had married sisters. Vivian was distantly related to the two ladies, and hence the young men had become friends. As Lord Hampstead and Roden had been drawn together by similarity of opinion, so had Lord Hampstead and Vivian by the reverse. Hampstead could always produce Vivian in proof that he was not, in truth, opposed to his own order. Vivian was one who proclaimed his great liking for things as he found them. It was a thousand pities that any one should be hungry; but, for himself, he liked truffles, ortolans, and all good things. If there was any injustice in the world he was not responsible. And if there was any injustice he had not been the gainer, seeing that he was a younger brother. To him all Hampstead's theories were sheer rhodomontade. There was the world, and men had got to live in it as best they might. He intended to do so, and as he liked yachting and liked grouse-shooting, he was very glad to have arranged with Lord Persiflage and his brother Private Secretary, so as to be able to get out of town for the next two months. He was member of half-a-dozen clubs, could always go to his brother's country house if nothing more inviting offered, dined out in London four or five days a week, and considered himself a thoroughly useful member of society in that he condescended to write letters for Lord Persiflage. He was pleasant in his manners to all men, and had accommodated himself to Roden as well as though Roden's office had also been in Downing Street instead of the City. "Yes, grouse," he said, after dinner. "If anything better can be invented I'll go and do it. American bears are a myth. You may get one in three years, and, as far as I can hear, very poor fun it is when you get it. Lions are a grind. Elephants are as big as a hay-stack. Pig-sticking may be very well, but you've got to go to India, and if you're a poor Foreign Office clerk you haven't got either the time or the money." "You speak as though killing something were a necessity," said Roden. "So it is, unless somebody can invent something better. I hate races, where a fellow has nothing to do with himself when he can't afford to bet. I don't mean to take to cards for the next ten years. I have never been up in a balloon. Spooning is good fun, but it comes to an end so soon one way or another. Girls are so wide-awake that they won't spoon for nothing. Upon the whole I don't see what a fellow is to do unless he kills something." "You won't have much to kill on board the yacht," said Roden. "Fishing without end in Iceland and Norway! I knew a man who killed a ton of trout out of an Iceland lake. He had to pack himself up very closely in tight-fitting nets, or the midges would have eaten him. And the skin came off his nose and ears from the sun. But he liked that rather than not, and he killed his ton of trout." "Who weighed them?" asked Hampstead. "How well you may know a Utilitarian by the nature of his questions! If a man doesn't kill his ton all out, he can say he did, which is the next best thing to it." "Are you taking close-packing nets with you?" Roden asked. "Well, no. Hampstead would be too impatient. And the _Free Trader_ isn't big enough to bring away the fish. But I don't mind betting a sovereign that I kill something every day I'm out,--barring Sundays." Not a word was said about Lady Frances, although there were a few moments in which Roden and Lord Hampstead were alone together. Roden had made up his mind that he would ask no questions unless the subject were mentioned, and did not even allude to any of the family; but he learnt in the course of the evening that the Marquis had come back from Germany with the intention of attending to his Parliamentary duties during the remainder of the Session. "He's going to turn us all out," said Vivian, "on the County Franchise, I suppose." "I'm afraid my father is not so keen about County Franchise as he used to be, though I hope he will be one of the few to support it in the House of Lords if the House of Commons ever dares to pass it." In this way Roden learnt that the Marquis, who had carried his daughter off to Saxony as soon as he had heard of the engagement, had left his charge there and had returned to London. As he went home that evening he thought that it would be his duty to go to Lord Kingsbury, and tell him, as from himself, that which the father had as yet only learnt from his daughter or from his wife. He was aware that it behoves a man when he has won a girl's heart to go to the father and ask permission to carry on his suit. This duty he thought he was bound to perform, even though the father were a person so high and mighty as the Marquis of Kingsbury. Hitherto any such going was out of his power. The Marquis had heard the tidings, and had immediately caught his daughter up and carried her off to Germany. It would have been possible to write to him, but Roden had thought that not in such a way should such a duty be performed. Now the Marquis had come back to London; and though the operation would be painful the duty seemed to be paramount. On the next day he informed Mr. Jerningham that private business of importance would take him to the West End, and asked leave to absent himself. The morning had been passed in the room at the Post Office with more than ordinary silence. Crocker had been collecting himself for an attack, but his courage had hitherto failed him. As Roden put on his hat and opened the door he fired a parting shot. "Remember me kindly to Lord Hampstead," he said; "and tell him I hope he enjoyed his cutlets." Roden stood for a moment with the door in his hand, thinking that he would turn upon the man and rebuke his insolence, but at last determined that it would be best to hold his peace. He went direct to Park Lane, thinking that he would probably find the Marquis before he left the house after his luncheon. He had never been before at the town mansion which was known as Kingsbury House, and which possessed all the appanages of grandeur which can be given to a London residence. As he knocked at the door he acknowledged that he was struck with a certain awe of which he was ashamed. Having said so much to the daughter, surely he should not be afraid to speak to the father! But he felt that he could have managed the matter much better had he contrived to have the interview at Hendon Hall, which was much less grand than Kingsbury House. Almost as soon as he knocked the door was opened, and he found himself with a powdered footman as well as the porter. The powdered footman did not know whether or no "my lord" was at home. He would inquire. Would the gentleman sit down for a minute or two? The gentleman did sit down, and waited for what seemed to him to be more than half-an-hour. The house must be very large indeed if it took the man all this time to look for the Marquis. He was beginning to think in what way he might best make his escape,--as a man is apt to think when delays of this kind prove too long for the patience,--but the man returned, and with a cold unfriendly air bade Roden to follow him. Roden was quite sure that some evil was to happen, so cold and unfriendly was the manner of the man; but still he followed, having now no means of escape. The man had not said that the Marquis would see him, had not even given any intimation that the Marquis was in the house. It was as though he were being led away to execution for having had the impertinence to knock at the door. But still he followed. He was taken along a passage on the ground floor, past numerous doors, to what must have been the back of the house, and there was shown into a somewhat dingy room that was altogether surrounded by books. There he saw an old gentleman;--but the old gentleman was not the Marquis of Kingsbury. "Ah, eh, oh," said the old gentleman. "You, I believe, are Mr. George Roden." "That is my name. I had hoped to see Lord Kingsbury." "Lord Kingsbury has thought it best for all parties that,--that,--that,--I should see you. That is, if anybody should see you. My name is Greenwood;--the Rev. Mr. Greenwood. I am his lordship's chaplain, and, if I may presume to say so, his most attached and sincere friend. I have had the honour of a very long connexion with his lordship, and have therefore been entrusted by him with this,--this,--this delicate duty, I had perhaps better call it." Mr. Greenwood was a stout, short man, about sixty years of age, with pendant cheeks, and pendant chin, with a few grey hairs brushed carefully over his head, with a good forehead and well-fashioned nose, who must have been good-looking when he was young, but that he was too short for manly beauty. Now, in advanced years, he had become lethargic and averse to exercise; and having grown to be corpulent he had lost whatever he had possessed in height by becoming broad, and looked to be a fat dwarf. Still there would have been something pleasant in his face but for an air of doubt and hesitation which seemed almost to betray cowardice. At the present moment he stood in the middle of the room rubbing his hands together, and almost trembling as he explained to George Roden who he was. "I had certainly wished to see his lordship himself," said Roden. "The Marquis has thought it better not, and I must say that I agree with the Marquis." At the moment Roden hardly knew how to go on with the business in hand. "I believe I am justified in assuring you that anything you would have said to the Marquis you may say to me." "Am I to understand that Lord Kingsbury refuses to see me?" "Well;--yes. At the present crisis he does refuse. What can be gained?" Roden did not as yet know how far he might go in mentioning the name of Lady Frances to the clergyman, but was unwilling to leave the house without some reference to the business he had in hand. He was peculiarly averse to leaving an impression that he was afraid to mention what he had done. "I had to speak to his lordship about his daughter," he said. "I know; I know; Lady Frances! I have known Lady Frances since she was a little child. I have the warmest regard for Lady Frances,--as I have also for Lord Hampstead,--and for the Marchioness, and for her three dear little boys, Lord Frederic, Lord Augustus, and Lord Gregory. I feel a natural hesitation in calling them my friends because I think that the difference in rank and station which it has pleased the Lord to institute should be maintained with all their privileges and all their honours. Though I have agreed with the Marquis through a long life in those political tenets by propagating which he has been ever anxious to improve the condition of the lower classes, I am not and have not been on that account less anxious to uphold by any small means which may be in my power those variations in rank, to which, I think, in conjunction with the Protestant religion, the welfare and high standing of this country are mainly to be attributed. Having these feelings at my heart very strongly I do not wish, particularly on such an occasion as this, to seem by even a chance word to diminish the respect which I feel to be due to all the members of a family of a rank so exalted as that which belongs to the family of the Marquis of Kingsbury. Putting that aside for a moment, I perhaps may venture on this occasion, having had confided to me a task so delicate as the present, to declare my warm friendship for all who bear the honoured name of Trafford. I am at any rate entitled to declare myself so far a friend, that you may say anything on this delicate subject which you would think it necessary to say to the young lady's father. However inexpedient it may be that anything should be said at all, I have been instructed by his lordship to hear,--and to reply." George Roden, while he was listening to this tedious sermon, was standing opposite to the preacher with his hat in his hand, having not yet had accorded to him the favour of a seat. During the preaching of the sermon the preacher had never ceased to shiver and shake, rubbing one fat little clammy hand slowly over the other, and apparently afraid to look his audience in the face. It seemed to Roden as though the words must have been learnt by heart, they came so glibly, with so much of unction and of earnestness, and were in their glibness so strongly opposed to the man's manner. There had not been a single word spoken that had not been offensive to Roden. It seemed to him that they had been chosen because of their offence. In all those long-winded sentences about rank in which Mr. Greenwood had expressed his own humility and insufficiency for the position of friend in a family so exalted he had manifestly intended to signify the much more manifest insufficiency of his hearer to fill a place of higher honour even than that of friend. Had the words come at the spur of the moment, the man must, thought Roden, have great gifts for extempore preaching. He had thought the time in the hall to be long, but it had not been much for the communication of the Earl's wishes, and then for the preparation of all these words. It was necessary, however, that he must make his reply without any preparation. "I have come," he said, "to tell Lord Kingsbury that I am in love with his daughter." At hearing this the fat little man held up both his hands in amazement,--although he had already made it clear that he was acquainted with all the circumstances. "And I should have been bound to add," said Roden, plucking up all his courage, "that the young lady is also in love with me." "Oh,--oh,--oh!" The hands went higher and higher as these interjections were made. "Why not? Is not the truth the best?" "A young man, Mr. Roden, should never boast of a young lady's affection,--particularly of such a young lady;--particularly when I cannot admit that it exists;--particularly not in her father's house." "Nobody should boast of anything, Mr. Greenwood. I speak of a fact which it is necessary that a father should know. If the lady denies the assertion I have done." "It is a matter in which delicacy demands that no question shall be put to the young lady. After what has occurred, it is out of the question that your name should even be mentioned in the young lady's hearing." "Why?--I mean to marry her." "Mean!"--this word was shouted in the extremity of Mr. Greenwood's horror. "Mr. Roden, it is my duty to assure you that under no circumstances can you ever see the young lady again." "Who says so?" "The Marquis says so,--and the Marchioness,--and her little brothers, who with their growing strength will protect her from all harm." "I hope their growing strength may not be wanted for any such purpose. Should it be so I am sure they will not be deficient as brothers. At present there could not be much for them to do." Mr. Greenwood shook his head. He was still standing, not having moved an inch from the position in which he had been placed when the door was opened. "I can understand, Mr. Greenwood, that any further conversation on the subject between you and me must be quite useless." "Quite useless," said Mr. Greenwood. "But it has been necessary for my honour, and for my purpose, that Lord Kingsbury should know that I had come to ask him for his daughter's hand. I had not dared to expect that he would accept my proposal graciously." "No, no; hardly that, Mr. Roden." "But it was necessary that he should know my purpose from myself. He will now, no doubt, do so. He is, as I understand you, aware of my presence in the house." Mr. Greenwood shook his head, as though he would say that this was a matter he could not any longer discuss. "If not, I must trouble his lordship with a letter." "That will be unnecessary." "He does know." Mr. Greenwood nodded his head. "And you will tell him why I have come?" "The Marquis shall be made acquainted with the nature of the interview." Roden then turned to leave the room, but was obliged to ask Mr. Greenwood to show him the way along the passages. This the clergyman did, tripping on, ahead, upon his toes, till he had delivered the intruder over to the hall porter. Having done so, he made as it were a valedictory bow, and tripped back to his own apartment. Then Roden left the house, thinking as he did so that there was certainly much to be done before he could be received there as a welcome son-in-law. As he made his way back to Holloway he again considered it all. How could there be an end to this,--an end that would be satisfactory to himself and to the girl that he loved? The aversion expressed to him through the person of Mr. Greenwood was natural. It could not but be expected that such a one as the Marquis of Kingsbury should endeavour to keep his daughter out of the hands of such a suitor. If it were only in regard to money would it not be necessary for him to do so? Every possible barricade would be built up in his way. There would be nothing on his side except the girl's love for himself. Was it to be expected that her love would have power to conquer such obstacles as these? And if it were, would she obtain her own happiness by clinging to it? He was aware that in his present position no duty was so incumbent on him as that of looking to the happiness of the woman whom he wished to make his wife. CHAPTER IX. AT KÖNIGSGRAAF. Very shortly after this there came a letter from Lady Frances to Paradise Row,--the only letter which Roden received from her during this period of his courtship. A portion of the letter shall be given, from which the reader will see that difficulties had arisen at Königsgraaf as to their correspondence. He had written twice. The first letter had in due course reached the young lady's hands, having been brought up from the village post-office in the usual manner, and delivered to her without remark by her own maid. When the second reached the Castle it fell into the hands of the Marchioness. She had, indeed, taken steps that it should fall into her hands. She was aware that the first letter had come, and had been shocked at the idea of such a correspondence. She had received no direct authority from her husband on the subject, but felt that it was incumbent on herself to take strong steps. It must not be that Lady Frances should receive love-letters from a Post Office clerk! As regarded Lady Frances herself, the Marchioness would have been willing enough that the girl should be given over to a letter-carrier, if she could be thus got rid of altogether,--so that the world should not know that there was or had been a Lady Frances. But the fact was patent,--as was also that too, too-sad truth of the existence of a brother older than her own comely bairns. As the feeling of hatred grew upon her, she continually declared to herself that she would have been as gentle a stepmother as ever loved another woman's children, had these two known how to bear themselves like the son and daughter of a Marquis. Seeing what they were,--and what were her own children,--how these struggled to repudiate that rank which her own were born to adorn and protect, was it not natural that she should hate them, and profess that she should wish them to be out of the way? They could not be made to get out of the way, but Lady Frances might at any rate be repressed. Therefore she determined to stop the correspondence. She did stop the second letter,--and told her daughter that she had done so. "Papa didn't say I wasn't to have my letters," pleaded Lady Frances. "Your papa did not suppose for a moment that you would submit to anything so indecent." "It is not indecent." "I shall make myself the judge of that. You are now in my care. Your papa can do as he likes when he comes back." There was a long altercation, but it ended in victory on the part of the Marchioness. The young lady, when she was told that, if necessary, the postmistress in the village should be instructed not to send on any letter addressed to George Roden, believed in the potency of the threat. She felt sure also that she would be unable to get at any letters addressed to herself if the quasi-parental authority of the Marchioness were used to prevent it. She yielded, on the condition, however, that one letter should be sent; and the Marchioness, not at all thinking that her own instructions would have prevailed with the post-mistress, yielded so far. The tenderness of the letter readers can appreciate and understand without seeing it expressed in words. It was very tender, full of promises, and full of trust. Then came the short passage in which her own uncomfortable position was explained;--"You will understand that there has come one letter which I have not been allowed to see. Whether mamma has opened it I do not know, or whether she has destroyed it. Though I have not seen it, I take it as an assurance of your goodness and truth. But it will be useless for you to write more till you hear from me again; and I have promised that this, for the present, shall be my last to you. The last and the first! I hope you will keep it till you have another, in order that you may have something to tell you how well I love you." As she sent it from her she did not know how much of solace there was even in the writing of a letter to him she loved, nor had she as yet felt how great was the torment of remaining without palpable notice from him she loved. After the episode of the letter life at Königsgraaf was very bitter and very dull. But few words were spoken between the Marchioness and her stepdaughter, and those were never friendly in their tone or kindly in their nature. Even the children were taken out of their sister's way as much as possible, so that their morals should not be corrupted by evil communication. When she complained of this to their mother the Marchioness merely drew herself up and was silent. Were it possible she would have altogether separated her darlings from contact with their sister, not because she thought that the darlings would in truth be injured,--as to which she had no fears at all, seeing that the darlings were subject to her own influences,--but in order that the punishment to Lady Frances might be the more complete. The circumstances being such as they were, there should be no family love, no fraternal sports, no softnesses, no mercy. There must, she thought, have come from the blood of that first wife a stain of impurity which had made her children altogether unfit for the rank to which they had unfortunately been born. This iniquity on the part of Lady Frances, this disgrace which made her absolutely tremble as she thought of it, this abominable affection for an inferior creature, acerbated her feelings even against Lord Hampstead. The two were altogether so base as to make her think that they could not be intended by Divine Providence to stand permanently in the way of the glory of the family. Something certainly would happen. It would turn out that they were not truly the legitimate children of a real Marchioness. Some beautiful scheme of romance would discover itself to save her and her darlings, and all the Traffords and all the Montressors from the terrible abomination with which they were threatened by these interlopers. The idea dwelt in her mind till it became an almost fixed conviction that Lord Frederic would live to become Lord Hampstead,--or probably Lord Highgate, as there was a third title in the family, and the name of Hampstead must for a time be held to have been disgraced,--and in due course of happy time Marquis of Kingsbury. Hitherto she had been accustomed to speak to her own babies of their elder brother with something of that respect which was due to the future head of the family; but in these days she altered her tone when they spoke to her of Jack, as they would call him, and she, from herself, never mentioned his name to them. "Is Fanny naughty?" Lord Frederic asked one day. To this she made no reply. "Is Fanny very naughty?" the boy persisted in asking. To this she nodded her head solemnly. "What has Fanny done, mamma?" At this she shook her head mysteriously. It may, therefore, be understood that poor Lady Frances was sadly in want of comfort during the sojourn at Königsgraaf. About the end of August the Marquis returned. He had hung on in London till the very last days of the Session had been enjoyed, and had then pretended that his presence had been absolutely required at Trafford Park. To Trafford Park he went, and had spent ten miserable days alone. Mr. Greenwood had indeed gone with him; but the Marquis was a man who was miserable unless surrounded by the comforts of his family, and he led Mr. Greenwood such a life that that worthy clergyman was very happy when he was left altogether in solitude by his noble friend. Then, in compliance with the promise which he had absolutely made, and aware that it was his duty to look after his wicked daughter, the Marquis returned to Königsgraaf. Lady Frances was to him at this period of his life a cause of unmitigated trouble. It must not be supposed that his feelings were in any way akin to those of the Marchioness as to either of his elder children. Both of them were very dear to him, and of both of them he was in some degree proud. They were handsome, noble-looking, clever, and to himself thoroughly well-behaved. He had seen what trouble other elder sons could give their fathers, what demands were made for increased allowances, what disreputable pursuits were sometimes followed, what quarrels there were, what differences, what want of affection and want of respect! He was wise enough to have perceived all this, and to be aware that he was in some respects singularly blest. Hampstead never asked him for a shilling. He was a liberal man, and would willingly have given many shillings. But still there was a comfort in having a son who was quite contented in having his own income. No doubt a time would come when those little lords would want shillings. And Lady Frances had always been particularly soft to him, diffusing over his life a sweet taste of the memory of his first wife. Of the present Marchioness he was fond enough, and was aware how much she did for him to support his position. But he was conscious ever of a prior existence in which there had been higher thoughts, grander feelings, and aspirations which were now wanting to him. Of these something would come back in the moments which he spent with his daughter; and in this way she was very dear to him. But now there had come a trouble which robbed his life of all its sweetness. He must go back to the grandeur of his wife and reject the tenderness of his daughter. During these days at Trafford he made himself very unpleasant to the devoted friend who had always been so true to his interests. When the battle about the correspondence was explained to him by his wife, it, of course, became necessary to him to give his orders to his daughter. Such a matter could hardly be passed over in silence,--though he probably might have done so had he not been instigated to action by the Marchioness. "Fanny," he said, "I have been shocked by these letters." "I only wrote one, papa." "Well, one. But two came." "I only had one, papa." "That made two. But there should have been no letter at all. Do you think it proper that a young lady should correspond with,--with,--a gentleman in opposition to the wishes of her father and mother?" "I don't know, papa." This seemed to him so weak that the Marquis took heart of grace, and made the oration which he felt that he as a father was bound to utter upon the entire question. For, after all, it was not the letters which were of importance, but the resolute feeling which had given birth to the letters. "My dear, this is a most unfortunate affair." He paused for a reply; but Lady Frances felt that the assertion was one to which at the present moment she could make no reply. "It is, you know, quite out of the question that you should marry a young man so altogether unfitted for you in point of station as this young man." "But I shall, papa." "Fanny, you can do no such thing." "I certainly shall. It may be a very long time first; but I certainly shall,--unless I die." "It is wicked of you, my dear, to talk of dying in that way." "What I mean is, that however long I may live I shall consider myself engaged to Mr. Roden." "He has behaved very, very badly. He has made his way into my house under a false pretence." "He came as Hampstead's friend." "It was very foolish of Hampstead to bring him,--very foolish,--a Post Office clerk." "Mr. Vivian is a clerk in the Foreign Office. Why shouldn't one office be the same as another?" "They are very different;--but Mr. Vivian wouldn't think of such a thing. He understands the nature of things, and knows his own position. There is a conceit about the other man." "A man should be conceited, papa. Nobody will think well of him unless he thinks well of himself." "He came to me in Park Lane." "What! Mr. Roden?" "Yes; he came. But I didn't see him. Mr. Greenwood saw him." "What could Mr. Greenwood say to him?" "Mr. Greenwood could tell him to leave the house,--and he did so. There was nothing more to tell him. Now, my dear, let there be no more about it. If you will put on your hat, we will go out and walk down to the village." To this Lady Frances gave a ready assent. She was not at all disposed to quarrel with her father, or to take in bad part what he had said about her lover. She had not expected that things would go very easily. She had promised to herself constancy and final success; but she had not expected that in her case the course of true love could be made to run smooth. She was quite willing to return to a condition of good humour with her father, and,--not exactly to drop her lover for the moment,--but so to conduct herself as though he were not paramount in her thoughts. The cruelty of her stepmother had so weighed upon her that she found it to be quite a luxury to be allowed to walk with her father. "I don't know that anything can be done," the Marquis said a few days afterwards to his wife. "It is one of those misfortunes which do happen now and again!" "That such a one as your daughter should give herself up to a clerk in the Post Office!" "What's the use of repeating that so often? I don't know that the Post Office is worse than anything else. Of course it can't be allowed;--and having said so, the best thing will be to go on just as though nothing had happened." "And let her do just what she pleases?" "Who's going to let her do anything? She said she wouldn't write, and she hasn't written. We must just take her back to Trafford, and let her forget him as soon as she can." The Marchioness was by no means satisfied, though she did not know what measure of special severity to recommend. There was once a time,--a very good time, as Lady Kingsbury thought now,--in which a young lady could be locked up in a convent, or perhaps in a prison, or absolutely forced to marry some suitor whom her parents should find for her. But those comfortable days were past. In a prison Lady Frances was detained now; but it was a prison of which the Marchioness was forced to make herself the gaoler, and in which her darlings were made to be fellow-prisoners with their wicked sister. She herself was anxious to get back to Trafford and the comforts of her own home. The beauties of Königsgraaf were not lovely to her in her present frame of mind. But how would it be if Lady Frances should jump out of the window at Trafford and run away with George Roden? The windows at Königsgraaf were certainly much higher than those at Trafford. They had made up their mind to return early in September, and the excitement of packing up had almost commenced among them when Lord Hampstead suddenly appeared on the scene. He had had enough of yachting, and had grown tired of books and gardening at Hendon. Something must be done before the hunting began, and so, without notice, he appeared one day at Königsgraaf. This was to the intense delight of his brothers, over whose doings he assumed a power which their mother was unable to withstand. They were made to gallop on ponies on which they had only walked before; they were bathed in the river, and taken to the top of the Castle, and shut up in the dungeon after a fashion which was within the reach of no one but Hampstead. Jack was Jack, and all was delight, as far as the children were concerned; but the Marchioness was not so well pleased with the arrival. A few days after his coming a conversation arose as to Lady Frances which Lady Kingsbury would have avoided had it been possible, but it was forced upon her by her stepson. "I don't think that Fanny ought to be bullied," said her stepson. "Hampstead, I wish you would understand that I do not understand strong language." "Teased, tormented, and made wretched." "If she be wretched she has brought it on herself." "But she is not to be treated as though she had disgraced herself." "She has disgraced herself." "I deny it. I will not hear such a word said of her even by you." The Marchioness drew herself up as though she had been insulted. "If there is to be such a feeling about her in your house I must ask my father to have her removed, and I will make a home for her. I will not see her broken-hearted by cruel treatment. I am sure that he would not wish it." "You have no right to speak to me in this manner." "I surely have a right to protect my sister, and I will exercise it." "You have brought most improperly a young man into the house--" "I have brought into the house a young man whom I am proud to call my friend." "And now you mean to assist him in destroying your sister." "You are very wrong to say so. They both know, Roden and my sister also, that I disapprove of this marriage. If Fanny were with me I should not think it right to ask Roden into the house. They would both understand that. But it does not follow that she should be cruelly used." "No one has been cruel to her but she herself." "It is easy enough to perceive what is going on. It will be much better that Fanny should remain with the family; but you may be sure of this,--that I will not see her tortured." Then he took himself off, and on the next day he had left Königsgraaf. It may be understood that the Marchioness was not reconciled to her radical stepson by such language as he had used to her. About a week afterwards the whole family returned to England and to Trafford. CHAPTER X. "NOBLESSE OBLIGE." "I quite agree," said Hampstead, endeavouring to discuss the matter rationally with his sister, "that her ladyship should not be allowed to torment you." "She does torment me. You cannot perceive what my life was at Königsgraaf! There is a kind of usage which would drive any girl to run away,--or to drown herself. I don't suppose a man can know what it is always to be frowned at. A man has his own friends, and can go anywhere. His spirits are not broken by being isolated. He would not even see half the things which a girl is made to feel. The very servants were encouraged to treat me badly. The boys were not allowed to come near me. I never heard a word that was not intended to be severe." "I am sure it was bad." "And it was not made better by the conviction that she has never cared for me. It is to suffer all the authority, but to enjoy none of the love of a mother. When papa came of course it was better; but even papa cannot make her change her ways. A man is comparatively so very little in the house. If it goes on it will drive me mad." "Of course I'll stand to you." "Oh, John, I am sure you will." "But it isn't altogether easy to know how to set about it. If we were to keep house together at Hendon--" As he made this proposition a look of joy came over her face, and shone amidst her tears. "There would, of course, be a difficulty." "What difficulty?" She, however, knew well what would be the difficulty. "George Roden would be too near to us." "I should never see him unless you approved." "I should not approve. That would be the difficulty. He would argue the matter with me, and I should have to tell him that I could not let him come to the house, except with my father's leave. That would be out of the question. And therefore, as I say, there would be a difficulty." "I would never see him,--except with your sanction,--nor write to him,--nor receive letters from him. You are not to suppose that I would give him up. I shall never do that. I shall go on and wait. When a girl has once brought herself to tell a man that she loves him, according to my idea she cannot give him up. There are things which cannot be changed. I could have lived very well without thinking of him had I not encouraged myself to love him. But I have done that, and now he must be everything to me." "I am sorry that it should be so." "It is so. But if you will take me to Hendon I will never see him till I have papa's leave. It is my duty to obey him,--but not her." "I am not quite clear about that." "She has rejected me as a daughter, and therefore I reject her as a mother. She would get rid of us both if she could." "You should not attribute to her any such thoughts." "If you saw her as often as I do you would know. She hates you almost as much as me,--though she cannot show it so easily." "That she should hate my theories I can easily understand." "You stand in her way." "Of course I do. It is natural that a woman should wish to have the best for her own children. I have sometimes myself felt it to be a pity that Frederic should have an elder brother. Think what a gallant young Marquis he would make, while I am altogether out of my element." "That is nonsense, John." "I ought to have been a tailor. Tailors, I think, are generally the most ill-conditioned, sceptical, and patriotic of men. Had my natural propensities been sharpened by the difficulty of maintaining a wife and children upon seven and sixpence a day, I really think I could have done something to make myself conspicuous. As it is, I am neither one thing nor another; neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring. To the mind devoted to marquises I can understand that I should be a revolting being. I have no aptitudes for aristocratic prettinesses. Her ladyship has three sons, either of which would make a perfect marquis. How is it possible that she should not think that I am standing in her way?" "But she knew of your existence when she married papa." "No doubt she did;--but that does not alter her nature. I think I could find it in my heart to forgive her, even though she attempted to poison me, so much do I stand in her way. I have sometimes thought that I ought to repudiate myself; give up my prospects, and call myself John Trafford--so as to make way for her more lordly lordlings." "That is nonsense, John." "At any rate it is impossible. I could only do it by blowing my brains out--which would not be in accordance with my ideas of life. But you are not in anybody's way. There is nothing to be got by poisoning you. If she were to murder me there would be something reasonable in it,--something that one could pardon; but in torturing you she is instigated by a vile ambition. She is afraid, lest her own position should be tarnished by an inferior marriage on your part. There would be something noble in killing me for the sake of dear little Fred. She would be getting something for him who, of course, is most dear to her. But the other is the meanest vanity;--and I will not stand it." This conversation took place early in October, when they had been some weeks at Trafford Park. Hampstead had come and gone, as was his wont, never remaining there above two or three days at a time. Lord Kingsbury, who was ill at ease, had run hither and thither about the country, looking after this or the other property, and staying for a day or two with this or the other friend. The Marchioness had declined to invite any friends to the house, declaring to her husband that the family was made unfit for gaiety by the wicked conduct of his eldest daughter. There was no attempt at shooting the pheasants, or even preparing to shoot them, so great was the general depression. Mr. Greenwood was there, and was thrown into very close intercourse with her ladyship. He fully sympathized with her ladyship. Although he had always agreed with the Marquis,--as he had not forgotten to tell George Roden during that interview in London,--in regard to his lordship's early political tenets, nevertheless his mind was so constituted that he was quite at one with her ladyship as to the disgraceful horror of low associations for noble families. Not only did he sympathize as to the abomination of the Post Office clerk, but he sympathized also fully as to the positive unfitness which Lord Hampstead displayed for that station in life to which he had been called. Mr. Greenwood would sigh and wheeze and groan when the future prospects of the House of Trafford were discussed between him and her ladyship. It might be, or it might not be, well,--so he kindly put it in talking to the Marchioness,--that a nobleman should indulge himself with liberal politics; but it was dreadful to think that the heir to a great title should condescend to opinions worthy of a radical tailor. For Mr. Greenwood agreed with Lord Hampstead about the tailor. Lord Hampstead seemed to him to be a matter simply for sorrow,--not for action. Nothing, he thought, could be done in regard to Lord Hampstead. Time,--time that destroys but which also cures so many things,--would no doubt have its effect; so that Lord Hampstead might in the fulness of years live to be as staunch a supporter of his class as any Duke or Marquis living. Or perhaps,--perhaps, it might be that the Lord would take him. Mr. Greenwood saw that this remark was more to the purpose, and at once went to work with the Peerage, and found a score of cases in which, within half-a-century, the second brother had risen to the title. It seemed, indeed, to be the case that a peculiar mortality attached itself to the eldest sons of Peers. This was comforting. But there was not in it so much ground for positive action as at the present moment existed in regard to Lady Frances. On this matter there was a complete unison of spirit between the two friends. Mr. Greenwood had seen the objectionable young man, and could say how thoroughly objectionable he was at all points,--how vulgar, flippant, ignorant, impudent, exactly what a clerk in the Post Office might be expected to be. Any severity, according to Mr. Greenwood, would be justified in keeping the two young persons apart. Gradually Mr. Greenwood learnt to talk of the female young person with very little of that respect which he showed to other members of the family. In this way her ladyship came to regard Lady Frances as though she were not Lady Frances at all,--as though she were some distant Fanny Trafford, a girl of bad taste and evil conduct, who had unfortunately been brought into the family on grounds of mistaken charity. Things had so gone on at Trafford, that Trafford had hardly been preferable to Königsgraaf. Indeed, at Königsgraaf there had been no Mr. Greenwood, and Mr. Greenwood had certainly added much to the annoyances which poor Lady Frances was made to bear. In this condition of things she had written to her brother, begging him to come to her. He had come, and thus had taken place the conversation which has been given above. On the same day Hampstead saw his father and discussed the matter with him;--that matter, and, as will be seen, some others also. "What on earth do you wish me to do about her?" asked the Marquis. "Let her come and live with me at Hendon. If you will let me have the house I will take all the rest upon myself." "Keep an establishment of your own?" "Why not? If I found I couldn't afford it I'd give up the hunting and stick to the yacht." "It isn't about money," said the Marquis, shaking his head. "Her ladyship never liked Hendon for herself." "Nor is it about the house. You might have the house and welcome. But how can I give up my charge over your sister just when I know that she is disposed to do just what she ought not." "She won't be a bit more likely to do it there than here," said the brother. "He would be quite close to her." "You may take this for granted, sir, that no two persons would be more thoroughly guided by a sense of duty than my sister and George Roden." "Did she show her duty when she allowed herself to be engaged to a man like that without saying a word to any of her family." "She told her ladyship as soon as it occurred." "She should not have allowed it to have occurred at all. It is nonsense talking like that. You cannot mean to say that such a girl as your sister is entitled to do what she likes with herself without consulting any of her family,--even to accepting such a man as this for her lover." "I hardly know," said Hampstead, thoughtfully. "You ought to know. I know. Everybody knows. It is nonsense talking like that." "I doubt whether people do know," said Hampstead. "She is twenty-one, and as far as the law goes might, I believe, walk out of the house, and marry any man she pleases to-morrow. You as her father have no authority over her whatever;"--here the indignant father jumped up from his chair; but his son went on with his speech, as though determined not to be interrupted,--"except what may come to you by her good feeling, or else from the fact that she is dependent on you for her maintenance." "Good G----!" shouted the Marquis. "I think this is about the truth of it. Young ladies do subject themselves to the authority of their parents from feeling, from love, and from dependence; but, as far as I understand in the matter, they are not legally subject beyond a certain age." "You'd talk the hind legs off a dog." "I wish I could. But one may say a few words without being so eloquent as that. If such is the case I am not sure that Fanny has been morally wrong. She may have been foolish. I think she has been, because I feel that the marriage is not suitable for her." "Noblesse oblige," said the Marquis, putting his hand upon his bosom. "No doubt. Nobility, whatever may be its nature, imposes bonds on us. And if these bonds be not obeyed, then nobility ceases. But I deny that any nobility can bind us to any conduct which we believe to be wrong." "Who has said that it does?" "Nobility," continued the son, not regarding his father's question, "cannot bind me to do that which you or others think to be right, if I do not approve it myself." "What on earth are you driving at?" "You imply that because I belong to a certain order,--or my sister,--we are bound to those practices of life which that order regards with favour. This I deny both on her behalf and my own. I didn't make myself the eldest son of an English peer. I do acknowledge that as very much has been given to me in the way of education, of social advantages, and even of money, a higher line of conduct is justly demanded from me than from those who have been less gifted. So far, _noblesse oblige_. But before I undertake the duty thus imposed upon me, I must find out what is that higher line of conduct. Fanny should do the same. In marrying George Roden she would do better, according to your maxim, than in giving herself to some noodle of a lord who from first to last will have nothing to be proud of beyond his acres and his title." The Marquis had been walking about the room impatiently, while his didactic son was struggling to explain his own theory as to those words _noblesse oblige_. Nothing could so plainly express the feelings of the Marquis on the occasion as that illustration of his as to the dog's hind legs. But he was a little ashamed of it, and did not dare to use it twice on the same occasion. He fretted and fumed, and would have stopped Hampstead had it been possible; but Hampstead was irrepressible when he had become warm on his own themes, and his father knew that he must listen on to the bitter end. "I won't have her go to Hendon at all," he said, when his son had finished. "Then you will understand little of her nature,--or of mine. Roden will not come near her there. I can hardly be sure that he will not do so here. Here Fanny will feel that she is being treated as an enemy." "You have no right to say so." "There she will know that you have done much to promote her happiness. I will give you my assurance that she will neither see him nor write to him. She has promised as much to me herself, and I can trust her." "Why should she be so anxious to leave her natural home?" "Because," said Hampstead boldly, "she has lost her natural mother." The Marquis frowned awfully at hearing this. "I have not a word to say against my stepmother as to myself. I will not accuse her of anything as to Fanny,--except that they thoroughly misunderstand each other. You must see it yourself, sir." The Marquis had seen it very thoroughly. "And Mr. Greenwood has taken upon himself to speak to her,--which was, I think, very impertinent." "I never authorized him." "But he did. Her ladyship no doubt authorized him. The end of it is that Fanny is watched. Of course she will not bear a continuation of such misery. Why should she? It will be better that she should come to me than be driven to go off with her lover." Before the week was over the Marquis had yielded. Hendon Hall was to be given up altogether to Lord Hampstead, and his sister was to be allowed to live with him as the mistress of his house. She was to come in the course of next month, and remain there at any rate till the spring. There would be a difficulty about the hunting, no doubt, but that Hampstead if necessary was prepared to abandon for the season. He thought that perhaps he might be able to run down twice a week to the Vale of Aylesbury, going across from Hendon to the Willesden Junction. He would at any rate make his sister's comfort the first object of his life, and would take care that in doing so George Roden should be excluded altogether from the arrangement. The Marchioness was paralyzed when she heard that Lady Frances was to be taken away,--to be taken into the direct neighbourhood of London and the Post Office. Very many words she said to her husband, and often the Marquis vacillated. But, when once the promise was given, Lady Frances was strong enough to demand its fulfilment. It was on this occasion that the Marchioness first allowed herself to speak to Mr. Greenwood with absolute disapproval of her husband. "To Hendon Hall!" said Mr. Greenwood, holding up his hands with surprise when the project was explained. "Yes, indeed! It does seem to me to be the most,--most improper sort of thing to do." "He can walk over there every day as soon as he has got rid of the letters." Mr. Greenwood probably thought that George Roden was sent about with the Post Office bags. "Of course they will meet." "I fear so, Lady Kingsbury." "Hampstead will arrange that for them." "No, no!" said the clergyman, as though he were bound on behalf of the family to repudiate an idea that was so damnatory to its honour. "It is just what he will do. Why else should he want to have her there? With his ideas he would think it the best thing he could do utterly to degrade us all. He has no idea of the honour of his brothers. How should he, when he is so anxious to sacrifice his own sister? As for me, of course, he would do anything to break my heart. He knows that I am anxious for his father's name, and, therefore, he would disgrace me in any way that was possible. But that the Marquis should consent!" "That is what I cannot understand," said Mr. Greenwood. "There must be something in it, Mr. Greenwood, which they mean to keep from me." "The Marquis can't intend to give her to that young man!" "I don't understand it. I don't understand it at all," said the Marchioness. "He did seem so firm about it. As for the girl herself, I will never see her again after she has left my house in such a fashion. And, to tell the truth, I never wish to see Hampstead again. They are plotting against me; and if there is anything I hate it is a plot." In this way Mr. Greenwood and the Marchioness became bound together in their great disapproval of Lady Frances and her love. CHAPTER XI. LADY PERSIFLAGE. Hampstead rushed up to Hendon almost without seeing his stepmother, intent on making preparations for his sister, and then, before October was over, rushed back to fetch her. He was very great at rushing, never begrudging himself any personal trouble in what he undertook to do. When he left the house he hardly spoke to her ladyship. When he took Lady Frances away he was of course bound to bid her adieu. "I think," he said, "that Frances will be happy with me at Hendon." "I have nothing to do with it,--literally nothing," said the Marchioness, with her sternest frown. "I wash my hands of the whole concern." "I am sure you would be glad that she should be happy." "It is impossible that any one should be happy who misconducts herself." "That, I think, is true." "It is certainly true, with misconduct such as this." "I quite agree with what you said first. But the question remains as to what is misconduct. Now--" "I will not hear you, Hampstead; not a word. You can persuade your father, I dare say, but you cannot persuade me. Fanny has divorced herself from my heart for ever." "I am sorry for that." "And I'm bound to say that you are doing the same. It is better in some cases to be plain." "Oh--certainly; but not to be irrational." "I am not irrational, and it is most improper for you to speak to me in that way." "Well, good-bye. I have no doubt it will come right some of these days," said Hampstead, as he took his leave. Then he carried his sister off to Hendon. Previous to this there had been a great deal of unpleasantness in the house. From the moment in which Lady Kingsbury had heard that her stepdaughter was to go to her brother she had refused even to speak to the unfortunate girl. As far as it was possible she put her husband also into Coventry. She held daily consultations with Mr. Greenwood, and spent most of her hours in embracing, coddling, and spoiling those three unfortunate young noblemen who were being so cruelly injured by their brother and sister. One of her keenest pangs was in seeing how boisterously the three bairns romped with "Jack" even after she had dismissed him from her own good graces as utterly unworthy of her regard. That night he positively brought Lord Gregory down into the drawing-room in his night-shirt, having dragged the little urchin out of his cot,--as one might do who was on peculiar terms of friendship with the mother. Lord Gregory was in Elysium, but the mother tore the child from the sinner's arms, and carried him back in anger to the nursery. "Nothing does children so much good as disturbing them in their sleep," said Lord Hampstead, turning to his father; but the anger of the Marchioness was too serious a thing to allow of a joke. "From this time forth for evermore she is no child of mine," said Lady Kingsbury the next morning to her husband, as soon as the carriage had taken the two sinners away from the door. "It is very wrong to say that. She is your child, and must be your child." "I have divorced her from my heart;--and also Lord Hampstead. How can it be otherwise, when they are both in rebellion against me? Now there will be this disgraceful marriage. Would you wish that I should receive the Post Office clerk here as my son-in-law?" "There won't be any disgraceful marriage," said the Marquis. "At least, what I mean is, that it will be much less likely at Hendon than here." "Less likely than here! Here it would have been impossible. There they will be all together." "No such thing," said the Marquis. "Hampstead will see to that. And she too has promised me." "Pshaw!" exclaimed the Marchioness. "I won't have you say Pshaw to me when I tell you. Fanny always has kept her word to me, and I don't in the least doubt her. Had she remained here your treatment would have induced her to run away with him at the first word." "Lord Kingsbury," said the offended lady, "I have always done my duty by the children of your first marriage as a mother should do. I have found them to be violent, and altogether unaware of the duties which their position should impose upon them. It was only yesterday that Lord Hampstead presumed to call me irrational. I have borne a great deal from them, and can bear no more. I wish you would have found some one better able to control their conduct." Then, with a stately step, she stalked out of the room. Under these circumstances, the house was not comfortable to any of the inhabitants. As soon as her ladyship had reached her own apartments after this rough interview she seated herself at the table, and commenced a letter to her sister, Lady Persiflage, in which she proceeded to give a detailed account of all her troubles and sufferings. Lady Persiflage, who was by a year or two the younger of the two, filled a higher position in society than that of the Marchioness herself. She was the wife only of an Earl; but the Earl was a Knight of the Garter, Lord Lieutenant of his County, and at the present moment Secretary of State for the Home Department. The Marquis had risen to no such honours as these. Lord Persiflage was a peculiar man. Nobody quite knew of what his great gifts consisted. But it was acknowledged of him that he was an astute diplomat; that the honour of England was safe in his hands; and that no more perfect courtier ever gave advice to a well-satisfied sovereign. He was beautiful to look at, with his soft grey hair, his bright eyes, and well-cut features. He was much of a dandy, and, though he was known to be nearer seventy than sixty years of age, he maintained an appearance of almost green juvenility. Active he was not, nor learned, nor eloquent. But he knew how to hold his own, and had held it for many years. He had married his wife when she was very young, and she had become, first a distinguished beauty, and then a leader of fashion. Her sister, our Marchioness, had been past thirty when she married, and had never been quite so much in the world's eye as her sister, Lady Persiflage. And Lady Persiflage was the mother of her husband's heir. The young Lord Hautboy, her eldest son, was now just of age. Lady Kingsbury looked upon him as all that the heir to an earldom ought to be. His mother, too, was proud of him, for he was beautiful as a young Phoebus. The Earl, his father, was not always as well pleased, because his son had already achieved a knack of spending money. The Persiflage estates were somewhat encumbered, and there seemed to be a probability that Lord Hautboy might create further trouble. Such was the family to whom collectively the Marchioness looked for support in her unhappiness. The letter which she wrote to her sister on the present occasion was as follows;-- Trafford Park, Saturday, October 25th. MY DEAR GERALDINE,-- I take up my pen to write to you with a heart laden with trouble. Things have become so bad with me that I do not know where to turn myself unless you can give me comfort. I am beginning to feel how terrible it is to have undertaken the position of mother to another person's children. God knows I have endeavoured to do my duty. But it has all been in vain. Everything is over now. I have divided myself for ever from Hampstead and from Fanny. I have felt myself compelled to tell their father that I have divorced them from my heart; and I have told Lord Hampstead the same. You will understand how terrible must have been the occasion when I found myself compelled to take such a step as this. You know how dreadfully shocked I was when she first revealed to me the fact that she had promised to marry that Post Office clerk. The young man had actually the impudence to call on Lord Kingsbury in London, to offer himself as a son-in-law. Kingsbury very properly would not see him, but instructed Mr. Greenwood to do so. Mr. Greenwood has behaved very well in the matter, and is a great comfort to me. I hope we may be able to do something for him some day. A viler or more ill-conditioned young man he says that he never saw;--insolent, too, and talking as though he had as much right to ask for Fanny's hand as though he were one of the same class. As for that, she would deserve nothing better than to be married to such a man, were it not that all the world would know how closely she is connected with my own darling boys! Then we took her off to Königsgraaf; and such a time as I had with her! She would write letters to this wretch, and contrived to receive one. I did stop that, but you cannot conceive what a life she led me. Of course I have felt from the first that she would be divided from her brothers, because one never knows how early bad morals may be inculcated! Then her papa came, and Hampstead,--who in all this has encouraged his sister. The young man is his friend. After this who will say that any nobleman ought to call himself what they call a Liberal? Then we came home; and what do you think has happened? Hampstead has taken his sister to live with him at Hendon, next door, as you may say, to the Post Office clerk, where the young man has made himself thoroughly at home;--and Kingsbury has permitted it! Oh, Geraldine, that is the worst of it! Am I not justified in declaring that I have divorced them from my heart? You can hardly feel as I do, you, whose son fills so well that position which an eldest son ought to fill! Here am I with my darlings, not only under a shade, but with this disgrace before them which they will never be able altogether to get rid of. I can divorce Hampstead and his sister from my heart; but they will still be in some sort brother and sister to my poor boys. How am I to teach them to respect their elder brother, who I suppose must in course of time become Head of the House, when he is hand and glove with a dreadful young man such as that! Am I not justified in declaring that no communication shall be kept up between the two families? If she marries the man she will of course drop the name; but yet all the world will know because of the title. As for him, I am afraid that there is no hope;--although it is odd that the second son does so very often come to the title. If you look into it you will find that the second brother has almost a better chance than the elder,--although I am sure that nothing of the kind will ever happen to dear Hautboy. But he knows how to live in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call him! Do write to me at once, and tell me what I ought to do with a due regard to the position to which I have been called upon to fill in the world. Your most affectionate sister, CLARA KINGSBURY. P.S.--Do remember poor Mr. Greenwood if Lord Persiflage should know how to do something for a clergyman. He is getting old, and Kingsbury has never been able to do anything for him. I hope the Liberals never will be able to do anything for anybody. I don't think Mr. Greenwood would be fit for any duty, because he has been idle all his life, and is now fond of good living; but a deanery would just suit him. After the interval of a fortnight Lady Kingsbury received a reply from her sister which the reader may as well see at once. Castle Hautboy, November 9th. MY DEAR CLARA,-- I don't know that there is anything further to be done about Fanny. As for divorcing her from your heart, I don't suppose that it amounts to much. I advise you to keep on good terms with Hampstead, because if anything were to happen, it is always well for the Dowager to be friends with the heir. If Fanny will marry the man she must. Lady Di Peacocke married Mr. Billyboy, who was a clerk in one of the offices. They made him Assistant Secretary, and they now live in Portugal Street and do very well. I see Lady Diana about everywhere. Mr. Billyboy can't keep a carriage for her, but that of course is her look-out. As to what you say about second sons succeeding, don't think of it. It would get you into a bad frame of mind, and make you hate the very person upon whom you will probably have to depend for much of your comfort. I think you should take things easier, and, above all, do not trouble your husband. I am sure he could make himself very unpleasant if he were driven too far. Persiflage has no clerical patronage whatever, and would not interfere about Deans or Bishops for all the world. I suppose he could appoint a Chaplain to an Embassy, but your clergyman seems to be too old and too idle for that. Your affectionate sister, GERALDINE PERSIFLAGE. This letter brought very little comfort to the distracted Marchioness. There was much in it so cold that it offended her deeply, and for a moment prompted her almost to divorce also Lady Persiflage from her heart. Lady Persiflage seemed to think that Fanny should be absolutely encouraged to marry the Post Office clerk, because at some past period some Lady Diana, who at the time was near fifty, had married a clerk also. It might be that a Lady Diana should have run away with a groom, but would that be a reason why so monstrous a crime should be repeated? And then in this letter there was so absolute an absence of all affectionate regard for her own children! She had spoken with great love of Lord Hautboy; but then Lord Hautboy was the acknowledged heir, whereas her own children were nobodies. In this there lay the sting. And then she felt herself to have been rebuked because she had hinted at the possibility of Lord Hampstead's departure for a better world. Lord Hampstead was mortal, as well as others. And why should not his death be contemplated, especially as it would confer so great a benefit on the world at large? Her sister's letter persuaded her of nothing. The divorce should remain as complete as ever. She would not condescend to think of any future advantages which might accrue to her from any intimacy with her stepson. Her dower had been regularly settled. Her duty was to her own children,--and secondly to her husband. If she could succeed in turning him against these two wicked elder children, then she would omit to do nothing which might render his life pleasant to him. Such were the resolutions which she formed on receipt of her sister's letter. About this time Lord Kingsbury found it necessary to say a few words to Mr. Greenwood. There had not of late been much expression of kindness from the Marquis to the clergyman. Since their return from Germany his lordship had been either taciturn or cross. Mr. Greenwood took this very much to heart. For though he was most anxious to assure to himself the friendship of the Marchioness he did not at all wish to neglect the Marquis. It was in truth on the Marquis that he depended for everything that he had in the world. The Marquis could send him out of the house to-morrow,--and if this house were closed to him, none other, as far as he knew, would be open to him except the Union. He had lived delicately all his life, and luxuriously,--but fruitlessly as regarded the gathering of any honey for future wants. Whatever small scraps of preferment might have come in his way had been rejected as having been joined with too much of labour and too little of emolument. He had gone on hoping that so great a man as the Marquis would be able to do something for him,--thinking that he might at any rate fasten his patron closely to him by bonds of affection. This had been in days before the coming of the present Marchioness. At first she had not created any special difficulty for him. She did not at once attempt to overthrow the settled politics of the family, and Mr. Greenwood had been allowed to be blandly liberal. But during the last year or two, great management had been necessary. By degrees he had found it essential to fall into the conservative views of her ladyship,--which extended simply to the idea that the cream of the earth should be allowed to be the cream of the earth. It is difficult in the same house to adhere to two political doctrines, because the holders of each will require support at all general meetings. Gradually the Marchioness had become exigeant, and the Marquis was becoming aware that he was being thrown over. A feeling of anger was growing up in his mind which he did not himself analyze. When he heard that the clergyman had taken upon himself to lecture Lady Frances,--for it was thus he read the few words which his son had spoken to him,--he carried his anger with him for a day or two, till at last he found an opportunity of explaining himself to the culprit. "Lady Frances will do very well where she is," said the Marquis, in answer to some expression of a wish as to his daughter's comfort. "Oh, no doubt!" "I am not sure that I am fond of too much interference in such matters." "Have I interfered, my lord?" "I do not mean to find any special fault on this occasion." "I hope not, my lord." "But you did speak to Lady Frances when I think it might have been as well that you should have held your tongue." "I had been instructed to see that young man in London." "Exactly;--but not to say anything to Lady Frances." "I had known her ladyship so many years!" "Do not drive me to say that you had known her too long." Mr. Greenwood felt this to be very hard;--for what he had said to Lady Frances he had in truth said under instruction. That last speech as to having perhaps known the young lady too long seemed to contain a terrible threat. He was thus driven to fall back upon his instructions. "Her ladyship seemed to think that perhaps a word in season--" The Marquis felt this to be cowardly, and was more inclined to be angry with his old friend than if he had stuck to that former plea of old friendship. "I will not have interference in this house, and there's an end of it. If I wish you to do anything for me I will tell you. That is all. If you please nothing more shall be said about it. The subject is disagreeable to me." * * * * * * "Has the Marquis said anything about Lady Frances since she went?" the Marchioness asked the clergyman the next morning. How was he to hold his balance between them if he was to be questioned by both sides in this way? "I suppose he has mentioned her?" "He just mentioned the name one day." "Well?" "I rather think that he does not wish to be interrogated about her ladyship." "I dare say not. Is he anxious to have her back again?" "That I cannot say, Lady Kingsbury. I should think he must be." "Of course I shall be desirous to ascertain the truth. He has been so unreasonable that I hardly know how to speak to him myself. I suppose he tells you!" "I rather think his lordship will decline to speak about her ladyship just at present." "Of course it is necessary that I should know. Now that she has chosen to take herself off I shall not choose to live under the same roof with her again. If Lord Kingsbury speaks to you on the subject you should make him understand that." Poor Mr. Greenwood felt that there were thorny paths before him, in which it might be very difficult to guard his feet from pricks. Then he had to consider if there were to be two sides in the house, strongly opposed to each other, with which would it be best for him to take a part? The houses of the Marquis, with all their comforts, were open for him; but the influence of Lord Persiflage was very great, whereas that of the Marquis was next to nothing. CHAPTER XII. CASTLE HAUTBOY. "You'd better ask the old Traffords down here for a few weeks. Hampstead won't shoot, but he can hunt with the Braeside harriers." This was the answer made by Lord Persiflage to his wife when he was told by her of that divorce which had taken place at Trafford Park, and of the departure of Lady Frances for Hendon. Hampstead and Lady Frances were the old Traffords. Lord Persiflage, too, was a Conservative, but his politics were of a very different order from those entertained by his sister-in-law. He was, above all, a man of the world. He had been our Ambassador at St. Petersburg, and was now a Member of the Cabinet. He liked the good things of office, but had no idea of quarrelling with a Radical because he was a Radical. He cared very little as to the opinions of his guests, if they could make themselves either pleasant or useful. He looked upon his sister-in-law as an old fool, and had no idea of quarrelling with Hampstead for her sake. If the girl persisted in making a bad match she must take the consequences. No great harm would come,--except to her. As to the evil done to his "order," that did not affect Lord Persiflage at all. He did not expect his order to endure for ever. All orders become worn out in time, and effete. He had no abhorrence for anybody; but he liked pleasant people; he liked to treat everything as a joke; and he liked the labours of his not unlaborious life to be minimised. Having given his orders about the old Traffords, as he called them in reference to the "darlings," he said nothing more on the subject. Lady Persiflage wrote a note to "Dear Fanny," conveying the invitation in three words, and received a reply to the effect that she and her brother would be at Castle Hautboy before the end of November. Hampstead would perhaps bring a couple of horses, but he would put them up at the livery stables at Penrith. "How do you do, Hampstead," said Persiflage when he first met his guest before dinner on the day of the arrival. "You haven't got rid of everything yet?" This question was supposed to refer to Lord Hampstead's revolutionary tendencies. "Not quite so thoroughly as we hope to do soon." "I always think it a great comfort that in our country the blackguards are so considerate. I must own that we do very little for them, and yet they never knock us over the head or shoot at us, as they do in Russia and Germany and France." Then he passed on, having said quite enough for one conversation. "So you've gone off to Hendon to live with your brother?" said Lady Persiflage to her niece. "Yes; indeed," said Lady Fanny, blushing at the implied allusion to her low-born lover which was contained in this question. But Lady Persiflage had no idea of saying a word about the lover, or of making herself in any way unpleasant. "I dare say it will be very comfortable for you both," she said; "but we thought you might be a little lonely till you got used to it, and therefore asked you to come down for a week or two. The house is full of people, and you will be sure to find some one that you know." Not a word was said at Castle Hautboy as to those terrible things which had occurred in the Trafford family. Young Vivian was there, half, as he said, for ornament, but partly for pleasure and partly for business. "He likes to have a private secretary with him," he said to Hampstead, "in order that people might think there is something to do. As a rule they never send anything down from the Foreign Office at this time of year. He always has a Foreign Minister or two in the house, or a few Secretaries of Legation, and that gives an air of business. Nothing would offend or surprise him so much as if one of them were to say a word about affairs. Nobody ever does, and therefore he is supposed to be the safest Foreign Minister that we've had in Downing Street since old ----'s time." "Well, Hautboy." "Well, Hampstead." Thus the two heirs greeted each other. "You'll come and shoot to-morrow?" asked the young host. "I never shoot. I thought all the world knew that." "The best cock-shooting in all England," said Hautboy. "But we shan't come to that for the next month." "Cocks or hens, pheasants, grouse, or partridge, rabbits or hares, it's all one to me. I couldn't hit 'em if I would, and I wouldn't if I could." "There is a great deal in the couldn't," said Hautboy. "As for hunting, those Braeside fellows go out two or three times a week. But it's a wretched sort of affair. They hunt hares or foxes just as they come, and they're always climbing up a ravine or tumbling down a precipice." "I can climb and tumble as well as any one," said Hampstead. So that question as to the future amusement of the guest was settled. But the glory of the house of Hauteville,--Hauteville was the Earl's family name,--at present shone most brightly in the person of the eldest daughter, Lady Amaldina. Lady Amaldina, who was as beautiful in colour, shape, and proportion as wax could make a Venus, was engaged to marry the eldest son of the Duke of Merioneth. The Marquis of Llwddythlw was a young man about forty years of age, of great promise, who had never been known to do a foolish thing in his life, and his father was one of those half-dozen happy noblemen, each of whom is ordinarily reported to be the richest man in England. Lady Amaldina was not unnaturally proud of her high destiny, and as the alliance had already been advertised in all the newspapers, she was not unwilling to talk about it. Lady Frances was not exactly a cousin, but stood in the place of a cousin, and therefore was regarded as a good listener for all the details which had to be repeated. It might be that Lady Amaldina took special joy in having such a listener, because Lady Frances herself had placed her own hopes so low. That story as to the Post Office clerk was known to everybody at Castle Hautboy. Lady Persiflage ridiculed the idea of keeping such things secret. Having so much to be proud of in regard to her own children, she thought that there should be no such secrets. If Fanny Trafford did intend to marry the Post Office clerk it would be better that all the world should know it beforehand. Lady Amaldina knew it, and was delighted at having a confidante whose views and prospects in life were so different from her own. "Of course, dear, you have heard what is going to happen to me," she said, smiling. "I have heard of your engagement with the son of the Duke of Merioneth, the man with the terrible Welsh name." "When you once know how to pronounce it it is the prettiest word that poetry ever produced!" Then Lady Amaldina did pronounce her future name;--but nothing serviceable would be done for the reader if an attempt were made to write the sound which she produced. "I am not sure but what it was the name which first won my heart. I can sign it now quite easily without a mistake." "It won't be long, I suppose, before you will have to do so always?" "An age, my dear! The Duke's affairs are of such a nature,--and Llwddythlw is so constantly engaged in business, that I don't suppose it will take place for the next ten years. What with settlements, and entails, and Parliament, and the rest of it, I shall be an old woman before I am,--led to the hymeneal altar." "Ten years!" said Lady Fanny. "Well, say ten months, which seems to be just as long." "Isn't he in a hurry?" "Oh, awfully; but what can he do, poor fellow? He is so placed that he cannot have his affairs arranged for him in half-an-hour, as other men can do. It is a great trouble having estates so large and interests so complicated! Now there is one thing I particularly want to ask you." "What is it?" "About being one of the bridesmaids." "One can hardly answer for ten years hence." "That is nonsense, of course. I am determined to have no girl who has not a title. It isn't that I care about that kind of thing in the least, but the Duke does. And then I think the list will sound more distinguished in the newspapers, if all the Christian names are given with the Lady before them. There are to be his three sisters, Lady Anne, Lady Antoinette, and Lady Anatolia;--then my two sisters, Lady Alphonsa and Lady Amelia. To be sure they are very young." "They may be old enough according to what you say." "Yes, indeed. And then there will be Lady Arabella Portroyal, and Lady Augusta Gelashires. I have got the list written out somewhere, and there are to be just twenty." "If the catalogue is finished there will hardly be room for me." "The Earl of Knocknacoppul's daughter has sent me word that she must refuse, because her own marriage will take place first. She would have put it off, as she is only going to marry an Irish baronet, and because she is dying to have her name down as one of the bevy, but he says that if she delays any longer he'll go on a shooting expedition to the Rocky Mountains, and then perhaps he might never come back. So there is a vacancy." "I hardly like to make a promise so long beforehand. Perhaps I might have a young man, and he might go off to the Rocky Mountains." "That's just what made me not put down your name at first. Of course you know we've heard about Mr. Roden?" "I didn't know," said Lady Frances, blushing. "Oh dear, yes. Everybody knows it. And I think it such a brave thing to do,--if you're really attached to him!" "I should never marry any man without being attached to him," said Lady Frances. "That's of course! But I mean romantically attached. I don't pretend to that kind of thing with Llwddythlw. I don't think it necessary in a marriage of this kind. He is a great deal older than I am, and is bald. I suppose Mr. Roden is very, very handsome?" "I have not thought much about that." "I should have considered that one would want it for a marriage of that kind. I don't know whether after all it isn't the best thing to do. Romance is so delicious!" "But then it's delicious to be a Duchess," said Lady Frances, with the slightest touch of irony. "Oh, no doubt! One has to look at it all round, and then to form a judgment. It went a great way with papa, I know, Llwddythlw being such a good man of business. He has been in the Household, and the Queen will be sure to send a handsome present. I expect to have the grandest show of wedding presents that any girl has yet exhibited in England. Ever so many people have asked mamma already as to what I should like best. Mr. MacWhapple said out plain that he would go to a hundred and fifty pounds. He is a Scotch manufacturer, and has papa's interest in Wigtonshire. I suppose you don't intend to do anything very grand in that way." "I suppose not, as I don't know any Scotch manufacturers. But my marriage, if I ever am married, is a thing so much of the future that I haven't even begun to think of my dress yet." "I'll tell you a secret," said Lady Amaldina, whispering. "Mine is already made, and I've tried it on." "You might get ever so much stouter in ten years," said Lady Frances. "That of course was joking. But we did think the marriage would come off last June, and as we were in Paris in April the order was given. Don't you tell anybody about that." Then it was settled that the name of Lady Frances should be put down on the list of bridesmaids, but put down in a doubtful manner,--as is done with other things of great importance. A few days after Lord Hampstead's arrival a very great dinner-party was given at the Castle, at which all the county round was invited. Castle Hautboy is situated near Pooly Bridge, just in the county of Westmoreland, on an eminence, giving it a grand prospect over Ulleswater, which is generally considered to be one of the Cumberland Lakes. Therefore the gentry from the two counties were invited as far round as Penrith, Shap, Bampton, and Patterdale. The Earl's property in that neighbourhood was scattered about through the two counties, and was looked after by a steward, or manager, who lived himself at Penrith, and was supposed to be very efficacious in such duties. His name was Crocker; and not only was he invited to the dinner, but also his son, who happened at the time to be enjoying the month's holiday which was allowed to him by the authorities of the office in London to which he was attached. The reader may remember that a smart young man of this name sat at the same desk with George Roden at the General Post Office. Young Crocker was specially delighted with the honour done him on this occasion. He not only knew that his fellow clerk's friend, Lord Hampstead, was at the Castle, and his sister, Lady Frances, with him; but he also knew that George Roden was engaged to marry that noble lady! Had he heard this before he left London, he would probably have endeavoured to make some atonement for his insolence to Roden; for he was in truth filled with a strong admiration for the man who had before him the possibility of such high prospects. But the news had only reached him since he had been in the North. Now he thought that he might possibly find an opportunity of making known to Lord Hampstead his intimacy with Roden, and of possibly saying a word--just uttering a hint--as to that future event. It was long before he could find himself near enough to Lord Hampstead to address him. He had even refused to return home with his father, who did not like being very late on the road, saying that he had got a lift into town in another conveyance. This he did, with the prospect of having to walk six miles into Penrith in his dress boots, solely with the object of saying a few words to Roden's friend. At last he was successful. "We have had what I call an extremely pleasant evening, my lord." It was thus he commenced; and Hampstead, whose practice it was to be specially graceful to any one whom he chanced to meet but did not think to be a gentleman, replied very courteously that the evening had been pleasant. "Quite a thing to remember," continued Crocker. "Perhaps one remembers the unpleasant things the longest," said Hampstead, laughing. "Oh, no, my lord, not that. I always forget the unpleasant. That's what I call philosophy." Then he broke away into the subject that was near his heart. "I wish our friend Roden had been here, my lord." "Is he a friend of yours?" "Oh dear, yes;--most intimate. We sit in the same room at the Post Office. And at the same desk,--as thick as thieves, as the saying is. We often have a crack about your lordship." "I have a great esteem for George Roden. He and I are really friends. I know no one for whom I have a higher regard." This he said with an earnest voice, thinking himself bound to express his friendship more loudly than he would have done had the friend been in his own rank of life. "That's just what I feel. Roden is a man that will rise." "I hope so." "He'll be sure to get something good before long. They'll make him a Surveyor, or Chief Clerk, or something of that kind. I'll back him to have £500 a year before any man in the office. There'll be a shindy about it, of course. There always is a shindy when a fellow is put up out of his turn. But he needn't care for that. They can laugh as win. Eh, my lord!" "He would be the last to wish an injustice to be done for his own good." "We've got to take that as it comes, my lord. I won't say but what I should like to go up at once to a senior class over other men's heads. There isn't a chance of that, because I'm independent, and the seniors don't like me. Old Jerningham is always down upon me just for that reason. You ask Roden, and he'll tell you the same thing,--my lord." Then came a momentary break in the conversation, and Lord Hampstead was seizing advantage of it to escape. But Crocker, who had taken enough wine to be bold, saw the attempt, and intercepted it. He was desirous of letting the lord know all that he knew. "Roden is a happy dog, my lord." "Happy, I hope, though not a dog," said Hampstead, trusting that he could retreat gracefully behind the joke. "Ha, ha, ha! The dog only meant what a lucky fellow he is. I have heard him speak in raptures of what is in store for him." "What!" "There's no happiness like married happiness; is there, my lord?" "Upon my word, I can't say. Good night to you." "I hope you will come and see me and Roden at the office some of these days." "Good night, good night!" Then the man did go. For a moment or two Lord Hampstead felt actually angry with his friend. Could it be that Roden should make so little of his sister's name as to talk about her to the Post Office clerks,--to so mean a fellow as this! And yet the man certainly knew the fact of the existing engagement. Hampstead thought it impossible that it should have travelled beyond the limits of his own family. It was natural that Roden should have told his mother; but unnatural,--so Hampstead thought,--that his friend should have made his sister a subject of conversation to any one else. It was horrible to him that a stranger such as that should have spoken to him about his sister at all. But surely it was not possible that Roden should have sinned after that fashion. He soon resolved that it was not possible. But how grievous a thing it was that a girl's name should be made so common in the mouths of men! After that he sauntered into the smoking-room, where were congregated the young men who were staying in the house. "That's a kind of thing that happens only once a year," said Hautboy, speaking to all the party; "but I cannot, for the life of me, see why it should happen at all." "Your governor finds that it succeeds in the county," said one. "He polishes off a whole heap at one go," said another. "It does help to keep a party together," said a third. "And enables a lot of people to talk of dining at Castle Hautboy without lying," said a fourth. "But why should a lot of people be enabled to say that they'd dined here?" asked Hautboy. "I like to see my friends at dinner. What did you think about it, Hampstead?" "It's all according to Hampstead's theories," said one. "Only he'd have had the tinkers and the tailors too," said another. "And wouldn't have had the ladies and gentlemen," said a third. "I would have had the tailors and tinkers," said Hampstead, "and I would have had the ladies and gentlemen, too, if I could have got them to meet the tailors and tinkers;--but I would not have had that young man who got me out into the hall just now." "Why,--that was Crocker, the Post Office clerk," said Hautboy. "Why shouldn't we have a Post Office clerk as well as some one else? Nevertheless, Crocker is a sad cad." In the mean time Crocker was walking home to Penrith in his dress boots. CHAPTER XIII. THE BRAESIDE HARRIERS. The Braeside Harriers can hardly be called a "crack" pack of hounds. Lord Hautboy had been right in saying that they were always scrambling through ravines, and that they hunted whatever they could find to hunt. Nevertheless, the men and the hounds were in earnest, and did accomplish a fair average of sport under difficult circumstances. No "Pegasus" or "Littlelegs," or "Pigskin," ever sent accounts of wondrous runs from Cumberland or Westmoreland to the sporting papers, in which the gentlemen who had asked the special Pigskin of the day to dinner were described as having been "in" at some "glorious finish" on their well-known horses Banker or Buff,--the horses named being generally those which the gentlemen wished to sell. The names of gorses and brooks had not become historic, as have those of Ranksborough and Whissendine. Trains were not run to suit this or the other meet. Gentlemen did not get out of fast drags with pretty little aprons tied around their waists, like girls in a country house coming down to breakfast. Not many perhaps wore pink coats, and none pink tops. One horse would suffice for one day's work. An old assistant huntsman in an old red coat, with one boy mounted on a ragged pony, served for an establishment. The whole thing was despicable in the eyes of men from the Quorn and Cottesmore. But there was some wonderful riding and much constant sport with the Braeside Harriers, and the country had given birth to certainly the best hunting song in the language;-- Do you ken John Peel with his coat so gay; Do you ken John Peel at the break of day; Do you ken John Peel when he's far, far away With his hounds and his horn in the morning. Such as the Braeside Harriers were, Lord Hampstead determined to make the experiment, and on a certain morning had himself driven to Cronelloe Thorn, a favourite meet halfway between Penrith and Keswick. I hold that nothing is so likely to be permanently prejudicial to the interest of hunting in the British Isles as a certain flavour of tip-top fashion which has gradually enveloped it. There is a pretence of grandeur about that and, alas, about other sports also, which is, to my thinking, destructive of all sport itself. Men will not shoot unless game is made to appear before them in clouds. They will not fish unless the rivers be exquisite. To row is nothing unless you can be known as a national hero. Cricket requires appendages which are troublesome and costly, and by which the minds of economical fathers are astounded. To play a game of hockey in accordance with the times you must have a specially trained pony and a gaudy dress. Racquets have given place to tennis because tennis is costly. In all these cases the fashion of the game is much more cherished than the game itself. But in nothing is this feeling so predominant as in hunting. For the management of a pack, as packs are managed now, a huntsman needs must be a great man himself, and three mounted subordinates are necessary, as at any rate for two of these servants a second horse is required. A hunt is nothing in the world unless it goes out four times a week at least. A run is nothing unless the pace be that of a steeplechase. Whether there be or be not a fox before the hounds is of little consequence to the great body of riders. A bold huntsman who can make a dash across country from one covert to another, and who can so train his hounds that they shall run as though game were before them, is supposed to have provided good sport. If a fox can be killed in covert afterwards so much the better for those who like to talk of their doings. Though the hounds brought no fox with them, it is of no matter. When a fox does run according to his nature he is reviled as a useless brute, because he will not go straight across country. But the worst of all is the attention given by men to things altogether outside the sport. Their coats and waistcoats, their boots and breeches, their little strings and pretty scarfs, their saddles and bridles, their dandy knick-knacks, and, above all, their flasks, are more to many men than aught else in the day's proceedings. I have known girls who have thought that their first appearance in the ball-room, when all was fresh, unstained, and perfect from the milliner's hand, was the one moment of rapture for the evening. I have sometimes felt the same of young sportsmen at a Leicestershire or Northamptonshire meet. It is not that they will not ride when the occasion comes. They are always ready enough to break their bones. There is no greater mistake than to suppose that dandyism is antagonistic to pluck. The fault is that men train themselves to care for nothing that is not as costly as unlimited expenditure can make it. Thus it comes about that the real love of sport is crushed under a desire for fashion. A man will be almost ashamed to confess that he hunts in Essex or Sussex, because the proper thing is to go down to the Shires. Grass, no doubt, is better than ploughed land to ride upon; but, taking together the virtues and vices of all hunting counties, I doubt whether better sport is not to be found in what I will venture to call the haunts of the clodpoles, than among the palmy pastures of the well-breeched beauties of Leicestershire. Braeside Harriers though they were, a strong taste for foxes had lately grown up in the minds of men and in the noses of hounds. Blank days they did not know, because a hare would serve the turn if the nobler animal were not forthcoming; but ideas of preserving had sprung up; steps were taken to solace the minds of old women who had lost their geese; and the Braeside Harriers, though they had kept their name, were gradually losing their character. On this occasion the hounds were taken off to draw a covert instead of going to a so-ho, as regularly as though they were advertised among the fox-hounds in _The Times_. It was soon known that Lord Hampstead was Lord Hampstead, and he was welcomed by the field. What matter that he was a revolutionary Radical if he could ride to hounds? At any rate, he was the son of a Marquis, and was not left to that solitude which sometimes falls upon a man who appears suddenly as a stranger among strangers on a hunting morning. "I am glad to see you out, my lord," said Mr. Amblethwaite, the Master. "It isn't often that we get recruits from Castle Hautboy." "They think a good deal of shooting there." "Yes; and they keep their horses in Northamptonshire. Lord Hautboy does his hunting there. The Earl, I think, never comes out now." "I dare say not. He has all the foreign nations to look after." "I suppose he has his hands pretty full," said Mr. Amblethwaite. "I know I have mine just at this time of the year. Where do you think these hounds ran their fox to last Friday? We found him outside of the Lowther Woods, near the village of Clifton. They took him straight over Shap Fell, and then turning sharp to the right, went all along Hawes Wall and over High Street into Troutbeck." "That's all among the mountains," said Hampstead. "Mountains! I should think so. I have to spend half my time among the mountains." "But you couldn't ride over High Street?" "No, we couldn't ride; not there. But we had to make our way round, some of us, and some of them went on foot. Dick never lost sight of the hounds the whole day." Dick was the boy who rode the ragged pony. "When we found 'em there he was with half the hounds around him, and the fox's brush stuck in his cap." "How did you get home that night?" asked Hampstead. "Home! I didn't get home at all. It was pitch dark before we got the rest of the hounds together. Some of them we didn't find till next day. I had to go and sleep at Bowness, and thought myself very lucky to get a bed. Then I had to ride home next day over Kirkstone Fell. That's what I call something like work for a man and horse.--There's a fox in there, my lord, do you hear them?" Then Mr. Amblethwaite bustled away to assist at the duty of getting the fox to break. "I'm glad to see that you're fond of this kind of thing, my lord," said a voice in Hampstead's ear, which, though he had only heard it once, he well remembered. It was Crocker, the guest at the dinner-party,--Crocker, the Post Office clerk. "Yes," said Lord Hampstead, "I am very fond of this kind of thing. That fox has broken, I think, at the other side of the cover." Then he trotted off down a little lane between two loose-built walls, so narrow that there was no space for two men to ride abreast. His object at that moment was to escape Crocker rather than to look after the hounds. They were in a wild country, not exactly on a mountain side, but among hills which not far off grew into mountains, where cultivation of the rudest kind was just beginning to effect its domination over human nature. There was a long spinney rather than a wood stretching down a bottom, through which a brook ran. It would now cease, and then renew itself, so that the trees, though not absolutely continuous, were nearly so for the distance of half a mile. The ground on each side was rough with big stones, and steep in some places as they went down the hill. But still it was such that horsemen could gallop on it. The fox made his way along the whole length, and then traversing, so as to avoid the hounds, ran a ring up the hillside, and back into the spinney again. Among the horsemen many declared that the brute must be killed unless he would make up his mind for a fair start. Mr. Amblethwaite was very busy, hunting the hounds himself, and intent rather on killing the fox fairly than on the hopes of a run. Perhaps he was not desirous of sleeping out another night on the far side of Helvellyn. In this way the sportsmen galloped up and down the side of the wood till the feeling arose, as it does on such occasions, that it might be well for a man to stand still awhile and spare his horse, in regard to the future necessities of the day. Lord Hampstead did as others were doing, and in a moment Crocker was by his side. Crocker was riding an animal which his father was wont to drive about the country, but one well known in the annals of the Braeside Harriers. It was asserted of him that the fence was not made which he did not know how to creep over. Of jumping, such as jumping is supposed to be in the shires, he knew nothing. He was, too, a bad hand at galloping, but with a shambling, half cantering trot, which he had invented for himself, he could go along all day, not very quickly, but in such fashion as never to be left altogether behind. He was a flea-bitten horse, if my readers know what that is,--a flea-bitten roan, or white covered with small red spots. Horses of this colour are ugly to look at, but are very seldom bad animals. Such as he was, Crocker, who did not ride much when up in London, was very proud of him. Crocker was dressed in a green coat, which in a moment of extravagance he had had made for hunting, and in brown breeches, in which he delighted to display himself on all possible occasions. "My lord," he said, "you'd hardly think it, but I believe this horse to be the best hunter in Cumberland." "Is he, indeed? Some horse of course must be the best, and why not yours?" "There's nothing he can't do;--nothing. His jumping is mi--raculous, and as for pace, you'd be quite surprised.--They're at him again now. What an echo they do make among the hills!" Indeed they did. Every now and then the Master would just touch his horn, giving a short blast, just half a note, and then the sound would come back, first from this rock and then from the other, and the hounds as they heard it would open as though encouraged by the music of the hills, and then their voices would be carried round the valley, and come back again and again from the steep places, and they would become louder and louder as though delighted with the effect of their own efforts. Though there should be no hunting, the concert was enough to repay a man for his trouble in coming there. "Yes," said Lord Hampstead, his disgust at the man having been quenched for the moment by the charm of the music, "it is a wonderful spot for echoes." "It's what I call awfully nice. We don't have anything like that up at St. Martin's-le-Grand." Perhaps it may be necessary to explain that the Post Office in London stands in a spot bearing that poetic name. "I don't remember any echoes there," said Lord Hampstead. "No, indeed;--nor yet no hunting, nor yet no hounds; are there, my lord? All the same, it's not a bad sort of place!" "A very respectable public establishment!" said Lord Hampstead. "Just so, my lord; that's just what I always say. It ain't swell like Downing Street, but it's a deal more respectable than the Custom House." "Is it? I didn't know." "Oh yes. They all admit that. You ask Roden else." On hearing the name, Lord Hampstead began to move his horse, but Crocker was at his side and could not be shaken off. "Have you heard from him, my lord, since you have been down in these parts?" "Not a word." "I dare say he thinks more of writing to a correspondent of the fairer sex." This was unbearable. Though the fox had again turned and gone up the valley,--a movement which seemed to threaten his instant death, and to preclude any hope of a run from that spot,--Hampstead felt himself compelled to escape, if he could. In his anger he touched his horse with his spur and galloped away among the rocks, as though his object was to assist Mr. Amblethwaite in his almost frantic efforts. But Crocker cared nothing for the stones. Where the lord went, he went. Having made acquaintance with a lord, he was not going to waste the blessing which Providence had vouchsafed to him. "He'll never leave that place alive, my lord." "I dare say not." And again the persecuted nobleman rode on,--thinking that neither should Crocker, if he could have his will. "By the way, as we are talking of Roden--" "I haven't been talking about him at all." Crocker caught the tone of anger, and stared at his companion. "I'd rather not talk about him." "My lord! I hope there has been nothing like a quarrel. For the lady's sake, I hope there's no misunderstanding!" "Mr. Crocker," he said very slowly, "it isn't customary--" At that moment the fox broke, the hounds were away, and Mr. Amblethwaite was seen rushing down the hill-side, as though determined on breaking his neck. Lord Hampstead rushed after him at a pace which, for a time, defied Mr. Crocker. He became thoroughly ashamed of himself in even attempting to make the man understand that he was sinning against good taste. He could not do so without some implied mention of his sister, and to allude to his sister in connection with such a man was a profanation. He could only escape from the brute. Was this a punishment which he was doomed to bear for being--as his stepmother was wont to say--untrue to his order? In the mean time the hounds went at a great pace down the hill. Some of the old stagers, who knew the country well, made a wide sweep round to the left, whence by lanes and tracks, which were known to them, they could make their way down to the road which leads along Ulleswater to Patterdale. In doing this they might probably not see the hounds again that day,--but such are the charms of hunting in a hilly country. They rode miles around, and though they did again see the hounds, they did not see the hunt. To have seen the hounds as they start, and to see them again as they are clustering round the huntsman after eating their fox, is a great deal to some men. On this occasion it was Hampstead's lot--and Crocker's--to do much more than that. Though they had started down a steep valley,--down the side rather of a gully,--they were not making their way out from among the hills into the low country. The fox soon went up again,--not back, but over an intervening spur of a mountain towards the lake. The riding seemed sometimes to Hampstead to be impossible. But Mr. Amblethwaite did it, and he stuck to Mr. Amblethwaite. It would have been all very well had not Crocker stuck to him. If the old roan would only tumble among the stones what an escape there would be! But the old roan was true to his character, and, to give every one his due, the Post Office clerk rode as well as the lord. There was nearly an hour and a-half of it before the hounds ran into their fox just as he was gaining an earth among the bushes and hollies with which Airey Force is surrounded. Then on the sloping meadow just above the waterfall, the John Peel of the hunt dragged out the fox from among the trees, and, having dismembered him artistically, gave him to the hungry hounds. Then it was that perhaps half-a-dozen diligent, but cautious, huntsmen came up, and heard all those details of the race which they were afterwards able to give, as on their own authority, to others who had been as cautious, but not so diligent, as themselves. "One of the best things I ever saw in this country," said Crocker, who had never seen a hound in any other country. At this moment he had ridden up alongside of Hampstead on the way back to Penrith. The Master and the hounds and Crocker must go all the way. Hampstead would turn off at Pooley Bridge. But still there were four miles, during which he would be subjected to his tormentor. "Yes, indeed. A very good thing, as I was saying, Mr. Amblethwaite." CHAPTER XIV. COMING HOME FROM HUNTING. Lord Hampstead had been discussing with Mr. Amblethwaite the difficult nature of hunting in such a county as Cumberland. The hounds were in the road before them with John Peel in the midst of them. Dick with the ragged pony was behind, looking after stragglers. Together with Lord Hampstead and the Master was a hard-riding, rough, weather-beaten half-gentleman, half-farmer, named Patterson, who lived a few miles beyond Penrith and was Amblethwaite's right hand in regard to hunting. Just as Crocker joined them the road had become narrow, and the young lord had fallen a little behind. Crocker had seized his opportunity;--but the lord also seized his, and thrust himself in between Mr. Patterson and the Master. "That's all true," said the Master. "Of course we don't presume to do the thing as you swells do it down in the Shires. We haven't the money, and we haven't the country, and we haven't the foxes. But I don't know whether for hunting we don't see as much of it as you do." "Quite as much, if I may take to-day as a sample." "Very ordinary;--wasn't it, Amblethwaite?" asked Patterson, who was quite determined to make the most of his own good things. "It was not bad to-day. The hounds never left their scent after they found him. I think our hillsides carry the scent better than our grasses. If you want to ride, of course, it's rough. But if you like hunting, and don't mind a scramble, perhaps you may see it here as well as elsewhere." "Better, a deal, from all I hear tell," said Patterson. "Did you ever hear any music like that in Leicestershire, my lord?" "I don't know that ever I did," said Hampstead. "I enjoyed myself amazingly." "I hope you'll come again," said the Master, "and that often." "Certainly, if I remain here." "I knew his lordship would like it," said Crocker, crowding in on a spot where it was possible for four to ride abreast. "I think it was quite extraordinary to see how a stranger like his lordship got over our country." "Clever little 'orse his lordship's on," said Patterson. "It's the man more than the beast, I think," said Crocker, trying to flatter. "The best man in England," said Patterson, "can't ride to hounds without a tidy animal under him." "Nor yet can't the best horse in England stick to hounds without a good man on top of him," said the determined Crocker. Patterson grunted,--hating flattery, and remembering that the man flattered was a lord. Then the road became narrow again, and Hampstead fell a little behind. Crocker was alongside of him in a moment. There seemed to be something mean in running away from the man;--something at any rate absurd in seeming to run away from him. Hampstead was ashamed in allowing himself to be so much annoyed by such a cause. He had already snubbed the man, and the man might probably be now silent on the one subject which was so peculiarly offensive. "I suppose," said he, beginning a conversation which should show that he was willing to discuss any general matter with Mr. Crocker, "that the country north and west of Penrith is less hilly than this?" "Oh, yes, my lord; a delightful country to ride over in some parts. Is Roden fond of following the hounds, my lord?" "I don't in the least know," said Hampstead, curtly. Then he made another attempt. "These hounds don't go as far north as Carlisle?" "Oh, no, my lord; never more than eight or ten miles from Penrith. They've another pack up in that country; nothing like ours, but still they do show sport. I should have thought now Roden would have been just the man to ride to hounds,--if he got the opportunity." "I don't think he ever saw a hound in his life. I'm rather in a hurry, and I think I shall trot on." "I'm in a hurry myself," said Crocker, "and I shall be happy to show your lordship the way. It isn't above a quarter of a mile's difference to me going by Pooley Bridge instead of Dallmaine." "Pray don't do anything of the kind; I can find the road." Whereupon Hampstead shook hands cordially with the Master, bade Mr. Patterson good-bye with a kindly smile, and trotted on beyond the hounds as quickly as he could. But Crocker was not to be shaken off. The flea-bitten roan was as good at the end of a day as he was at the beginning, and trotted on gallantly. When they had gone some quarter of a mile Hampstead acknowledged to himself that it was beyond his power to shake off his foe. By that time Crocker had made good his position close alongside of the lord, with his horse's head even with that of the other. "There is a word, my lord, I want to say to you." This Crocker muttered somewhat piteously, so that Hampstead's heart was for the moment softened towards him. He checked his horse and prepared himself to listen. "I hope I haven't given any offence. I can assure you, my lord, I haven't intended it. I have so much respect for your lordship that I wouldn't do it for the world." What was he to do? He had been offended. He had intended to show that he was offended. And yet he did not like to declare as much openly. His object had been to stop the man from talking, and to do so if possible without making any reference himself to the subject in question. Were he now to declare himself offended he could hardly do so without making some allusion to his sister. But he had determined that he would make no such allusion. Now as the man appealed to him, asking as it were forgiveness for some fault of which he was not himself conscious, it was impossible to refrain from making him some answer. "All right," he said; "I'm sure you didn't mean anything. Let us drop it, and there will be an end of it." "Oh, certainly;--and I'm sure I'm very much obliged to your lordship. But I don't quite know what it is that ought to be dropped. As I am so intimate with Roden, sitting at the same desk with him every day of my life, it did seem natural to speak to your lordship about him." This was true. As it had happened that Crocker, who as well as Roden was a Post Office Clerk, had appeared as a guest at Castle Hautboy, it had been natural that he should speak of his office companion to a man who was notoriously that companion's friend. Hampstead did not quite believe in the pretended intimacy, having heard Roden declare that he had not as yet formed any peculiar friendship at the Office. He had too felt, unconsciously, that such a one as Roden ought not to be intimate with such a one as Crocker. But there was no cause of offence in this. "It was natural," he said. "And then I was unhappy when I thought from what you said that there had been some quarrel." "There has been no quarrel," said Hampstead. "I am very glad indeed to hear that." He was beginning to touch again on a matter that should have been private. What was it to him whether or no there was a quarrel between Lord Hampstead and Roden. Hampstead therefore again rode on in silence. "I should have been so very sorry that anything should have occurred to interfere with our friend's brilliant prospects." Lord Hampstead looked about to see whether there was any spot at which he could make his escape by jumping over a fence. On the right hand there was the lake rippling up on to the edge of the road, and on the left was a high stone wall, without any vestige of an aperture through it as far as the eye could reach. He was already making the pace as fast as he could, and was aware that no escape could be effected in that manner. He shook his head, and bit the handle of his whip, and looked straight away before him through his horse's ears. "You cannot think how proud I've been that a gentleman sitting at the same desk with myself should have been so fortunate in his matrimonial prospects. I think it an honour to the Post Office all round." "Mr. Crocker," said Lord Hampstead, pulling up his horse suddenly, and standing still upon the spot, "if you will remain here for five minutes I will ride on; or if you will ride on I will remain here till you are out of sight. I must insist that one of these arrangements be made." "My lord!" "Which shall it be?" "Now I have offended you again." "Don't talk of offence, but just do as I bid you. I want to be alone." "Is it about the matrimonial alliance?" demanded Crocker almost in tears. Thereupon Lord Hampstead turned his horse round and trotted back towards the hounds and horsemen, whom he heard on the road behind him. Crocker paused a moment, trying to discover by the light of his own intellect what might have been the cause of this singular conduct on the part of the young nobleman, and then, having failed to throw any light on the matter, he rode on homewards, immersed in deep thought. Hampstead, when he found himself again with his late companions, asked some idle questions as to the hunting arrangements of next week. That they were idle he was quite aware, having resolved that he would not willingly put himself into any position in which it might be probable that he should again meet that objectionable young man. But he went on with his questions, listening or not listening to Mr. Amblethwaite's answers, till he parted company with his companions in the neighbourhood of Pooley Bridge. Then he rode alone to Hautboy Castle, with his mind much harassed by what had occurred. It seemed to him to have been almost proved that George Roden must have spoken to this man of his intended marriage. In all that the man had said he had suggested that the information had come direct from his fellow-clerk. He had seemed to declare,--Hampstead thought that he had declared,--that Roden had often discussed the marriage with him. If so, how base must have been his friend's conduct! How thoroughly must he have been mistaken in his friend's character! How egregiously wrong must his sister have been in her estimate of the man! For himself, as long as the question had been simply one of his own intimacy with a companion whose outside position in the world had been inferior to his own, he had been proud of what he had done, and had answered those who had remonstrated with him with a spirit showing that he despised their practices quite as much as they could ridicule his. He had explained to his father his own ideas of friendship, and had been eager in showing that George Roden's company was superior to most young men of his own position. There had been Hautboy, and Scatterdash, and Lord Plunge, and the young Earl of Longoolds, all of them elder sons, whom he described as young men without a serious thought in their heads. What was it to him how Roden got his bread, so long as he got it honestly? "The man's the man for a' that." Thus he had defended himself and been quite conscious that he was right. When Roden had suddenly fallen in love with his sister, and his sister had as suddenly fallen in love with Roden,--then he had begun to doubt. A thing which was in itself meritorious might become dangerous and objectionable by reason of other things which it would bring in its train. He felt for a time that associations which were good for himself might not be so good for his sister. There seemed to be a sanctity about her rank which did not attach to his own. He had thought that the Post Office clerk was as good as himself; but he could not assure himself that he was as good as the ladies of his family. Then he had begun to reason with himself on this subject, as he did on all. What was there different in a girl's nature that ought to make her fastidious as to society which he felt to be good enough for himself? In entertaining the feeling which had been strong within him as to that feminine sanctity, was he not giving way to one of those empty prejudices of the world, in opposition to which he had resolved to make a life-long fight? So he had reasoned with himself; but his reason, though it affected his conduct, did not reach his taste. It irked him to think there should be this marriage, though he was strong in his resolution to uphold his sister,--and, if necessary, to defend her. He had not given way as to the marriage. It had been settled between himself and his sister and his father that there should be no meeting of the lovers at Hendon Hall. He did hope that the engagement might die away, though he was determined to cling to her even though she clung to her lover. This was his state of mind, when this hideous young man, who seemed to have been created with the object of showing him how low a creature a Post Office clerk could be, came across him, and almost convinced him that that other Post Office clerk had been boasting among his official associates of the favours of the high-born lady who had unfortunately become attached to him! He would stick to his politics, to his Radical theories, to his old ideas about social matters generally; but he was almost tempted to declare to himself that women for the present ought to be regarded as exempt from those radical changes which would be good for men. For himself his "order" was a vanity and a delusion; but for his sister it must still be held as containing some bonds. In this frame of mind he determined that he would return to Hendon Hall almost immediately. Further hope of hunting with the Braeside Harriers there was none; and it was necessary for him to see Roden as soon as possible. That evening at the Castle Lady Amaldina got hold of him, and asked him his advice as to her future duties as a married woman. Lady Amaldina was very fond of little confidences as to her future life, and had as yet found no opportunity of demanding the sympathy of her cousin. Hampstead was not in truth her cousin, but they called each other cousins,--or were called so. None of the Hauteville family felt any of that aversion to the Radicalism of the heir to the marquisate which the Marchioness entertained. Lady Amaldina delighted to be Amy to Lord Hampstead, and was very anxious to ask him his advice as to Lord Llwddythlw. "Of course you know all about my marriage, Hampstead?" she said. "I don't know anything about it," Hampstead replied. "Oh, Hampstead; how ill-natured!" "Nobody knows anything about it, because it hasn't taken place." "That is so like a Radical, to be so precise and rational. My engagement then?" "Yes; I've heard a great deal about that. We've been talking about that for--how long shall I say?" "Don't be disagreeable. Of course such a man as Llwddythlw can't be married all in a hurry just like anybody else." "What a misfortune for him!" "Why should it be a misfortune?" "I should think it so if I were going to be married to you." "That's the prettiest thing I have ever heard you say. At any rate he has got to put up with it, and so have I. It is a bore, because people will talk about nothing else. What do you think of Llwddythlw as a public man?" "I haven't thought about it. I haven't any means of thinking. I am so completely a private man myself, that I know nothing of public men. I hope he's good at going to sleep." "Going to sleep?" "Otherwise it must be so dull, sitting so many hours in the House of Commons. But he's been at it a long time, and I dare say he's used to it." "Isn't it well that a man in his position should have a regard to his country?" "Every man ought to have a regard to his country;--but a stronger regard, if it be possible, to the world at large." Lady Amaldina stared at him, not knowing in the least what he meant. "You are so droll," she said. "You never, I think, think of the position you were born to fill." "Oh yes, I do. I'm a man, and I think a great deal about it." "But you've got to be Marquis of Kingsbury, and Llwddythlw has got to be Duke of Merioneth. He never forgets it for a moment." "What a nuisance for him,--and for you." "Why should it be a nuisance for me? Cannot a woman understand her duties as well as a man?" "Quite so, if she knows how to get a glimpse at them." "I do," said Lady Amaldina, earnestly. "I am always getting glimpses at them. I am quite aware of the functions which it will become me to perform when I am Llwddythlw's wife." "Mother of his children?" "I didn't mean that at all, Hampstead. That's all in the hands of the Almighty. But in becoming the future Duchess of Merioneth--" "That's in the hands of the Almighty, too, isn't it?" "No; yes. Of course everything is in God's hands." "The children, the dukedom, and all the estates." "I never knew any one so provoking," she exclaimed. "One is at any rate as much as another." "You don't a bit understand me," she said. "Of course if I go and get married, I do get married." "And if you have children, you do have children. If you do,--and I hope you will,--I'm sure they'll be very pretty and well behaved. That will be your duty, and then you'll have to see that Llwddythlw has what he likes for dinner." "I shall do nothing of the kind." "Then he'll dine at the Club, or at the House of Commons. That's my idea of married life." "Nothing beyond that? No community of soul?" "Certainly not." "No!" "Because you believe in the Trinity, Llwddythlw won't go to heaven. If he were to take to gambling and drinking you wouldn't go to the other place." "How can you be so horrid." "That would be a community of souls,--as souls are understood. A community of interests I hope you will have, and, in order that you may, take care and look after his dinner." She could not make much more of her cousin in the way of confidence, but she did exact a promise from him, that he would be in attendance at her wedding. A few days afterwards he returned to Hendon Park, leaving his sister to remain for a fortnight longer at Castle Hautboy. CHAPTER XV. MARION FAY AND HER FATHER. "I saw him go in a full quarter of an hour since, and Marion Fay went in before. I feel quite sure that she knew that he was expected." Thus spoke Clara Demijohn to her mother. "How could she have known it," asked Mrs. Duffer, who was present in Mrs. Demijohn's parlour, where the two younger women were standing with their faces close to the window, with their gloves on and best bonnets, ready for church. "I am sure she did, because she had made herself smarter than ever with her new brown silk, and her new brown gloves, and her new brown hat,--sly little Quaker that she is. I can see when a girl has made herself up for some special occasion. She wouldn't have put on new gloves surely to go to church with Mrs. Roden." "If you stay staring there any longer you'll both be late," said Mrs. Demijohn. "Mrs. Roden hasn't gone yet," said Clara, lingering. It was Sunday morning, and the ladies at No. 10 were preparing for their devotions. Mrs. Demijohn herself never went to church, having some years since had a temporary attack of sciatica, which had provided her with a perpetual excuse for not leaving the house on a Sunday morning. She was always left at home with a volume of Blair's Sermons; but Clara, who was a clever girl, was well aware that more than half a page was never read. She was aware also that great progress was then made with the novel which happened to have last come into the house from the little circulating library round the corner. The ringing of the neighbouring church bell had come to its final tinkling, and Mrs. Duffer knew that she must start, or disgrace herself in the eyes of the pew-opener. "Come, my dear," she said; and away they went. As the door of No. 10 opened so did that of No. 11 opposite, and the four ladies, including Marion Fay, met in the road. "You have a visitor this morning," said Clara. "Yes;--a friend of my son's." "We know all about it," said Clara. "Don't you think he's a very fine-looking young man, Miss Fay?" "Yes, I do," said Marion. "He is certainly a handsome young man." "Beauty is but skin deep," said Mrs. Duffer. "But still it goes a long way," said Clara, "particularly with high birth and noble rank." "He is an excellent young man, as far as I know him," said Mrs. Roden, thinking that she was called upon to defend her son's friend. Hampstead had returned home on the Saturday, and had taken the earliest opportunity on the following Sunday morning to go over to his friend at Holloway. The distance was about six miles, and he had driven over, sending the vehicle back with the intention of walking home. He would get his friend to walk with him, and then should take place that conversation which he feared would become excessively unpleasant before it was finished. He was shown up to the drawing-room of No. 11, and there he found all alone a young woman whom he had never seen before. This was Marion Fay, the daughter of Zachary Fay, a Quaker, who lived at No. 17, Paradise Row. "I had thought Mrs. Roden was here," he said. "Mrs. Roden will be down directly. She is putting her bonnet on to go to church." "And Mr. Roden?" he asked. "He I suppose is not going to church with her?" "Ah, no; I wish he were. George Roden never goes to church." "Is he a friend of yours?" "For his mother's sake I was speaking;--but why not for his also? He is not specially my friend, but I wish well to all men. He is not at home at present, but I understood that he will be here shortly." "Do you always go to church?" he asked, grounding his question not on any impertinent curiosity as to her observance of her religious duties, but because he had thought from her dress she must certainly be a Quaker. "I do usually go to your church on a Sunday." "Nay," said he, "I have no right to claim it as my church. I fear you must regard me also as a heathen,--as you do George Roden." "I am sorry for that, sir. It cannot be good that any man should be a heathen when so much Christian teaching is abroad. But men I think allow themselves a freedom of thought from which women in their timidity are apt to shrink. If so it is surely good that we should be cowards?" Then the door opened, and Mrs. Roden came into the room. "George is gone," she said, "to call on a sick friend, but he will be back immediately. He got your letter yesterday evening, and he left word that I was to tell you that he would be back by eleven. Have you introduced yourself to my friend Miss Fay?" "I had not heard her name," he said smiling, "but we had introduced ourselves." "Marion Fay is my name," said the girl, "and yours, I suppose is--Lord Hampstead." "So now we may be supposed to know each other for ever after," he replied, laughing; "--only I fear, Mrs. Roden, that your friend will repudiate the acquaintance because I do not go to church." "I said not so, Lord Hampstead. The nearer we were to being friends,--if that were possible,--the more I should regret it." Then the two ladies started on their morning duty. Lord Hampstead when he was alone immediately decided that he would like to have Marion Fay for a friend, and not the less so because she went to church. He felt that she had been right in saying that audacity in speculation on religious subjects was not becoming a young woman. As it was unfitting that his sister Lady Frances should marry a Post Office clerk, so would it have been unbecoming that Marion Fay should have been what she herself called a heathen. Surely of all the women on whom his eyes had ever rested she was,--he would not say to himself the most lovely,--but certainly the best worth looking at. The close brown bonnet and the little cap, and the well-made brown silk dress, and the brown gloves on her little hands, together made, to his eyes, as pleasing a female attire as a girl could well wear. Could it have been by accident that the graces of her form were so excellently shown? It had to be supposed that she, as a Quaker, was indifferent to outside feminine garniture. It is the theory of a Quaker that she should be so, and in every article she had adhered closely to Quaker rule. As far as he could see there was not a ribbon about her. There was no variety of colour. Her head-dress was as simple and close as any that could have been worn by her grandmother. Hardly a margin of smooth hair appeared between her cap and her forehead. Her dress fitted close to her neck, and on her shoulders she wore a tight-fitting shawl. The purpose in her raiment had been Quaker all through. The exquisite grace must have come altogether by accident,--just because it had pleased nature to make her gracious! As to all this there might perhaps be room for doubt. Whether there had been design or not might possibly afford scope for consideration. But that the grace was there was a matter which required no consideration, and admitted of no doubt. As Marion Fay will have much to do with our story, it will be well that some further description should be given here of herself and of her condition in life. Zachary Fay, her father, with whom she lived, was a widower with no other living child. There had been many others, who had all died, as had also their mother. She had been a prey to consumption, but had lived long enough to know that she had bequeathed the fatal legacy to her offspring,--to all of them except to Marion, who, when her mother died, had seemed to be exempted from the terrible curse of the family. She had then been old enough to receive her mother's last instructions as to her father, who was then a broken-hearted man struggling with difficulty against the cruelty of Providence. Why should it have been that God should thus afflict him,--him who had no other pleasure in the world, no delights, but those which were afforded to him by the love of his wife and children? It was to be her duty to comfort him, to make up as best she might by her tenderness for all that he had lost and was losing. It was to be especially her duty to soften his heart in all worldly matters, and to turn him as far as possible to the love of heavenly things. It was now two years since her mother's death, and in all things she had endeavoured to perform the duties which her mother had exacted from her. But Zachary Fay was not a man whom it was easy to turn hither and thither. He was a stern, hard, just man, of whom it may probably be said that if a world were altogether composed of such, the condition of such a world would be much better than that of the world we know;--for generosity is less efficacious towards permanent good than justice, and tender speaking less enduring in its beneficial results than truth. His enemies, for he had enemies, said of him that he loved money. It was no doubt true; for he that does not love money must be an idiot. He was certainly a man who liked to have what was his own, who would have been irate with any one who had endeavoured to rob him of his own, or had hindered him in his just endeavour to increase his own. That which belonged to another he did not covet,--unless it might be in the way of earning it. Things had prospered with him, and he was--for his condition in life--a rich man. But his worldly prosperity had not for a moment succeeded in lessening the asperity of the blow which had fallen upon him. With all his sternness he was essentially a loving man. To earn money he would say--or perhaps more probably would only think--was the necessity imposed upon man by the Fall of Adam; but to have something warm at his heart, something that should be infinitely dearer to him than himself and all his possessions,--that was what had been left of Divine Essence in a man even after the Fall of Adam. Now the one living thing left for him to love was his daughter Marion. He was not a man whose wealth was of high order, or his employment of great moment, or he would not probably have been living at Holloway in Paradise Row. He was and had now been for many years senior clerk to Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird, Commission Agents, at the top of King's Court, Old Broad Street. By Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird he was trusted with everything, and had become so amalgamated with the firm as to have achieved in the City almost the credit of a merchant himself. There were some who thought that Zachary Fay must surely be a partner in the house, or he would not have been so well known or so much respected among merchants themselves. But in truth he was no more than senior clerk, with a salary amounting to four hundred a year. Nor, though he was anxious about his money, would he have dreamed of asking for any increase of his stipend. It was for Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird to say what his services were worth. He would not on any account have lessened his authority with them by becoming a suppliant for increased payment. But for many years he had spent much less than his income, and had known how to use his City experiences in turning his savings to the best account. Thus, as regarded Paradise Row and its neighbourhood, Zachary Fay was a rich man. He was now old, turned seventy, tall and thin, with long grey hair, with a slight stoop in his shoulders,--but otherwise hale as well as healthy. He went every day to his office, leaving his house with strict punctuality at half-past eight, and entering the door of the counting-house just as the clock struck nine. With equal accuracy he returned home at six, having dined in the middle of the day at an eating-house in the City. All this time was devoted to the interests of the firm, except for three hours on Thursday, during which he attended a meeting in a Quaker house of worship. On these occasions Marion always joined him, making a journey into the City for the purpose. She would fain have induced him also to accompany her on Sundays to the English Church. But to this he never would consent at her instance,--as he had refused to do so at the instance of his wife. He was he said a Quaker, and did not mean to be aught else than a Quaker. In truth, though he was very punctual at those Quaker meetings, he was not at heart a religious man. To go through certain formularies, Quaker though he was, was as sufficient to him as to many other votaries of Church ordinances. He had been brought up to attend Quaker meetings, and no doubt would continue to attend them as long as his strength might suffice; but it may be presumed of him without harsh judgment that the price of stocks was often present to his mind during those tedious hours in the meeting-house. In his language he always complied with the strict tenets of his sect, "thou-ing" and "thee-ing" all those whom he addressed; but he had assented to an omission in this matter on the part of his daughter, recognizing the fact that there could be no falsehood in using a mode of language common to all the world. "If a plural pronoun of ignoble sound," so he said, "were used commonly for the singular because the singular was too grand and authoritative for ordinary use, it was no doubt a pity that the language should be so injured; but there could be no untruth in such usage; and it was better that at any rate the young should adhere to the manner of speech which was common among those with whom they lived." Thus Marion was saved from the "thees" and the "thous," and escaped that touch of hypocrisy which seems to permeate the now antiquated speeches of Quakers. Zachary Fay in these latter years of his life was never known to laugh or to joke; but, if circumstances were favourable, he would sometimes fall into a quaint mode of conversation in which there was something of drollery and something also of sarcasm; but this was unfrequent, as Zachary was slow in making new friends, and never conversed after this fashion with the mere acquaintance of the hour. Of Marion Fay's appearance something has already been said; enough, perhaps,--not to impress any clear idea of her figure on the mind's eye of a reader, for that I regard as a feat beyond the power of any writer,--but to enable the reader to form a conception of his own. She was small of stature, it should be said, with limbs exquisitely made. It was not the brilliance of her eyes or the chiselled correctness of her features which had struck Hampstead so forcibly as a certain expression of earnest eloquence which pervaded her whole form. And there was a fleeting brightness of colour which went about her cheeks and forehead, and ran around her mouth, which gave to her when she was speaking a brilliance which was hardly to be expected from the ordinary lines of her countenance. Had you been asked, you would have said that she was a brunette,--till she had been worked to some excitement in talking. Then, I think, you would have hardly ventured to describe her complexion by any single word. Lord Hampstead, had he been asked what he thought about her, as he sat waiting for his friend, would have declared that some divinity of grace had been the peculiar gift which had attracted him. And yet that rapid change of colour had not passed unobserved, as she told him that she was sorry that he did not go to church. Marion Fay's life in Paradise Row would have been very lonely had she not become acquainted with Mrs. Roden before her mother's death. Now hardly a day passed but what she spent an hour with that lady. They were, indeed, fast friends,--so much so that Mrs. Vincent had also come to know Marion, and approving of the girl's religious tendencies had invited her to spend two or three days at Wimbledon. This was impossible, because Marion would never leave her father;--but she had once or twice gone over with Mrs. Roden, when she made her weekly call, and had certainly ingratiated herself with the austere lady. Other society she had none, nor did she seem to desire it. Clara Demijohn, seeing the intimacy which had been struck up between Marion and Mrs. Roden,--as to which she had her own little jealousies to endure,--was quite sure that Marion was setting her cap at the Post Office clerk, and had declared in confidence to Mrs. Duffer that the girl was doing it in the most brazen-faced manner. Clara had herself on more than one occasion contrived to throw herself in the clerk's way on his return homewards on dusky evenings,--perhaps intent only on knowing what might be the young man's intentions as to Marion Fay. The young man had been courteous to her, but she had declared to Mrs. Duffer that he was one of those stiff young men who don't care for ladies' society. "These are they," said Mrs. Duffer, "who marry the readiest and make the best husbands." "Oh;--she'll go on sticking to him till she don't leave a stone unturned," said Clara,--thereby implying that, as far as she was concerned, she did not think it worth her while to continue her attacks unless a young man would give way to her at once. George had been asked more than once to drink tea at No. 10, but had been asked in vain. Clara, therefore, had declared quite loudly that Marion had made an absolute prisoner of him,--had bound him hand and foot,--would not let him call his life his own. "She interrupts him constantly as he comes from the office," she said to Mrs. Duffer; "I call that downright unfeminine audacity." Yet she knew that Mrs. Duffer knew that she had intercepted the young man. Mrs. Duffer took it all in good part, knowing very well how necessary it is that a young woman should fight her own battle strenuously. In the mean time Marion Fay and George Roden were good friends. "He is engaged;--I must not say to whom," Mrs. Roden had said to her young friend. "It will, I fear, be a long, long, tedious affair. You must not speak of it." "If she be true to him, I hope he will be true to her," said Marion, with true feminine excitement. "I only fear that he will be too true." "No, no;--that cannot be. Even though he suffer let him be true. You may be sure I will not mention it,--to him, or to any one. I like him so well that I do hope he may not suffer much." From that time she found herself able to regard George Roden as a real friend, and to talk to him as though there need be no cause for dreading an intimacy. With an engaged man a girl may suffer herself to be intimate. CHAPTER XVI. THE WALK BACK TO HENDON. "I was here a little early," said Hampstead when his friend came in, "and I found your mother just going to church,--with a friend." "Marion Fay." "Yes, Miss Fay." "She is the daughter of a Quaker who lives a few doors off. But though she is a Quaker she goes to church as well. I envy the tone of mind of those who are able to find a comfort in pouring themselves out in gratitude to the great Unknown God." "I pour myself out in gratitude," said Hampstead; "but with me it is an affair of solitude." "I doubt whether you ever hold yourself for two hours in commune with heavenly power and heavenly influence. Something more than gratitude is necessary. You must conceive that there is a duty,--by the non-performance of which you would encounter peril. Then comes the feeling of safety which always follows the performance of a duty. That I never can achieve. What did you think of Marion Fay?" "She is a most lovely creature." "Very pretty, is she not; particularly when speaking? "I never care for female beauty that does not display itself in action,--either speaking, moving, laughing, or perhaps only frowning," said Hampstead enthusiastically. "I was talking the other day to a sort of cousin of mine who has a reputation of being a remarkably handsome young woman. She had ever so much to say to me, and when I was in company with her a page in buttons kept coming into the room. He was a round-faced, high-cheeked, ugly boy; but I thought him so much better-looking than my cousin, because he opened his mouth when he spoke, and showed his eagerness by his eyes." "Your cousin is complimented." "She has made her market, so it does not signify. The Greeks seem to me to have regarded form without expression. I doubt whether Phidias would have done much with your Miss Fay. To my eyes she is the perfection of loveliness." "She is not my Miss Fay. She is my mother's friend." "Your mother is lucky. A woman without vanity, without jealousy, without envy--" "Where will you find one?" "Your mother. Such a woman as that can, I think, enjoy feminine loveliness almost as much as a man." "I have often heard my mother speak of Marion's good qualities, but not much of her loveliness. To me her great charm is her voice. She speaks musically." "As one can fancy Melpomene did. Does she come here often?" "Every day, I fancy;--but not generally when I am here. Not but what she and I are great friends. She will sometimes go with me into town on a Thursday morning, on her way to the meeting house." "Lucky fellow!" Roden shrugged his shoulders as though conscious that any luck of that kind must come to him from another quarter, if it came at all. "What does she talk about?" "Religion generally." "And you?" "Anything else, if she will allow me. She would wish to convert me. I am not at all anxious to convert her, really believing that she is very well as she is." "Yes," said Hampstead; "that is the worst of what we are apt to call advanced opinions. With all my self-assurance I never dare to tamper with the religious opinions of those who are younger or weaker than myself. I feel that they at any rate are safe if they are in earnest. No one, I think, has ever been put in danger by believing Christ to be a God." "They none of them know what they believe," said Roden; "nor do you or I. Men talk of belief as though it were a settled thing. It is so but with few; and that only with those who lack imagination. What sort of a time did you have down at Castle Hautboy?" "Oh,--I don't know,--pretty well. Everybody was very kind, and my sister likes it. The scenery is lovely. You can look up a long reach of Ulleswater from the Castle terrace, and there is Helvellyn in the distance. The house was full of people,--who despised me more than I did them." "Which is saying a great deal, perhaps." "There were some uncommon apes. One young lady, not very young, asked me what I meant to do with all the land in the world when I took it away from everybody. I told her that when it was all divided equally there would be a nice little estate even for all the daughters, and that in such circumstances all the sons would certainly get married. She acknowledged that such a result would be excellent, but she did not believe in it. A world in which the men should want to marry was beyond her comprehension. I went out hunting one day." "The hunting I should suppose was not very good." "But for one drawback it would have been very good indeed." "The mountains, I should have thought, would be one drawback, and the lakes another." "Not at all. I liked the mountains because of their echoes, and the lakes did not come in our way." "Where was the fault?" "There came a man." "Whom you disliked?" "Who was a bore." "Could you not shut him up?" "No; nor shake him off. I did at last do that, but it was by turning round and riding backwards when we were coming home. I had just invited him to ride on while I stood still,--but he wouldn't." "Did it come to that?" "Quite to that. I actually turned tail and ran away from him;--not as we ordinarily do in society when we sneak off under some pretence, leaving the pretender to think that he has made himself very pleasant; but with a full declaration of my opinion and intention." "Who was he?" That was the question. Hampstead had come there on purpose to say who the man was,--and to talk about the man with great freedom. And he was determined to do so. But he preferred not to begin that which he intended to be a severe accusation against his friend till they were walking together, and he did not wish to leave the house without saying a word further about Marion Fay. It was his intention to dine all alone at Hendon Hall. How much nicer it would be if he could dine in Paradise Row with Marion Fay! He knew it was Mrs. Roden's custom to dine early, after church, on Sundays, so that the two maidens who made up her establishment might go out,--either to church or to their lovers, or perhaps to both, as might best suit them. He had dined there once or twice already, eating the humble, but social, leg of mutton of Holloway, in preference to the varied, but solitary, banquet of Hendon. He was of opinion that really intimate acquaintance demanded the practice of social feeling. To know a man very well, and never to sit at table with him, was, according to his views of life, altogether unsatisfactory. Though the leg of mutton might be cold, and have no other accompaniment but the common ill-boiled potato, yet it would be better than any banquet prepared simply for the purpose of eating. He was gregarious, and now felt a longing, of which he was almost ashamed, to be admitted to the same pastures with Marion Fay. There was not, however, the slightest reason for supposing that Marion Fay would dine at No. 11, even were he asked to do so himself. Nothing, in fact, could be less probable, as Marion Fay never deserted her father. Nor did he like to give any hint to his friend that he was desirous of further immediate intimacy with Marion. There would be an absurdity in doing so which he did not dare to perpetrate. Only if he could have passed the morning in Paradise Row, and then have walked home with Roden in the dark evening, he could, he thought, have said what he had to say very conveniently. But it was impossible. He sat silent for some minute or two after Roden had asked the name of the bore of the hunting field, and then answered him by proposing that they should start together on their walk towards Hendon. "I am all ready; but you must tell me the name of this dreadful man." "As soon as we have started I will. I have come here on purpose to tell you." "To tell me the name of the man you ran away from in Cumberland?" "Exactly that;--come along." And so they started, more than an hour before the time at which Marion Fay would return from church. "The man who annoyed me so out hunting was an intimate friend of yours." "I have not an intimate friend in the world except yourself." "Not Marion Fay?" "I meant among men. I do not suppose that Marion Fay was out hunting in Cumberland." "I should not have ran away from her, I think, if she had. It was Mr. Crocker, of the General Post Office." "Crocker in Cumberland?" "Certainly he was in Cumberland,--unless some one personated him. I met him dining at Castle Hautboy, when he was kind enough to make himself known to me, and again out hunting,--when he did more than make himself known to me." "I am surprised." "Is he not away on leave?" "Oh, yes;--he is away on leave. I do not doubt that it was he." "Why should he not be in Cumberland,--when, as it happens, his father is land-steward or something of that sort to my uncle Persiflage?" "Because I did not know that he had any connection with Cumberland. Why not Cumberland, or Westmoreland, or Northumberland, you may say? Why not?--or Yorkshire, or Lincolnshire, or Norfolk? I certainly did not suppose that a Post Office clerk out on his holidays would be found hunting in any county." "You have never heard of his flea-bitten horse?" "Not a word. I didn't know that he had ever sat upon a horse. And now will you let me know why you have called him my friend?" "Is he not so?" "By no means." "Does he not sit at the same desk with you?" "Certainly he does." "I think I should be friends with a man if I sat at the same desk with him." "With Crocker even?" asked Roden. "Well; he might be an exception." "But if an exception to you, why not also an exception to me? As it happens, Crocker has made himself disagreeable to me. Instead of being my friend, he is,--I will not say my enemy, because I should be making too much of him; but nearer to being so than any one I know. Now, what is the meaning of all this? Why did he trouble you especially down in Cumberland? Why do you call him my friend? And why do you wish to speak to me about him?" "He introduced himself to me, and told me that he was your special friend." "Then he lied." "I should not have cared about that;--but he did more." "What more did he do?" "I would have been courteous to him,--if only because he sat at the same desk with you;--but--" "But what?" "There are things which are difficult to be told." "If they have to be told, they had better be told," said Roden, almost angrily. "Whether friend or not, he knew of--your engagement with my sister." "Impossible!" "He told me of it," said Lord Hampstead impetuously, his tongue now at length loosed. "Told me of it! He spoke of it again and again to my extreme disgust. Though the thing had been fixed as Fate, he should not have mentioned it." "Certainly not." "But he did nothing but tell me of your happiness, and good luck, and the rest of it. It was impossible to stop him, so that I had to ride away from him. I bade him be silent,--as plainly as I could without mentioning Fanny's name. But it was of no use." "How did he know it?" "You told him!" "I!" "So he said." This was not strictly the case. Crocker had so introduced the subject as to have avoided the palpable lie of declaring that the tidings had been absolutely given by Roden to himself. But he had not the less falsely intended to convey that impression to Hampstead, and had conveyed it. "He gave me to understand that you were speaking about it continually at your office." Roden turned round and looked at the other man, white with rage--as though he could not allow himself to utter a word. "It was as I tell you. He began it at the Castle, and afterwards continued it whenever he could get near me when hunting." "And you believed him?" "When he repeated his story so often what was I to do?" "Knock him off his horse." "And so be forced to speak of my sister to every one in the hunt and in the county? You do not feel how much is due to a girl's name." "I think I do. I think that of all men I am the most likely to feel what is due to the name of Lady Frances Trafford. Of course I never mentioned it to any one at the Post Office." "From whom had he heard it?" "How can I answer that? Probably through some of your own family. It has made its way through Lady Kingsbury to Castle Hautboy, and has then been talked about. I am not responsible for that." "Not for that certainly,--if it be so." "Nor because such a one as he has lied. You should not have believed it of me." "I was bound to ask you." "You were bound to tell me, but should not have asked me. There are things which do not require asking. What must I do with him?" "Nothing. Nothing can be done. You could not touch the subject without alluding to my sister. She is coming back to Hendon in another week." "She was there before, but I did not see her." "Of course you did not see her. How should you?" "Simply by going there." "She would not have seen you." There came a black frown over Roden's brow as he heard this. "It has been understood between my father and Fanny and myself that you should not come to Hendon while she is living with me." "Should not I have been a party to that agreement?" "Hardly, I think. This agreement must have been made whether you assented or not. On no other terms would my father have permitted her to come. It was most desirable that she should be separated from Lady Kingsbury." "Oh, yes." "And therefore the agreement was advisable. I would not have had her on any other terms." "Why not?" "Because I think that such visitings would have been unwise. It is no use my blinking it to you. I do not believe that the marriage is practicable." "I do." "As I don't, of course I cannot be a party to throwing you together. Were you to persist in coming you would only force me to find a home for her elsewhere." "I have not disturbed you." "You have not. Now I want you to promise me that you will not. I have assured my father that it shall be so. Will you say that you will neither come to her at Hendon Hall, or write to her, while she is staying with me?" He paused on the road for an answer, but Roden walked on without making one, and Hampstead was forced to accompany him. "Will you promise me?" "I will not promise. I will do nothing which may possibly subject me to be called a liar. I have no wish to knock at any door at which I do not think myself to be welcome." "You know how welcome you would be at mine, but for her." "It might be that I should find myself forced to endeavour to see her, and I will therefore make no promise. A man should fetter himself by no assurances of that kind as to his conduct. If a man be a drunkard, it may be well that he should bind himself by a vow against drinking. But he who can rule his own conduct should promise nothing. Good-day now. I must be back to dinner with my mother." Then he took his leave somewhat abruptly, and returned. Hampstead went on to Hendon with his thoughts sometimes fixed on his sister, sometimes on Roden, whom he regarded as impracticable, sometimes on that horrid Crocker;--but more generally on Marion Fay, whom he resolved that he must see again, whatever might be the difficulties in his way. CHAPTER XVII. LORD HAMPSTEAD'S SCHEME. During the following week Hampstead went down to Gorse Hall, and hunted two or three days with various packs of hounds within his reach, declaring to himself that, after all, Leicestershire was better than Cumberland, because he was known there, and no one would dare to treat him as Crocker had done. Never before had his democratic spirit received such a shock,--or rather the remnant of that aristocratic spirit which he had striven to quell by the wisdom and humanity of democracy! That a stranger should have dared to talk to him about one of the ladies of his family! No man certainly would do so in Northamptonshire or Leicestershire. He could not quite explain to himself the difference in the localities, but he was quite sure that he was safe from anything of that kind at Gorse Hall. But he had other matters to think of as he galloped about the country. How might he best manage to see Marion Fay? His mind was set upon that;--or, perhaps, more dangerously still, his heart. Had he been asked before he would have said that there could have been nothing more easy than for such a one as he to make acquaintance with a young lady in Paradise Row. But now, when he came to look at it, he found that Marion Fay was environed with fortifications and a _chevaux-de-frise_ of difficulties which were apparently impregnable. He could not call at No. 17, and simply ask for Miss Fay. To do so he must be a proficient in that impudence, the lack of which created so many difficulties for him. He thought of finding out the Quaker chapel in the City, and there sitting out the whole proceeding,--unless desired to leave the place,--with the Quixotic idea of returning to Holloway with her in an omnibus. As he looked at this project all round, he became sure that the joint journey in an omnibus would never be achieved. Then he imagined that Mrs. Roden might perhaps give him aid. But with what a face could such a one as he ask such a one as Mrs. Roden to assist him in such an enterprise? And yet, if anything were to be done, it must be done through Mrs. Roden,--or, at any rate, through Mrs. Roden's house. As to this too there was a new difficulty. He had not actually quarrelled with George Roden, but the two had parted on the road as though there were some hitch in the cordiality of their friendship. He had been rebuked for having believed what Crocker had told him. He did acknowledge to himself that he should not have believed it. Though Crocker's lies had been monstrous, he should rather have supposed him to be guilty even of lies so monstrous, than have suspected his friend of conduct that would certainly have been base. Even this added something to the difficulties by which Marion Fay was surrounded. Vivian was staying with him at Gorse Hall. "I shall go up to London to-morrow," he said, as the two of them were riding home after hunting on the Saturday,--the Saturday after the Sunday on which Hampstead had been in Paradise Row. "To-morrow is Sunday,--no day for travelling," said Vivian. "The Fitzwilliams are at Lilford Cross Roads on Monday,--draw back towards the kennels;--afternoon train up from Peterborough at 5.30;--branch from Oundle to meet it, 4.50--have your traps sent there. It's all arranged by Providence. On Monday evening I go to Gatcombe,--so that it will all fit." "You need not be disturbed. A solitary Sunday will enable you to write all your official correspondence for the fortnight." "That I should have done, even in your presence." "I must be at home on Monday morning. Give my love to them all at Lilford Cross Roads. I shall be down again before long if my sister can spare me;--or perhaps I may induce her to come and rough it here for a week or two." He was as good as his word, and travelled up to London, and thence across to Hendon Hall, on the Sunday. It might have been said that no young man could have had stronger inducements for clinging to his sport, or fewer reasons for abandoning it. His stables were full of horses; the weather was good; the hunting had been excellent; his friends were all around him; and he had nothing else to do. His sister intended to remain for yet another week at Castle Hautboy, and Hendon Hall of itself had certainly no special attractions at the end of November. But Marion Fay was on his mind, and he had arranged his scheme. His scheme, as far as he knew, would be as practicable on a Tuesday as on a Monday; but he was impatient, and for the nonce preferred Marion Fay, whom he probably would not find, to the foxes which would certainly be found in the neighbourhood of Lilford Cross Roads. It was not much of a scheme after all. He would go over to Paradise Row, and call on Mrs. Roden. He would then explain to her what had taken place between him and George, and leave some sort of apology for the offended Post Office clerk. Then he would ask them both to come over and dine with him on some day before his sister's return. In what way Marion Fay's name might be introduced, or how she might be brought into the arrangement, he must leave to the chapter of accidents. On the Monday he left home at about two o'clock, and making a roundabout journey _viâ_ Baker Street, King's Cross, and Islington, went down to Holloway by an omnibus. He had become somewhat abashed and perplexed as to his visits to Paradise Row, having learned to entertain a notion that some of the people there looked at him. It was hard, he thought, that if he had a friend in that or any other street he should not be allowed to visit his friend without creating attention. He was not aware of the special existence of Mrs. Demijohn, or of Clara, or of Mrs. Duffer, nor did he know from what window exactly the eyes of curious inhabitants were fixed upon him. But he was conscious that an interest was taken in his comings and goings. As long as his acquaintance in the street was confined to the inhabitants of No. 11, this did not very much signify. Though the neighbours should become aware that he was intimate with Mrs. Roden or her son, he need not care much about that. But if he should succeed in adding Marion Fay to the number of his Holloway friends, then he thought inquisitive eyes might be an annoyance. It was on this account that he made his way down in an omnibus, and felt that there was something almost of hypocrisy in the soft, unpretending, and almost skulking manner in which he crept up Paradise Row, as though his walking there was really of no moment to any one. As he looked round after knocking at Mrs. Roden's door, he saw the figure of Clara Demijohn standing a little back from the parlour window of the house opposite. "Mrs. Roden is at home," said the maid, "but there are friends with her." Nevertheless she showed the young lord up to the drawing-room. There were friends indeed. It was Mrs. Vincent's day for coming, and she was in the room. That alone would not have been much, but with the two elder ladies was seated Marion Fay. So far at any rate Fortune had favoured him. But now there was a difficulty in explaining his purpose. He could not very well give his general invitation,--general at any rate as regarded Marion Fay,--before Mrs. Vincent. Of course there was an introduction. Mrs. Vincent, who had often heard Lord Hampstead's name, in spite of her general severity, was open to the allurements of nobility. She was glad to meet the young man, although she had strong reasons for believing that he was not a tower of strength on matters of Faith. Hampstead and Marion Fay shook hands as though they were old friends, and then the conversation naturally fell upon George Roden. "You didn't expect my son, I hope," said the mother. "Oh, dear no! I had a message to leave for him, which will do just as well in a note." This was to some extent unfortunate, because it made both Mrs. Vincent and Marion feel that they were in the way. "I think I'll send Betsy down for the brougham," said the former. The brougham which brought Mrs. Vincent was always in the habit of retiring round the corner to the "Duchess of Edinburgh," where the driver had succeeded in creating for himself quite an intimacy. "Pray do not stir, madam," said Hampstead, for he had perceived from certain preparations made by Miss Fay that she would find it necessary to follow Mrs. Vincent out of the room. "I will write two words for Roden, and that will tell him all I have to say." Then the elder ladies went back to the matter they were discussing before Lord Hampstead had appeared. "I was asking this young lady," said Mrs. Vincent, "to come with me for two or three days down to Brighton. It is absolutely the fact that she has never seen Brighton." As Mrs. Vincent went to Brighton twice annually, for a month at the beginning of the winter and then again for a fortnight in the spring, it seemed to her a wonderful thing that any one living, even at Holloway, should never have seen the place. "I think it would be a very good thing," said Mrs. Roden,--"if your father can spare you." "I never leave my father," said Marion. "Don't you think, my lord," said Mrs. Vincent, "that she looks as though she wanted a change?" Authorized by this, Lord Hampstead took the opportunity of gazing at Marion, and was convinced that the young lady wanted no change at all. There was certainly no room for improvement; but it occurred to him on the spur of the moment that he, too, might spend two or three days at Brighton, and that he might find his opportunities there easier than in Paradise Row. "Yes, indeed," he said, "a change is always good. I never like to stay long in one place myself." "Some people must stay in one place," said Marion with a smile. "Father has to go to his business, and would be very uncomfortable if there were no one to give him his meals and sit at table with him." "He could spare you for a day or two," said Mrs. Roden, who knew that it would be well for Marion that she should sometimes be out of London. "I am sure that he would not begrudge you a short recreation like that," said Mrs. Vincent. "He never begrudges me anything. We did go down to Cowes for a fortnight in April, though I am quite sure that papa himself would have preferred remaining at home all the time. He does not believe in the new-fangled idea of changing the air." "Doesn't he?" said Mrs. Vincent. "I do, I know. Where I live, at Wimbledon, may be said to be more country than town; but if I were to remain all the year without moving, I should become so low and out of sorts, that I veritably believe they would have to bury me before the first year was over." "Father says that when he was young it was only people of rank and fashion who went out of town regularly; and that folk lived as long then as they do now." "I think people get used to living and dying according to circumstances," said Hampstead. "Our ancestors did a great many things which we regard as quite fatal. They drank their water without filtering it, and ate salt meat all the winter through. They did very little in the washing way, and knew nothing of ventilation. Yet they contrived to live." Marion Fay, however, was obstinate, and declared her purpose of declining Mrs. Vincent's kind invitation. There was a good deal more said about it, because Hampstead managed to make various propositions. "He was very fond of the sea himself," he said, "and would take them all round, including Mrs. Vincent and Mrs. Roden, in his yacht, if not to Brighton, at any rate to Cowes." December was not exactly the time for yachting, and as Brighton could be reached in an hour by railway, he was driven to abandon that proposition, with a little laughter at his own absurdity. But it was all done with a gaiety and a kindness which quite won Mrs. Vincent's heart. She stayed considerably beyond her accustomed hour, to the advantage of the proprietor of the "Duchess of Edinburgh," and at last sent Betsy down to the corner in high good humour. "I declare, Lord Hampstead," she said, "I ought to charge you three-and-sixpence before I go. I shall have to break into another hour, because I have stayed talking to you. Pritchard never lets me off if I am not back punctually by four." Then she took her departure. "You needn't go, Marion," said Mrs. Roden,--"unless Lord Hampstead has something special to say to me." Lord Hampstead declared that he had nothing special to say, and Marion did not go. "But I have something special to say," said Hampstead, when the elder lady was quite gone, "but Miss Fay may know it just as well as yourself. As we were walking to Hendon on Sunday a matter came up as to which George and I did not agree." "There was no quarrel, I hope?" said the mother. "Oh, dear, no;--but we weren't best pleased with each other. Therefore I want you both to come and dine with me one day this week. I shall be engaged on Saturday, but any day before that will do." Mrs. Roden put on a very serious look on receiving the proposition, having never before been invited to the house of her son's friend. Nor, for some years past, had she dined out with any acquaintance. And yet she could not think at the moment of any reason why she should not do so. "I was going to ask Miss Fay to come with you." "Oh, quite impossible," said Marion. "It is very kind, my lord; but I never go out, do I, Mrs. Roden?" "That seems to me a reason why you should begin. Of course, I understand about your father. But I should be delighted to make his acquaintance, if you would bring him." "He rarely goes out, Lord Hampstead." "Then he will have less power to plead that he is engaged. What do you say, Mrs. Roden? It would give me the most unaffected pleasure. Like your father, Miss Fay, I, too, am unaccustomed to much going out, as you call it. I am as peculiar as he is. Let us acknowledge that we are all peculiar people, and that therefore there is the more reason why we should come together. Mrs. Roden, do not try to prevent an arrangement which will give me the greatest pleasure, and to which there cannot be any real objection. Why should not Mr. Fay make acquaintance with your son's friend? Which day would suit you best, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday?" At last it was settled that at any rate George Roden should dine at Hendon Hall on the Friday,--he being absent during the discussion,--and that time must be taken as to any further acceptance of the invitation. Mrs. Roden was inclined to think that it had best be regarded as impossible. She thought that she had made up her mind never to dine out again. Then there came across her mind a remembrance that her son was engaged to marry this young man's sister, and that it might be for his welfare that she should give way to these overtures of friendship. When her thoughts had travelled so far as this, she might have felt sure that the invitation would at last be accepted. As to Marion Fay, the subject was allowed to drop without any further decision. She had said that it was impossible, and she said nothing more. That was the last dictum heard from her; but it was not repeated as would probably have been the case had she been quite sure that it was impossible. Mrs. Roden during the interview did not allude to that branch of the subject again. She was fluttered with what had already been said, a little angry with herself that she had so far yielded, a little perplexed at her own too evident confusion, a little frightened at Lord Hampstead's evident admiration of the girl. As to Marion, it must, of course, be left to her father,--as would the question as to the Quaker himself. "I had better be going," said Marion Fay, who was also confused. "So must I," said Hampstead. "I have to return round by London, and have ever so many things to do in Park Lane. The worst of having two or three houses is that one never knows where one's clothes are. Good-bye, Mrs. Roden. Mind, I depend upon you, and that I have set my heart upon it. You will let me walk with you as far as your door, Miss Fay?" "It is only three doors off," said Marion, "and in the other direction." Nevertheless he did go with her to the house, though it was only three doors off. "Tell your father, with my compliments," he said, "that George Roden can show you the way over. If you can get a cab to bring you across I will send you back in the waggonette. For the matter of that, there is no reason on earth why it should not be sent for you." "Oh, no, my lord. That is, I do not think it possible that we should come." "Pray do, pray do, pray do," he said, as he took her hand when the door at No. 17 was opened. As he walked down the street he saw the figure still standing at the parlour window of No. 10. On the same evening Clara Demijohn was closeted with Mrs. Duffer at her lodgings at No. 15. "Standing in the street, squeezing her hand!" said Mrs. Duffer, as though the very hairs of her head were made to stand on end by the tidings,--the moral hairs, that is, of her moral head. Her head, in the flesh, was ornamented by a front which must have prevented the actual standing on end of any hair that was left to her. "I saw it! They came out together from No. 11 as loving as could be, and he walked up with her to their own house. Then he seized her hand and held it,--oh, for minutes!--in the street. There is nothing those Quaker girls won't allow themselves. They are so free with their Christian names, that, of course, they get into intimacies instantly. I never allow a young man to call me Clara without leave asked and given." "I should think not." "One can't be too particular about one's Christian name. They've been in there together, at No. 11, for two hours. What can that mean? Old Mrs. Vincent was there, but she went away." "I suppose she didn't like such doings." "What can a lord be doing in such a place as that," asked Clara, "--coming so often, you know? And one that has to be a Markiss, which is much more than a lord. One thing is quite certain. It can't mean that he is going to marry Marion Fay?" With this assurance Clara Demijohn comforted herself as best she might. CHAPTER XVIII. HOW THEY LIVED AT TRAFFORD PARK. There certainly was no justification for the ill-humour which Lady Kingsbury displayed to her husband because Hampstead and his sister had been invited down to Castle Hautboy. The Hautboy people were her own relations,--not her husband's. If Lady Persiflage had taken upon herself to think better of all the evil things done by the children of the first Marchioness, that was not the fault of the Marquis! But to her thinking this visit had been made in direct opposition to her wishes and her interests. Had it been possible she would have sent the naughty young lord and the naughty young lady altogether to Coventry,--as far as all aristocratic associations were concerned. This encouragement of them at Castle Hautboy was in direct contravention of her ideas. But poor Lord Kingsbury had had nothing to do with it. "They are not fit to go to such a house as Castle Hautboy," she said. The Marquis, who was sitting alone in his own morning room at Trafford, frowned angrily. But her ladyship, too, was very angry. "They have disgraced themselves, and Geraldine should not have received them." There were two causes for displeasure in this. In the first place the Marquis could not endure that such hard things should be said of his elder children. Then, by the very nature of the accusation made, there was a certain special honour paid to the Hauteville family which he did not think at all to be their due. On many occasions his wife had spoken as though her sister had married into a House of peculiar nobility,--because, forsooth, Lord Persiflage was in the Cabinet, and was supposed to have made a figure in politics. The Marquis was not at all disposed to regard the Earl as in any way bigger than was he himself. He could have paid all the Earl's debts,--which the Earl certainly could not do himself,--and never have felt it. The social gatherings at Castle Hautboy were much more numerous than any at Trafford, but the guests at Castle Hautboy were often people whom the Marquis would never have entertained. His wife pined for the social influence which her sister was supposed to possess, but he felt no sympathy with his wife in that respect. "I deny it," said the father, rising from his chair, and scowling at his wife as he stood leaning upon the table. "They have not disgraced themselves." "I say they have." Her ladyship made her assertion boldly, having come into the room prepared for battle, and determined if possible to be victor. "Has not Fanny disgraced herself in having engaged herself to a low fellow, the scum of the earth, without saying anything even to you about it?" "No!" shouted the Marquis, who was resolved to contradict his wife in anything she might say. "Then I know nothing of what becomes a young woman," continued the Marchioness. "And does not Hampstead associate with all manner of low people?" "No, never." "Is not this George Roden a low person? Does he ever live with young men or with ladies of his own rank?" "And yet you're angry with him because he goes to Castle Hautboy! Though, no doubt, he may meet people there quite unfit for society." "That is not true," said the Marchioness. "My brother-in-law entertains the best company in Europe." "He did do so when he had my son and my daughter under his roof." "Hampstead does not belong to a single club in London," said the step-mother. "So much the better," said the father, "as far as I know anything about the clubs. Hautboy lost fourteen hundred pounds the other day at the Pandemonium; and where did the money come from to save him from being expelled?" "That's a very old story," said the Marchioness, who knew that her husband and Hampstead between them had supplied the money to save the young lad from disgrace. "And yet you throw it in my teeth that Hampstead doesn't belong to any club! There isn't a club in London he couldn't get into to-morrow, if he were to put his name down." "I wish he'd try at the Carlton," said her ladyship, whose father and brother, and all her cousins, belonged to that aristocratic and exclusive political association. "I should disown him," said the still Liberal Marquis;--"that is to say, of course he'll do nothing of the kind. But to declare that a young man has disgraced himself because he doesn't care for club life, is absurd;--and coming from you as his stepmother is wicked." As he said this he bobbed his head at her, looking into her face as though he should say to her, "Now you have my true opinion about yourself." At this moment there came a gentle knock at the door, and Mr. Greenwood put in his head. "I am busy," said the Marquis very angrily. Then the unhappy chaplain retired abashed to his own rooms, which were also on the ground floor, beyond that in which his patron was now sitting. "My lord," said his wife, towering in her passion, "if you call me wicked in regard to your children, I will not continue to live under the same roof with you." "Then you may go away." "I have endeavoured to do my duty by your children, and a very hard time I've had of it. If you think that your daughter is now conducting herself with propriety, I can only wash my hands of her." "Wash your hands," he said. "Very well. Of course I must suffer deeply, because the shadow of the disgrace must fall more or less upon my own darlings." "Bother the darlings," said the Marquis. "They're your own children, my lord; your own children." "Of course they are. Why shouldn't they be my own children? They are doing very well, and will get quite as good treatment as younger brothers ought to have." "I don't believe you care for them the least in the world," said the Marchioness. "That is not true. You know I care for them." "You said 'bother the darlings' when I spoke of them." Here the poor mother sobbed, almost overcome by the contumely of the expression used towards her own offspring. "You drive a man to say anything. Now look here. I will not have Hampstead and Fanny abused in my presence. If there be anything wrong I must suffer more than you, because they are my children. You have made it impossible for her to live here--" "I haven't made it impossible for her to live here. I have only done my duty by her. Ask Mr. Greenwood." "D---- Mr. Greenwood!" said the Marquis. He certainly did say the word at full length, as far as it can be said to have length, and with all the emphasis of which it was capable. He certainly did say it, though when the circumstance was afterwards not unfrequently thrown in his teeth, he would forget it and deny it. Her ladyship heard the word very plainly, and at once stalked out of the room, thereby showing that her feminine feelings had received a wrench which made it impossible for her any longer to endure the presence of such a foul-mouthed monster. Up to that moment she had been anything but the victor; but the vulgarity of the curse had restored to her much of her prestige, so that she was able to leave the battlefield as one retiring with all his forces in proper order. He had "bothered" his own children, and "damned" his own chaplain! The Marquis sat awhile thinking alone, and then pulled a string by which communication was made between his room and that in which the clergyman sat. It was not a vulgar bell, which would have been injurious to the reverence and dignity of a clerical friend, as savouring of a menial's task work, nor was it a pipe for oral communication, which is undignified, as requiring a man to stoop and put his mouth to it,--but an arrangement by which a light tap was made against the wall so that the inhabitant of the room might know that he was wanted without any process derogatory to his self-respect. The chaplain obeyed the summons, and, lightly knocking at the door, again stood before the lord. He found the Marquis standing upon the hearth-rug, by which, as he well knew, it was signified that he was not intended to sit down. "Mr. Greenwood," said the Marquis, in a tone of voice which was intended to be peculiarly mild, but which at the same time was felt to be menacing, "I do not mean at the present moment to have any conversation with you on the subject to which it is necessary that I should allude, and as I shall not ask for your presence for above a minute or two, I will not detain you by getting you to sit down. If I can induce you to listen to me without replying to me it will, I think, be better for both of us." "Certainly, my lord." "I will not have you speak to me respecting Lady Frances." "When have I done so?" asked the chaplain plaintively. "Nor will I have you speak to Lady Kingsbury about her step-daughter." Then he was silent, and seemed to imply, by what he had said before, that the clergyman should now leave the room. The first order given had been very simple. It was one which the Marquis certainly had a right to exact, and with which Mr. Greenwood felt that he would be bound to comply. But the other was altogether of a different nature. He was in the habit of constant conversation with Lady Kingsbury as to Lady Frances. Twice, three times, four times a day her ladyship, who in her present condition had no other confidant, would open out her sorrow to him on this terrible subject. Was he to tell her that he had been forbidden by his employer to continue this practice, or was he to continue it in opposition to the Marquis's wishes? He would have been willing enough to do as he was bidden, but that he saw that he would be driven to quarrel with the lord or the lady. The lord, no doubt, could turn him out of the house, but the lady could make the house too hot to hold him. The lord was a just man, though unreasonable, and would probably not turn him out without compensation; but the lady was a violent woman, who if she were angered would remember nothing of justice. Thinking of all this he stood distracted and vacillating before his patron. "I expect you," said the Marquis, "to comply with my wishes,--or to leave me." "To leave Trafford?" asked the poor man. "Yes; to leave Trafford; to do that or to comply with my wishes on a matter as to which my wishes are certainly entitled to consideration. Which is it to be, Mr. Greenwood?" "Of course, I will do as you bid me." Then the Marquis bowed graciously as he still stood with his back to the fire, and Mr. Greenwood left the room. Mr. Greenwood knew well that this was only the beginning of his troubles. When he made the promise he was quite sure that he would be unable to keep it. The only prospect open to him was that of breaking the promise and keeping the Marquis in ignorance of his doing so. It would be out of his power not to follow any lead in conversation which the Marchioness might give him. But it might be possible to make the Marchioness understand that her husband must be kept in the dark as to any confidence between them. For, in truth, many secrets were now discussed between them, as to which it was impossible that her ladyship should be got to hold her tongue. It had come to be received as a family doctrine between them that Lord Hampstead's removal to a better world was a thing devoutly to be wished. It is astonishing how quickly, though how gradually, ideas of such a nature will be developed when entertainment has once been given to them. The Devil makes himself at home with great rapidity when the hall door has been opened to him. A month or two back, before her ladyship went to Königsgraaf, she certainly would not have ventured to express a direct wish for the young man's death, however frequently her thoughts might have travelled in that direction. And certainly in those days, though they were yet not many weeks since, Mr. Greenwood would have been much shocked had any such suggestion been made to him as that which was now quite commonly entertained between them. The pity of it, the pity of it, the pity of it! It was thus the heart-broken mother put the matter, reconciling to herself her own wishes by that which she thought to be a duty to her own children. It was not that she and Mr. Greenwood had between them any scheme by which Lord Hampstead might cease to be in the way. Murder certainly had not come into their thoughts. But the pity of it; the pity of it! As Lord Hampstead was in all respects unfit for that high position which, if he lived, he would be called upon to fill, so was her boy, her Lord Frederic, made to adorn it by all good gifts. He was noble-looking, gracious, and aristocratic from the crown of his little head to the soles of his little feet. No more glorious heir to a title made happy the heart of any British mother,--if only he were the heir. And why should it be denied to her, a noble scion of the great House of Montressor, to be the mother of none but younger sons? The more her mind dwelt upon it, the more completely did the iniquity of her wishes fade out of sight, and her ambition appear to be no more than the natural anxiety of a mother for her child. Mr. Greenwood had no such excuses to offer to himself; but with him, too, the Devil having once made his entrance soon found himself comfortably at home. Of meditating Lord Hampstead's murder he declared to himself that he had no idea. His conscience was quite clear to him in that respect. What was it to him who might inherit the title and the property of the Traffords? He was simply discussing with a silly woman a circumstance which no words of theirs could do aught either to cause or to prevent. It soon seemed to him to be natural that she should wish it, and natural also that he should seem to sympathize with her who was his best friend. The Marquis, he was sure, was gradually dropping him. Where was he to look for maintenance, but to his own remaining friend? The Marquis would probably give him something were he dismissed;--but that something would go but a short way towards supporting him comfortably for the rest of his life. There was a certain living in the gift of the Marquis, the Rectory of Appleslocombe in Somersetshire, which would exactly suit Mr. Greenwood's needs. The incumbent was a very old man, now known to be bed-ridden. It was £800 a year. There would be ample for himself and for a curate. Mr. Greenwood had spoken to the Marquis on the subject;--but had been told, with some expression of civil regret, that he was considered to be too old for new duties. The Marchioness had talked to him frequently of Appleslocombe;--but what was the use of that? If the Marquis himself were to die, and then the Rector, there would be a chance for him,--on condition that Lord Hampstead were also out of the way. But Mr. Greenwood, as he thought of it, shook his head at the barren prospect. His sympathies no doubt were on the side of the lady. The Marquis was treating him ill. Lord Hampstead was a disgrace to his order. Lady Frances was worse even than her brother. It would be a good thing that Lord Frederic should be the heir. But all this had nothing to do with murder,--or even with meditation of murder. If the Lord should choose to take the young man it would be well; that was all. On the same afternoon, an hour or two after he had made his promise to the Marquis, Lady Kingsbury sent for him. She always did send for him to drink tea with her at five o'clock. It was so regular that the servant would simply announce that tea was ready in her ladyship's room up-stairs. "Have you seen his lordship to-day?" she asked. "Yes;--I have seen him." "Since he told you in that rude way to leave the room?" "Yes, he called me after that." "Well?" "He bade me not talk about Lady Frances." "I dare say not. He does not wish to hear her name spoken. I can understand that." "He does not wish me to mention her to you." "Not to me? Is my mouth to be stopped? I shall say respecting her whatever I think fit. I dare say, indeed!" "It was to my talking that he referred." "He cannot stop people's mouths. It is all nonsense. He should have kept her at Königsgraaf, and locked her up till she had changed her mind." "He wanted me to promise that I would not speak of her to your ladyship." "And what did you say?" He shrugged his shoulders, and drank his tea. She shook her head and bit her lips. She would not hold her tongue, be he ever so angry. "I almost wish that she would marry the man, so that the matter might be settled. I don't suppose he would ever mention her name then himself. Has she gone back to Hendon yet?" "I don't know, my lady." "This is his punishment for having run counter to his uncle's wishes and his uncle's principles. You cannot touch pitch and not be defiled." The pitch, as Mr. Greenwood very well understood, was the first Marchioness. "Did he say anything about Hampstead?" "Not a word." "I suppose we are not to talk about him either! Unfortunate young man! I wonder whether he feels himself how thoroughly he is destroying the family." "I should think he must." "Those sort of men are so selfish that they never think of any one else. It does not occur to him what Frederic might be if he were not in the way. Nothing annoys me so much as when he pretends to be fond of the children." "I suppose he won't come any more now." "Nothing will keep him away,--unless he were to die." Mr. Greenwood shook his head sadly. "They say he rides hard." "I don't know." There was something in the suggestion which at the moment made the clergyman almost monosyllabic. "Or his yacht might go down with him." "He never yachts at this time of the year," said the clergyman, feeling comfort in the security thus assured. "I suppose not. Bad weeds never get cut off. But yet it is astonishing how many elder sons have been--taken away, during the last quarter of a century." "A great many." "There never could have been one who could be better spared," said the stepmother. "Yes;--he might be spared." "If you only think of the advantage to the family! It will be ruined if he comes to the title. And my Fred would be such an honour to the name! There is nothing to be done, of course." That was the first word that had ever been spoken in that direction, and that word was allowed to pass without any reply having been made to it, though it had been uttered almost in a question. CHAPTER XIX. LADY AMALDINA'S LOVER. Trafford Park was in Shropshire. Llwddythlw, the Welsh seat of the Duke of Merioneth, was in the next county;--one of the seats that is, for the Duke had mansions in many counties. Here at this period of the year it suited Lord Llwddythlw to live,--not for any special gratification of his own, but because North Wales was supposed to require his presence. He looked to the Quarter Sessions, to the Roads, to the Lunatic Asylum, and to the Conservative Interests generally of that part of Great Britain. That he should spend Christmas at Llwddythlw was a thing of course. In January he went into Durham; February to Somersetshire. In this way he parcelled himself out about the kingdom, remaining in London of course from the first to the last of the Parliamentary Session. It was, we may say emphatically, a most useful life, but in which there was no recreation and very little excitement. It was not wonderful that he should be unable to find time to get married. As he could not get as far as Castle Hautboy,--partly, perhaps, because he did not especially like the omnium-gatherum mode of living which prevailed there,--it had been arranged that he should give up two days early in December to meet the lady of his love under her aunt's roof at Trafford Park. Lady Amaldina and he were both to arrive there on Wednesday, December 3rd, and remain till the Tuesday morning. There had not been any special term arranged as to the young lady's visit, as her time was not of much consequence; but it had been explained minutely that the lover must reach Denbigh by the 5.45 train, so as to be able to visit certain institutions in the town before a public dinner which was to be held in the Conservative interest at seven. Lord Llwddythlw had comfort in thinking that he could utilize his two days' idleness at Trafford in composing and studying the speech on the present state of affairs, which, though to be uttered at Denbigh, would, no doubt, appear in all the London newspapers on the following morning. As it was to be altogether a lover's meeting, no company was to be invited. Mr. Greenwood would, of course, be there. To make up something of a dinner-party, the Mayor of Shrewsbury was asked for the first evening, with his wife. The Mayor was a strong conservative politician, and Lord Llwddythlw would therefore be glad to meet him. For the next day's dinner the clergyman of the parish, with his wife and daughter, were secured. The chief drawback to these festive arrangements consisted in the fact that both Lady Amaldina and her lover arrived on the day of the bitter quarrel between the Marquis and his wife. Perhaps, however, the coming of guests is the best relief which can be afforded for the misery of such domestic feuds. After such words as had been spoken Lord and Lady Trafford could hardly have sat down comfortably to dinner, with no one between them but Mr. Greenwood. In such case there could not have been much conversation. But now the Marquis could come bustling into the drawing-room to welcome his wife's niece before dinner without any reference to the discomforts of the morning. Almost at the same moment Lord Llwddythlw made his appearance, having arrived at the latest possible moment, and having dressed himself in ten minutes. As there was no one present but the family, Lady Amaldina kissed her future husband,--as she might have kissed her grandfather,--and his lordship received the salutation as any stern, undemonstrative grandfather might have done. Then Mr. Greenwood entered, with the Mayor and his wife, and the party was complete. The Marquis took Lady Amaldina out to dinner and her lover sat next to her. The Mayor and his wife were on the other side of the table, and Mr. Greenwood was between them. The soup had not been handed round before Lord Llwddythlw was deep in a question as to the comparative merits of the Shropshire and Welsh Lunatic asylums. From that moment till the time at which the gentlemen went to the ladies in the drawing-room the conversation was altogether of a practical nature. As soon as the ladies had left the table roads and asylums gave way to general politics,--as to which the Marquis and Mr. Greenwood allowed the Conservatives to have pretty much their own way. In the drawing-room conversation became rather heavy, till, at a few minutes after ten, the Mayor, observing that he had a drive before him, retired for the night. The Marchioness with Lady Amaldina followed quickly; and within five minutes the Welsh lord, having muttered something as to the writing of letters, was within the seclusion of his own bedroom. Not a word of love had been spoken, but Lady Amaldina was satisfied. On her toilet-table she found a little parcel addressed to her by his lordship containing a locket with her monogram, "A. L.," in diamonds. The hour of midnight was long passed before his lordship had reduced to words the first half of those promises of constitutional safety which he intended to make to the Conservatives of Denbigh. Not much was seen of Lord Llwddythlw after breakfast on the following morning, so determined was he to do justice to the noble cause which he had in hand. After lunch a little expedition was arranged for the two lovers, and the busy politician allowed himself to be sent out for a short drive with no other companion than his future bride. Had he been quite intimate with her he would have given her the manuscript of his speech, and occupied himself by saying it to her as a lesson which he had learnt. As he could not do this he recapitulated to her all his engagements, as though excusing his own slowness as to matrimony, and declared that what with the property and what with Parliament, he never knew whether he was standing on his head or his heels. But when he paused he had done nothing towards naming a certain day, so that Lady Amaldina found herself obliged to take the matter into her own hands. "When then do you think it will be?" she asked. He put his hand up and rubbed his head under his hat as though the subject were very distressing to him. "I would not for worlds, you know, think that I was in your way," she said, with just a tone of reproach in her voice. He was in truth sincerely attached to her;--much more so than it was in the compass of her nature to be to him. If he could have had her for his wife without any trouble of bridal preparations, or of subsequent honeymooning, he would most willingly have begun from this moment. It was incumbent on him to be married, and he had quite made up his mind that this was the sort of wife that he required. But now he was sadly put about by that tone of reproach. "I wish to goodness," he said, "that I had been born a younger brother, or just anybody else than I am." "Why on earth should you wish that?" "Because I am so bothered. Of course, you don't understand it." "I do understand," said Amaldina;--"but there must, you know, be some end to all that. I suppose the Parliament and the Lunatic Asylums will go on just the same always." "No doubt,--no doubt." "If so, there is no reason why any day should ever be fixed. People are beginning to think that it must be off, because it has been talked of so long." "I hope it will never be off." "I know the Prince said the other day that he had expected--. But it does not signify what he expected." Lord Llwddythlw had also heard the story of what the Prince had said that he expected, and he scratched his head again with vexation. It had been reported that the Prince had declared that he had hoped to be asked to be godfather long ago. Lady Amaldina had probably heard some other version of the story. "What I mean is that everybody was surprised that it should be so long postponed, but that they now begin to think it is abandoned altogether." "Shall we say June next?" said the ecstatic lover. Lady Amaldina thought that June would do very well. "But there will be the Town's Education Improvement Bill," said his lordship, again scratching his head. "I thought all the towns had been educated long ago." He looked at her with feelings of a double sorrow;--sorrow that she should have known so little, sorrow that she should be treated so badly. "I think we will put it off altogether," she said angrily. "No, no, no," he exclaimed. "Would August do? I certainly have promised to be at Inverness to open the New Docks." "That's nonsense," she said. "What can the Docks want with you to open them?" "My father, you know," he said, "has a very great interest in the city. I think I'll get David to do it." Lord David was his brother, also a Member of Parliament, and a busy man, as were all the Powell family; but one who liked a little recreation among the moors when the fatigue of the House of Commons were over. "Of course he could do it," said Lady Amaldina. "He got himself married ten years ago." "I'll ask him, but he'll be very angry. He always says that he oughtn't to be made to do an elder brother's work." "Then I may tell mamma?" His lordship again rubbed his head, but did it this time in a manner that was conceived to signify assent. The lady pressed his arm gently, and the visit to Trafford, as far as she was concerned, was supposed to have been a success. She gave him another little squeeze as they got out of the carriage, and he went away sadly to learn the rest of his speech, thinking how sweet it might be "To do as others use; Play with the tangles of Neæra's hair, Or sport with Amaryllis in the shade." But there was a worse interruption for Lord Llwddythlw than this which he had now undergone. At about five, when he was making the peroration of his speech quite secure in his memory, a message came to him from the Marchioness, saying that she would be much obliged to him if he would give her five minutes in her own room. Perhaps he would be kind enough to drink a cup of tea with her. This message was brought by her ladyship's own maid, and could be regarded only as a command. But Lord Llwddythlw wanted no tea, cared not at all for Lady Kingsbury, and was very anxious as to his speech. He almost cursed the fidgety fretfulness of women as he slipped the manuscript into his letter-case, and followed the girl along the passages. "This is so kind of you," she said. He gave himself the usual rub of vexation as he bowed his head, but said nothing. She saw the state of his mind, but was determined to persevere. Though he was a man plain to look at, he was known to be the very pillar and support of his order. No man in England was so wedded to the Conservative cause,--to that cause which depends for its success on the maintenance of those social institutions by which Great Britain has become the first among the nations. No one believed as did Lord Llwddythlw in keeping the different classes in their own places,--each place requiring honour, truth, and industry. The Marchioness understood something of his character in that respect. Who therefore would be so ready to see the bitterness of her own injuries, to sympathize with her as to the unfitness of that son and daughter who had no blood relationship to herself, to perceive how infinitely better it would be for the "order" that her own little Lord Frederic should be allowed to succeed and to assist in keeping the institutions of Great Britain in their proper position? She had become absolutely dead to the fact that by any allusion to the probability of such a succession she was expressing a wish for the untimely death of one for whose welfare she was bound to be solicitous. She had lost, by constant dwelling on the subject, her power of seeing how the idea would strike the feelings of another person. Here was a man peculiarly blessed in the world, a man at the very top of his "order," one who would be closely connected with herself, and on whom at some future time she might be able to lean as on a strong staff. Therefore she determined to trust her sorrows into his ears. "Won't you have a cup of tea?" "I never take any at this time of the day." "Perhaps a cup of coffee?" "Nothing before dinner, thank you." "You were not at Castle Hautboy when Hampstead and his sister were there?" "I have not been at Castle Hautboy since the spring." "Did you not think it very odd that they should have been asked?" "No, indeed! Why odd?" "You know the story;--do you not? As one about to be so nearly connected with the family, you ought to know it. Lady Frances has made a most unfortunate engagement, to a young man altogether beneath her,--to a Post Office clerk!" "I did hear something of that." "She behaved shockingly here, and was then taken away by her brother. I have been forced to divorce myself from her altogether." Lord Llwddythlw rubbed his head; but on this occasion Lady Kingsbury misinterpreted the cause of his vexation. He was troubled at being made to listen to this story. She conceived that he was disgusted by the wickedness of Lady Frances. "After that I think my sister was very wrong to have her at Castle Hautboy. No countenance ought to be shown to a young woman who can behave so abominably." He could only rub his head. "Do you not think that such marriages are most injurious to the best interests of society?" "I certainly think that young ladies should marry in their own rank." "So much depends upon it,--does it not, Lord Llwddythlw? All the future blood of our head families! My own opinion is that nothing could be too severe for such conduct." "Will severity prevent it?" "Nothing else can. My own impression is that a father in such case should be allowed to confine his daughter. But then the Marquis is so weak." "The country would not stand it for a moment." "So much the worse for the country," said her ladyship, holding up her hands. "But the brother is if possible worse than the sister." "Hampstead?" "He utterly hates all idea of an aristocracy." "That is absurd." "Most absurd," said the Marchioness, feeling herself to be encouraged;--"most absurd, and abominable, and wicked. He is quite a revolutionist." "Not that, I think," said his lordship, who knew pretty well the nature of Hampstead's political feelings. "Indeed he is. Why, he encourages his sister! He would not mind her marrying a shoeblack if only he could debase his own family. Think what I must feel, I, with my darling boys!" "Is not he kind to them?" "I would prefer that he should never see them!" "I don't see that at all," said the angry lord. But she altogether misunderstood him. "When I think of what he is, and to what he will reduce the whole family should he live, I cannot bear to see him touch them. Think of the blood of the Traffords, of the blood of the Mountressors, of the blood of the Hautevilles;--think of your own blood, which is now to be connected with theirs, and that all this is to be defiled because this man chooses to bring about a disreputable, disgusting marriage with the expressed purpose of degrading us all." "I beg your pardon, Lady Kingsbury; I shall be in no way degraded." "Think of us; think of my children." "Nor will they. It may be a misfortune, but will be no degradation. Honour can only be impaired by that which is dishonourable. I wish that Lady Frances had given her heart elsewhere, but I feel sure that the name of her family is safe in her hands. As for Hampstead, he is a young man for whose convictions I have no sympathy,--but I am sure that he is a gentleman." "I would that he were dead," said Lady Kingsbury in her wrath. "Lady Kingsbury!" "I would that he were dead!" "I can only say," said Lord Llwddythlw, rising from his chair, "that you have made your confidence most unfortunately. Lord Hampstead is a young nobleman whom I should be proud to call my friend. A man's politics are his own. His honour, his integrity, and even his conduct belong in a measure to his family. I do not think that his father, or his brothers, or, if I may say so, his stepmother, will ever have occasion to blush for anything that he may do." With this he bowed to the Marchioness, and stalked out of the room with a grand manner, which those who saw him shuffling his feet in the House of Commons would hardly have thought belonged to him. The dinner on that day was very quiet, and Lady Kingsbury retired to bed earlier even than usual. The conversation at the dinner was dull, and turned mostly on Church subjects. Mr. Greenwood endeavoured to be sprightly, and the parson, and the parson's wife, and the parson's daughter were uncomfortable. Lord Llwddythlw was almost dumb. Lady Amaldina, having settled the one matter of interest to her, was simply contented. On the next morning her lover took his departure by an earlier train than he had intended. It was, he said, necessary that he should look into some matters at Denbigh before he made his speech. He contrived to get a compartment to himself, and there he practised his lesson till he felt that further practice would only confuse him. "You had Fanny at the Castle the other day," Lady Kingsbury said the next morning to her niece. "Mamma thought it would be good-natured to ask them both." "They did not deserve it. Their conduct has been such that I am forced to say that they deserve nothing from my family. Did she speak about this marriage of hers?" "She did mention it." "Well!" "Oh, there was nothing. Of course there was much more to say about mine. She was saying that she would be glad to be a bridesmaid." "Pray don't have her." "Why not, aunt?" "I could not possibly be there if you did. I have been compelled to divorce her from my heart." "Poor Fanny!" "But she was not ashamed of what she is doing?" "I should say not. She is not one of those that are ever ashamed." "No, no. Nothing would make her ashamed. All ideas of propriety she has banished from her,--as though they didn't exist. I expect to hear that she disregards marriage altogether." "Aunt Clara!" "What can you expect from doctrines such as those which she and her brother share? Thank God, you have never been in the way of hearing of such things. It breaks my heart when I think of what my own darlings will be sure to hear some of these days,--should their half-brother and half-sister still be left alive. But, Amaldina, pray do not have her for one of your bridesmaids." Lady Amaldina, remembering that her cousin was very handsome, and also that there might be a difficulty in making up the twenty titled virgins, gave her aunt no promise. CHAPTER XX. THE SCHEME IS SUCCESSFUL. When the matter was mentioned to George Roden by his mother he could see no reason why she should not dine at Hendon Hall. He himself was glad to have an opportunity of getting over that roughness of feeling which had certainly existed between him and his friend when they parted with each other on the road. As to his mother, it would be well that she should so far return to the usages of the world as to dine at the house of her son's friend. "It is only going back to what you used to be," he said. "You know nothing of what I used to be," she replied, almost angrily. "I ask no questions, and have endeavoured so to train myself that I should care but little about it. But I knew it was so." Then after a pause he went back to the current of his thoughts. "Had my father been a prince I think that I should take no pride in it." "It is well to have been born a gentleman," she said. "It is well to be a gentleman, and if the good things which are generally attendant on high birth will help a man in reaching noble feelings and grand resolves, so it may be that to have been well born will be an assistance. But if a man derogates from his birth,--as so many do,--then it is a crime." "All that has to be taken for granted, George." "But it is not taken for granted. Though the man himself be knave, and fool, and coward, he is supposed to be ennobled because the blood of the Howards run in his veins. And worse again: though he has gifts of nobility beyond compare he can hardly dare to stand upright before lords and dukes because of his inferiority." "That is all going away." "Would that it could be made to go a little faster. It may be helped in its going. It may be that in these days the progress shall be accelerated. But you will let me write to Hampstead and say that you will come." She assented, and so that part of the little dinner-party was arranged. After that she herself contrived to see the Quaker one evening on his return home. "Yes," said Mr. Fay; "I have heard thy proposition from Marion. Why should the young lord desire such a one as I am to sit at his table?" "He is George's intimate friend." "That thy son should choose his friend well, I surely believe, because I see him to be a prudent and wise young man, who does not devote himself over-much to riotous amusements." George did occasionally go to a theatre, thereby offending the Quaker's judgment, justifying the "overmuch," and losing his claim to a full measure of praise. "Therefore I will not quarrel with him that he has chosen his friend from among the great ones of the earth. But like to like is a good motto. I fancy that the weary draught-horse, such as I am, should not stable himself with hunters and racers." "This young man affects the society of such as yourself and George, rather than that of others nobly born as himself." "I do not know that he shows his wisdom the more." "You should give him credit at any rate for good endeavours." "It is not for me to judge him one way or the other. Did he ask that Marion should also go to his house?" "Certainly. Why should not the child see something of the world that may amuse her?" "Little good can come to my Marion from such amusements, Mrs. Roden; but something, perhaps, of harm. Wilt thou say that such recreation must necessarily be of service to a girl born to perform the hard duties of a strict life?" "I would trust Marion in anything," said Mrs. Roden, eagerly. "So would I; so would I. She hath ever been a good girl." "But do you not distrust her if you shut her up, and are afraid to allow her even to sit at table in a strange house?" "I have never forbidden her to sit at thy table," said the Quaker. "And you should let her go specially as a kindness to me. For my son's sake I have promised to be there, and it would be a comfort to me to have another woman with me." "Then you will hardly need me," said Mr. Fay, not without a touch of jealousy. "He specially pressed his request that you would come. It is among such as you that he would wish to make himself known. Moreover, if Marion is to be there, you, I am sure, will choose to accompany her. Would you not wish to see how the child bears herself on such an occasion?" "On all occasions, at all places, at all hours, I would wish to have my child with me. There is nothing else left to me in all the world on which my eye can rest with pleasure. But I doubt whether it may be for her good." Then he took his departure, leaving the matter still undecided, speaking of it with words which seemed to imply that he must ultimately refuse, but impressing Mrs. Roden with a conviction that he would at last accept the invitation. "Doest thou wish it thyself?" he said to his daughter before retiring to rest that night. "If you will go, father, I should like it." "Why shouldst thou like it? What doest thou expect? Is it because the young man is a lord, and that there will be something of the gilded grandeur of the grand ones of the earth to be seen about his house and his table?" "It is not for that, father." "Or is it because he is young and comely, and can say soft things as such youths are wont to say, because he will smell sweetly of scents and lavender, because his hand will be soft to the touch, with rings on his fingers, and jewels perhaps on his bosom like a woman?" "No, father; it is not for that." "The delicacies which he will give thee to eat and to drink; the sweetmeats and rich food cannot be much to one nurtured as thou hast been." "Certainly not, father; they can be nothing to me. "Then why is it that thou wouldst go to his house?" "It is that I may hear you, father, speak among men." "Nay," said he, laughing, "thou mayst hear me better speak among men at King's Court in the City. There I can hold my own well enough, but with these young men over their wine, I shall have but little to say, I fancy. If thou hast nothing to gain but to hear thy old father talk, the time and money will be surely thrown away." "I would hear him talk, father." "The young lord?" "Yes; the young lord. He is bright and clever, and, coming from another world than our world, can tell me things that I do not know." "Can he tell thee aught that is good?" "From what I hear of him from our friend he will tell me, I think, naught that is bad. You will be there to hear, and to arrest his words if they be evil. But I think him to be one from whose mouth no guile or folly will be heard." "Who art thou, my child, that thou shouldst be able to judge whether words of guile are likely to come from a young man's lips?" But this he said smiling and pressing her hand while he seemed to rebuke her. "Nay, father; I do not judge. I only say that I think it might be so. They are not surely all false and wicked. But if you wish it otherwise I will not utter another syllable to urge the request." "We will go, Marion. Thy friend urged that it is not good that thou shouldst always be shut up with me alone. And, though I may distrust the young lord as not knowing him, my confidence in thee is such that I think that nothing will ever shake it." And so it was settled that they should all go. He would send to a livery stable and hire a carriage for this unusual occasion. There should be no need for the young lord to send them home. Though he did not know, as he said, much of the ways of the outside world, it was hardly the custom for the host to supply carriages as well as viands. When he dined, as he did annually, with the elder Mr. Pogson, Mr. Pogson sent him home in no carriage. He would sit at the lord's table, but he would go and come as did other men. On the Friday named the two ladies and the two men arrived at Hendon Hall in something more than good time. Hampstead hopped and skipped about as though he were delighted as a boy might have been at their coming. It may be possible that there was something of guile even in this, and that he had calculated that he might thus best create quickly that intimacy with the Quaker and his daughter which he felt to be necessary for his full enjoyment of the evening. If the Quaker himself expected much of that gilding of which he had spoken he was certainly disappointed. The garniture of Hendon Hall had always been simple, and now had assumed less even of aristocratic finery than it used to show when prepared for the use of the Marchioness. "I'm glad you've come in time," said he, "because you can get comfortably warm before dinner." Then he fluttered about round Mrs. Roden, paying her attention much rather than Marion Fay,--still with some guile, as knowing that he might thus best prepare for the coming of future good things. "I suppose you found it awfully cold," he said. "I do not know that we were awed, my lord," said the Quaker. "But the winter has certainly set in with some severity." "Oh, father!" said Marion, rebuking him. "Everything is awful now," said Hampstead, laughing. "Of course the word is absurd, but one gets in the way of using it because other people do." "Nay, my lord, I crave pardon if I seemed to criticize thy language. Being somewhat used to a sterner manner of speaking, I took the word in its stricter sense." "It is but slang from a girl's school, after all," said Roden. "Now, Master George, I am not going to bear correction from you," said Hampstead, "though I put up with it from your elders. Miss Fay, when you were at school did they talk slang?" "Where I was at school, Lord Hampstead," Marion answered, "we were kept in strict leading-strings. Fancy, father, what Miss Watson would have said if we had used any word in a sense not used in a dictionary." "Miss Watson was a sensible woman, my dear, and understood well, and performed faithfully, the duties which she had undertaken. I do not know that as much can be said of all those who keep fashionable seminaries for young ladies at the West End." "Miss Watson had a red face, and a big cap, and spectacles;--had she not?" said Hampstead, appealing to Marion Fay. "Miss Watson," said Mrs. Roden, "whom I remember to have seen once when Marion was at school with her, was a very little woman, with bright eyes, who wore her own hair, and always looked as though she had come out of a bandbox." "She was absolutely true to her ideas of life, as a Quaker should be," said Mr. Fay, "and I only hope that Marion will follow her example. As to language, it is, I think, convenient that to a certain extent our mode of speech should consort with our mode of living. You would not expect to hear from a pulpit the phrases which belong to a racecourse, nor would the expressions which are decorous, perhaps, in aristocratic drawing-rooms befit the humble parlours of clerks and artisans." "I never will say that anything is awful again," said Lord Hampstead, as he gave his arm to Mrs. Roden, and took her in to dinner. "I hope he will not be angry with father," whispered Marion Fay to George Roden, as they walked across the hall together. "Not in the least. Nothing of that kind could anger him. If your father were to cringe or to flatter him then he would be disgusted." "Father would never do that," said Marion, with confidence. The dinner went off very pleasantly, Hampstead and Roden taking between them the weight of the conversation. The Quaker was perhaps a little frightened by the asperity of his own first remark, and ate his good things almost in silence. Marion was quite contented to listen, as she had told her father was her purpose; but it was perhaps to the young lord's words that she gave attention rather than to those of his friends. His voice was pleasant to her ears. There was a certain graciousness in his words, as to which she did not suppose that their softness was specially intended for her hearing. Who does not know the way in which a man may set himself at work to gain admission into a woman's heart without addressing hardly a word to herself? And who has not noted the sympathy with which the woman has unconsciously accepted the homage? That pressing of the hand, that squeezing of the arm, that glancing of the eyes, which are common among lovers, are generally the developed consequences of former indications which have had their full effect, even though they were hardly understood, and could not have been acknowledged, at the time. But Marion did, perhaps, feel that there was something of worship even in the way in which her host looked towards her with rapid glances from minute to minute, as though to see that if not with words, at any rate with thoughts, she was taking her share in the conversation which was certainly intended for her delight. The Quaker in the mean time ate his dinner very silently. He was conscious of having shown himself somewhat of a prig about that slang phrase, and was repenting himself. Mrs. Roden every now and then would put in a word in answer rather to her son than to the host, but she was aware of those electric sparks which, from Lord Hampstead's end of the wire, were being directed every moment against Marion Fay's heart. "Now just for the fashion of the thing you must sit here for a quarter of an hour, while we are supposed to be drinking our wine." This was said by Lord Hampstead when he took the two ladies into the drawing-room after dinner. "Don't hurry yourselves," said Mrs. Roden. "Marion and I are old friends, and will get on very well." "Oh yes," said Marion. "It will be pleasure enough to me just to sit here and look around me." Then Hampstead knelt down between them, pretending to doctor up the fire, which certainly required no doctoring. They were standing, one on one side and the other on the other, looking down upon him. "You are spoiling that fire, Lord Hampstead," said Mrs. Roden. "Coals were made to be poked. I feel sure of that. Do take the poker and give them one blow. That will make you at home in the house for ever, you know." Then he handed the implement to Marion. She could hardly do other than take it in her hand. She took it, blushed up to the roots of her hair, paused a moment, and then gave the one blow to the coals that had been required of her. "Thanks," said he, nodding at her as he still knelt at her feet and took the poker from her; "thanks. Now you are free of Hendon Hall for ever. I wouldn't have any one but a friend poke my fire." Upon that he got up and walked slowly out of the room. "Oh, Mrs. Roden," said Marion, "I wish I hadn't done it." "It doesn't matter. It was only a joke." "Of course it was a joke! but I wish I hadn't done it. It seemed at the moment that I should look to be cross if I didn't do as he bade me. But when he had said that about being at home--! Oh, Mrs. Roden, I wish I had not done it." "He will know that it was nothing, my dear. He is good-humoured and playful, and likes the feeling of making us feel that we are not strangers." But Marion knew that Lord Hampstead would not take it as meaning nothing. Though she could see no more than his back as he walked out of the room, she knew that he was glowing with triumph. "Now, Mr. Fay, here is port if you like, but I recommend you to stick to the claret." "I have pretty well done all the sticking, my lord, of which I am competent," said the Quaker. "A little wine goes a long way with me, as I am not much used to it." "Wine maketh glad the heart of man," said Roden. "True enough, Mr. Roden. But I doubt whether it be good that a man's heart should be much gladdened. Gladness and sorrow counterbalance each other too surely. An even serenity is best fitted to human life, if it can be reached." "A level road without hills," said Hampstead. "They say that horses are soonest tired by such travelling." "They would hardly tell you so themselves if they could give their experience after a long day's journey." Then there was a pause, but Mr. Fay continued to speak. "My lord, I fear I misbehaved myself in reference to that word 'awful' which fell by chance from thy mouth." "Oh, dear no; nothing of the kind." "I was bethinking me that I was among the young men in our court in Great Broad Street, who will indulge sometimes in a manner of language not befitting their occupation at the time, or perhaps their station in life. I am wont then to remind them that words during business hours should be used in their strict sense. But, my lord, if you will take a farm horse from his plough you cannot expect from him that he should prance upon the green." "It is because I think that there should be more mixing between what you call plough horses and animals used simply for play, that I have been so proud to make you welcome here. I hope it may not be by many the last time that you will act as a living dictionary for me. If you won't have any more wine we will go to them in the drawing-room." Mrs. Roden very soon declared it necessary that they should start back to Holloway. Hampstead himself did not attempt to delay them. The words that had absolutely passed between him and Marion had hardly been more than those which have been here set down, but yet he felt that he had accomplished not only with satisfaction but with some glory to himself the purpose for which he had specially invited his guests. His scheme had been carried out with perfect success. After the manner in which Marion had obeyed his behest about the fire, he was sure that he was justified in regarding her as a friend. CHAPTER XXI. WHAT THEY ALL THOUGHT AS THEY WENT HOME. Lord Hampstead had come to the door to help them into the carriage. "Lord Hampstead," said Mrs. Roden, "you will catch your death of cold. It is freezing, and you have nothing on your head." "I am quite indifferent about those things," he said, as for a moment he held Marion's hand while he helped her into the carriage. "Do go in," she whispered. Her lips as she spoke were close to his ear,--but that simply came from the position in which chance had placed her. Her hand was still in his,--but that, too, was the accident of the situation. But there is, I think, an involuntary tendency among women to make more than necessary use of assistance when the person tendering it has made himself really welcome. Marion had certainly no such intention. Had the idea come to her at the moment she would have shrank from his touch. It was only when his fingers were withdrawn, when the feeling of the warmth of this proximity had passed away, that she became aware that he had been so close to her, and that now they were separated. Then her father entered the carriage, and Roden. "Good-night, my lord," said the Quaker. "I have passed my evening very pleasantly. I doubt whether I may not feel the less disposed for my day's work to-morrow." "Not at all, Mr. Fay; not at all. You will be like a giant refreshed. There is nothing like a little friendly conversation for bracing up the mind. I hope it will not be long before you come and try it again." Then the carriage was driven off, and Lord Hampstead went in to warm himself before the fire which Marion Fay had poked. He had not intended to fall in love with her. Was there ever a young man who, when he first found a girl to be pleasant to him, has intended to fall in love with her? Girls will intend to fall in love, or, more frequently perhaps, to avoid it; but men in such matters rarely have a purpose. Lord Hampstead had found her, as he thought, to be an admirable specimen of excellence in that class of mankind which his convictions and theories induced him to extol. He thought that good could be done by mixing the racers and plough-horses,--and as regarded the present experiment, Marion Fay was a plough-horse. No doubt he would not have made this special attempt had she not pleased his eye, and his ear, and his senses generally. He certainly was not a philosopher to whom in his search after wisdom an old man such as Zachary Fay could make himself as acceptable as his daughter. It may be acknowledged of him that he was susceptible to female influences. But it had not at first occurred to him that it would be a good thing to fall in love with Marion Fay. Why should he not be on friendly terms with an excellent and lovely girl without loving her? Such had been his ideas after first meeting Marion at Mrs. Roden's house. Then he had determined that friends could not become friends without seeing each other, and he had concocted his scheme without being aware of the feelings which she had excited. The scheme had been carried out; he had had his dinner-party; Marion Fay had poked his fire; there had been one little pressure of the hand as he helped her into the carriage, one little whispered word, which had it not been whispered would have been as nothing; one moment of consciousness that his lips were close to her cheek; and then he returned to the warmth of his fire, quite conscious that he was in love. What was to come of it? When he had argued both with his sister and with Roden that their marriage would be unsuitable because of their difference in social position, and had justified his opinion by declaring it to be impossible that any two persons could, by their own doing, break through the conventions of the world without ultimate damage to themselves and to others, he had silently acknowledged to himself that he also was bound by the law which he was teaching. That such conventions should gradually cease to be, would be good; but no man is strong enough to make a new law for his own governing at the spur of the moment;--and certainly no woman. The existing distances between man and man were radically bad. This was the very gist of his doctrine; but the instant abolition of such distances had been proved by many experiments to be a vain dream, and the diminution of them must be gradual and slow. That such diminution would go on till the distances should ultimately disappear in some future millennium was to him a certainty. The distances were being diminished by the increasing wisdom and philanthropy of mankind. To him, born to high rank and great wealth, it had been given to do more perhaps than another. In surrendering there is more efficacy, as there is also more grace, than in seizing. What of his grandeur he might surrender without injury to others to whom he was bound, he would surrender. Of what exact nature or kind should be the woman whom it might please him to select as his wife, he had formed no accurate idea; but he would endeavour so to marry that he would make no step down in the world that might be offensive to his family, but would yet satisfy his own convictions by drawing himself somewhat away from aristocratic blood. His father had done the same when choosing his first wife, and the happiness of his choice would have been perfect had not death interfered. Actuated by such reasoning as this, he had endeavoured in a mild way to separate his sister from her lover, thinking that they who were in love should be bound by the arguments which seemed good to him who was not in love. But now he also was in love, and the arguments as they applied to himself fell into shreds and tatters as he sat gazing at his fire, holding the poker in his hand. Had there ever been anything more graceful than the mock violence with which she had pretended to strike heartily at the coals?--had there ever anything been more lovely than that mingled glance of doubt, of fear, and of friendliness with which she had looked into his face as she did it? She had quite understood his feeling when he made his little request. There had been heart enough in her, spirit enough, intelligence enough, to tell her at once the purport of his demand. Or rather she had not seen it all at once, but had only understood when her hand had gone too far to be withdrawn that something of love as well as friendship had been intended. Before long she should know how much of love had been intended! Whether his purpose was or was not compatible with the wisdom of his theory as to a gradual diminution of distances, his heart had gone too far now for any retracting. As he sat there he at once began to teach himself that the arguments he had used were only good in reference to high-born females, and that they need not necessarily affect himself. Whomever he might marry he would raise to his own rank. For his rank he did not care a straw himself. It was of the prejudices of others he was thinking when he assured himself that Marion would make as good a Countess and as good a Marchioness as any lady in the land. In regard to his sister it was otherwise. She must follow the rank of her husband. It might be that the sores which she would cause to many by becoming the wife of a Post Office clerk ought to be avoided. But there need be no sores in regard to his marriage with Marion Fay. His present reasoning was, no doubt, bad, but such as it was it was allowed to prevail absolutely. It did not even occur to him that he would make an attempt to enfranchise himself from Marion's charms. Whatever might occur, whatever details there might be which would require his attention in regard to his father or others of the family, everything must give way to his present passion. She had poked his fire, and she must be made to sit at his hearth for the remainder of their joint existence. She must be made to sit there if he could so plead his cause that his love should prevail with her. As to the Quaker father, he thought altogether well of him too,--an industrious, useful, intelligent man, of whose quaint manners and manly bearing he would not be ashamed in any society. She, too, was a Quaker, but that to him was little or nothing. He also had his religious convictions, but they were not of a nature to be affronted or shocked by those of any one who believed that the increasing civilization of the world had come from Christ's teaching. The simple, earnest purity of the girl's faith would be an attraction to him rather than otherwise. Indeed, there was nothing in his Marion, as he saw her, that was not conducive to feminine excellence. His Marion! How many words had he spoken to her? How many thoughts had he extracted from her? How many of her daily doings had he ever witnessed? But what did it matter? It is not the girl that the man loves, but the image which imagination has built up for him to fill the outside covering which has pleased his senses. He was quite as sure that the Ten Commandments were as safe in Marion's hands as though she were already a saint, canonized for the perfection of all virtues. He was quite ready to take that for granted; and having so convinced himself, was now only anxious as to the means by which he might make this priceless pearl his own. There must be some other scheme. He sat, thinking of this, cudgelling his brains for some contrivance by which he and Marion Fay might be brought together again with the least possible delay. His idea of a dinner-party had succeeded beyond all hope. But he could not have another dinner-party next week. Nor could he bring together the guests whom he had to-day entertained after his sister's return. He was bound not to admit George Roden to his house as long as she should be with him. Without George he could hardly hope that Mrs. Roden would come to him, and without Mrs. Roden how could he entice the Quaker and his daughter? His sister would be with him on the following day, and would, no doubt, be willing to assist him with Marion if it were possible. But the giving of such assistance on her part would tacitly demand assistance also from him in her difficulties. Such assistance, he knew, he could not give, having pledged himself to his father in regard to George Roden. He could at the present moment devise no other scheme than the very simple one of going to Mrs. Roden, and declaring his love for the girl. * * * * * * The four guests in the carriage were silent throughout their drive home. They all had thoughts of their own sufficient to occupy them. George Roden told himself that this, for a long day, must be his last visit to Hendon Hall. He knew that Lady Frances would arrive on the morrow, and that then his presence was forbidden. He had refused to make any promise as to his assured absence, not caring to subject himself to an absolute bond; but he was quite aware that he was bound in honour not to enter the house in which he could not be made welcome. He felt himself to be safe, with a great security. The girl whom he loved would certainly be true. He was not impatient, as was Hampstead. He did not trouble his mind with schemes which were to be brought to bear within the next few days. He could bide his time, comforting himself with his faith. But still a lover can hardly be satisfied with the world unless he can see some point in his heaven from which light may be expected to break through the clouds. He could not see the point from which the light might be expected. The Quaker was asking himself many questions. Had he done well to take his girl to this young nobleman's house? Had he done well to take himself there? It had been as it were a sudden disruption in the settled purposes of his life. What had he or his girl to do with lords? And yet he had been pleased. Courtesy always flatters, and flattery is always pleasant. A certain sense of softness had been grateful to him. There came upon him a painful question,--as there does on so many of us, when for a time we make a successful struggle against the world's allurements,--whether in abandoning the delights of life we do in truth get any compensation for them. Would it not after all be better to do as others use? Phoebus as he touches our trembling ear encourages us but with a faint voice. It had been very pleasant,--the soft chairs, the quiet attendance, the well-cooked dinner, the good wines, the bright glasses, the white linen,--and pleasanter than all that silvery tone of conversation to which he was so little accustomed either in King's Court or Paradise Row. Marion indeed was always gentle to him as a dove cooing; but he was aware of himself that he was not gentle in return. Stern truth, expressed shortly in strong language, was the staple of his conversation at home. He had declared to himself all through his life that stern truth and strong language were better for mankind than soft phrases. But in his own parlour in Paradise Row he had rarely seen his Marion bright as she had been at this lord's table. Was it good for his Marion that she should be encouraged to such brightness; and if so, had he been cruel to her to suffuse her entire life with a colour so dark as to admit of no light? Why had her beauty shone so brightly in the lord's presence? He too knew something of love, and had it always present to his mind that the time would come when his Marion's heart would be given to some stranger. He did not think, he would not think, that the stranger had now come;--but would it be well that his girl's future should be affected even as was his own? He argued the points much within himself, and told himself that it could not be well. Mrs. Roden had read it nearly all,--though she could not quite read the simple honesty of the young lord's purpose. The symptoms of love had been plain enough to her eyes, and she had soon told herself that she had done wrong in taking the girl to the young lord's house. She had seen that Hampstead had admired Marion, but she had not dreamed that it would be carried to such a length as this. But when he had knelt on the rug between them, leaning just a little towards the girl, and had looked up into the girl's face, smiling at his own little joke, but with his face full of love;--then she had known. And when Marion had whispered the one word, with her little fingers lingering within the young lord's touch, then she had known. It was not the young lord only who had given way to the softness of the moment. If evil had been done, she had done it; and it seemed as though evil had certainly been done. If much evil had been done, how could she forgive herself? And what were Marion's thoughts? Did she feel that an evil had been done, an evil for which there could never be a cure found? She would have so assured herself, had she as yet become aware of the full power and depth and mortal nature of the wound she had received. For such a wound, for such a hurt, there is but one cure, and of that she certainly would have entertained no hope. But, as it will sometimes be that a man shall in his flesh receive a fatal injury, of which he shall for awhile think that only some bruise has pained him, some scratch annoyed him; that a little time, with ointment and a plaister, will give him back his body as sound as ever; but then after a short space it becomes known to him that a deadly gangrene is affecting his very life; so will it be with a girl's heart. She did not yet,--not yet,--tell herself that half-a-dozen gentle words, that two or three soft glances, that a touch of a hand, the mere presence of a youth whose comeliness was endearing to the eye, had mastered and subdued all that there was of Marion Fay. But it was so. Not for a moment did her mind run away, as they were taken homewards, from the object of her unconscious idolatry. Had she behaved ill?--that was her regret! He had been so gracious;--that was her joy! Then there came a pang from the wound, though it was not as yet a pang as of death. What right had such a one as she to receive even an idle word of compliment from a man such as was Lord Hampstead? What could he be to her, or she to him? He had his high mission to complete, his great duties to perform, and doubtless would find some noble lady as a fit mother for his children. He had come across her path for a moment, and she could not but remember him for ever! There was something of an idea present to her that love would now be beyond her reach. But the pain necessarily attached to such an idea had not as yet reached her. There came something of a regret that fortune had placed her so utterly beyond his notice;--but she was sure of this, sure of this, that if the chance were offered to her, she would not mar his greatness by accepting the priceless boon of his love. But why,--why had he been so tender to her? Then she thought of what were the ways of men, and of what she had heard of them. It had been bad for her to go abroad thus with her poor foolish softness, with her girl's untried tenderness,--that thus she should be affected by the first chance smile that had been thrown to her by one of those petted darlings of Fortune! And then she was brought round to that same resolution which was at the moment forming itself in her father's mind;--that it would have been better for her had she not allowed herself to be taken to Hendon Hall. Then they were in Paradise Row, and were put down at their separate doors with but few words of farewell to each other. "They have just come home," said Clara Demijohn, rushing into her mother's bedroom. "You'll find it is quite true. They have been dining with the lord!" CHAPTER XXII. AGAIN AT TRAFFORD. The meeting between Hampstead and his sister was affectionate and, upon the whole, satisfactory, though it was necessary that a few words should be spoken which could hardly be pleasant in themselves. "I had a dinner-party here last night," he said laughing, desirous of telling her something of George Roden,--and something also of Marion Fay. "Who were the guests?" "Roden was here." Then there was silence. She was glad that her lover had been one of the guests, but she was not as yet moved to say anything respecting him. "And his mother." "I am sure I shall like his mother," said Lady Frances. "I have mentioned it," continued her brother, speaking with unusual care, "because, in compliance with the agreement I made at Trafford, I cannot ask him here again at present." "I am sorry that I should be in your way, John." "You are not in my way, as I think you know. Let us say no more than that at present. Then I had a singular old Quaker, named Zachary Fay, an earnest, honest, but humble man, who blew me up instantly for talking slang." "Where did you pick him up?" "He comes out of the City," he said, not wishing to refer again to Paradise Row and the neighbourhood of the Rodens,--"and he brought his daughter." "A young lady?" "Certainly a young lady." "Ah, but young,--and beautiful?" "Young,--and beautiful." "Now you are laughing. I suppose she is some strong-minded, rather repulsive, middle-aged woman." "As to the strength of her mind, I have not seen enough to constitute myself a judge," said Hampstead, almost with a tone of offence. "Why you should imagine her to be repulsive because she is a Quaker, or why middle-aged, I do not understand. She is not repulsive to me." "Oh, John, I am so sorry! Now I know that you have found some divine beauty." "We sometimes entertain angels unawares. I thought that I had done so when she took her departure." "Are you in earnest?" "I am quite in earnest as to the angel. Now I have to consult you as to a project." It may be remembered that Hampstead had spoken to his father as to the expediency of giving up his horses if he found that his means were not sufficient to keep up Hendon Hall, his yacht, and his hunting establishment in Northamptonshire. The Marquis, without saying a word to his son, had settled that matter, and Gorse Hall, with its stables, was continued. The proposition now made to Lady Frances was that she should go down with him and remain there for a week or two till she should find the place too dull. He had intended to fix an almost immediate day; but now he was debarred from this by his determination to see Marion yet once again before he took himself altogether beyond the reach of Holloway. The plan, therefore, though it was fixed as far as his own intention went and the assent of Lady Frances, was left undefined as to time. The more he thought of Holloway, and the difficulties of approaching Paradise Row, the more convinced he became that his only mode of approaching Marion must be through Mrs. Roden. He had taken two or three days to consider what would be the most appropriate manner of going through this operation, when on a sudden he was arrested by a letter from his father, begging his presence down at Trafford. The Marquis was ill, and was anxious to see his son. The letter in which the request was made was sad and plaintive throughout. He was hardly able to write, Lord Kingsbury said, because he was so unwell; but he had no one to write for him. Mr. Greenwood had made himself so disagreeable that he could no longer employ him for such purposes. "Your stepmother is causing me much vexation, which I do not think that I deserve from her." He then added that it would be necessary for him to have his lawyer down at Trafford, but that he wished to see Hampstead first in order that they might settle as to certain arrangements which were required in regard to the disposition of the property. There were some things which Hampstead could not fail to perceive from this letter. He was sure that his father was alarmed as to his own condition, or he would not have thought of sending for the lawyer to Trafford. He had hitherto always been glad to seize an opportunity of running up to London when any matter of business had seemed to justify the journey. Then it occurred to his son that his father had rarely or ever spoken or written to him of his "stepmother." In certain moods the Marquis had been wont to call his wife either the Marchioness or Lady Kingsbury. When in good humour he had generally spoken of her to his son as "your mother." The injurious though strictly legal name now given to her was a certain index of abiding wrath. But things must have been very bad with the Marquis at Trafford when he had utterly discarded the services of Mr. Greenwood,--services to which he had been used for a time to which the memory of his son did not go back. Hampstead of course obeyed his father's injunctions, and went down to Trafford instantly, leaving his sister alone at Hendon Hall. He found the Marquis not in bed indeed, but confined to his own sitting-room, and to a very small bed-chamber which had been fitted up for him close to it. Mr. Greenwood had been anxious to give up his own rooms as being more spacious; but the offer had been peremptorily and almost indignantly refused. The Marquis had been unwilling to accept anything like a courtesy from Mr. Greenwood. Should he make up his mind to turn Mr. Greenwood out of the house,--and he had almost made up his mind to do so,--then he could do what he pleased with Mr. Greenwood's rooms. But he wasn't going to accept the loan of chambers in his own house as a favour from Mr. Greenwood. Hampstead on arriving at the house saw the Marchioness for a moment before he went to his father. "I cannot tell how he is," said Lady Kingsbury, speaking in evident dudgeon. "He will hardly let me go near him. Doctor Spicer seems to think that we need not be alarmed. He shuts himself up in those gloomy rooms down-stairs. Of course it would be better for him to be off the ground floor, where he would have more light and air. But he has become so obstinate, that I do not know how to deal with him." "He has always liked to live in the room next to Mr. Greenwood's." "He has taken an absolute hatred to Mr. Greenwood. You had better not mention the poor old gentleman's name to him. Shut up as I am here, I have no one else to speak a word to, and for that reason, I suppose, he wishes to get rid of him. He is absolutely talking of sending the man away after having had him with him for nearly thirty years." In answer to all this Hampstead said almost nothing. He knew his stepmother, and was aware that he could do no service by telling her what he might find it to be his duty to say to his father as to Mr. Greenwood, or on any other subject. He did not hate his stepmother,--as she hated him. But he regarded her as one to whom it was quite useless to speak seriously as to the affairs of the family. He knew her to be prejudiced, ignorant, and falsely proud,--but he did not suppose her to be either wicked or cruel. His father began almost instantly about Mr. Greenwood, so that it would have been quite impossible for him to follow Lady Kingsbury's advice on that matter had he been ever so well minded. "Of course I'm ill," he said; "I suffer so much from sickness and dyspepsia that I can eat nothing. Doctor Spicer seems to think that I should get better if I did not worry myself; but there are so many things to worry me. The conduct of that man is abominable." "What man, sir?" asked Hampstead,--who knew, however, very well what was coming. "That clergyman," said Lord Kingsbury, pointing in the direction of Mr. Greenwood's room. "He does not come to you, sir, unless you send for him?" "I haven't seen him for the last five days, and I don't care if I never see him again." "How has he offended you, sir?" "I gave him my express injunctions that he should not speak of your sister either to me or the Marchioness. He gave me his solemn promise, and I know very well that they are talking about her every hour of the day." "Perhaps that is not his fault." "Yes, it is. A man needn't talk to a woman unless he likes. It is downright impudence on his part. Your stepmother comes to me every day, and never leaves me without abusing Fanny." "That is why I thought it better that Fanny should come to me." "And then, when I argue with her, she always tells me what Mr. Greenwood says about it. Who cares about Mr. Greenwood? What business has Mr. Greenwood to interfere in my family? He does not know how to behave himself, and he shall go." "He has been here a great many years, sir," said Hampstead, pleading for the old man. "Too many," said the Marquis. "When you've had a man about you so long as that, he is sure to take liberties." "You must provide for him, sir, if he goes." "I have thought of that. He must have something, of course. He has had three hundred a-year for the last ten years, and has had everything found for him down to his washing and his cab fares. For five-and-twenty years he has never paid for a bed or a meal out of his own pocket. What has he done with his money? He ought to be a rich man for his degree." "What a man does with his money is, I suppose, no concern to those who pay it. It is supposed to have been earned, and there is an end of it as far as they are concerned." "He shall have a thousand pounds," said the Marquis. "That would hardly be liberal. I would think twice before I dismissed him, sir." "I have thought a dozen times." "I would let him remain," said Hampstead, "if only because he's a comfort to Lady Kingsbury. What does it matter though he does talk of Fanny? Were he to go she would talk to somebody else who might be perhaps less fit to hear her, and he would, of course, talk to everybody." "Why has he not obeyed me?" demanded the Marquis, angrily. "It is I who have employed him. I have been his patron, and now he turns against me." Thus the Marquis went on till his strength would not suffice for any further talking. Hampstead found himself quite unable to bring him to any other subject on that day. He was sore with the injury done him in that he was not allowed to be the master in his own house. On the next morning Hampstead heard from Dr. Spicer that his father was in a state of health very far from satisfactory. The doctor recommended that he should be taken away from Trafford, and at last went so far as to say that his advice extended to separating his patient from Lady Kingsbury. "It is, of course, a very disagreeable subject," said the doctor, "for a medical man to meddle with; but, my lord, the truth is that Lady Kingsbury frets him. I don't, of course, care to hear what it is, but there is something wrong." Lord Hampstead, who knew very well what it was, did not attempt to contradict him. When, however, he spoke to his father of the expediency of change of air, the Marquis told him that he would rather die at Trafford than elsewhere. That his father was really thinking of his death was only too apparent from all that was said and done. As to those matters of business, they were soon settled between them. There was, at any rate, that comfort to the poor man that there was no probability of any difference between him and his heir as to the property or as to money. Half-an-hour settled all that. Then came the time which had been arranged for Hampstead's return to his sister. But before he went there were conversations between him and Mr. Greenwood, between him and his stepmother, and between him and his father, to which, for the sake of our story, it may be as well to refer. "I think your father is ill-treating me," said Mr. Greenwood. Mr. Greenwood had allowed himself to be talked into a thorough contempt and dislike for the young lord; so that he had almost brought himself to believe in those predictions as to the young lord's death in which Lady Kingsbury was always indulging. As a consequence of this, he now spoke in a voice very different from those obsequious tones which he had before been accustomed to use when he had regarded Lord Hampstead as his young patron. "I am sure my father would never do that," said Hampstead, angrily. "It looks very like it. I have devoted all the best of my life to his service, and he now talks of dismissing me as though I were no better than a servant." "Whatever he does, he will, I am sure, have adequate cause for doing." "I have done nothing but my duty. It is out of the question that a man in my position should submit to orders as to what he is to talk about and what not. It is natural that Lady Kingsbury should come to me in her troubles." "If you will take my advice," said Lord Hampstead, in that tone of voice which always produces in the mind of the listener a determination that the special advice offered shall not be taken, "you will comply with my father's wishes while it suits you to live in his house. If you cannot do that, it would become you, I think, to leave it." In every word of this there was a rebuke; and Mr. Greenwood, who did not like being rebuked, remembered it. "Of course I am nobody in this house now," said the Marchioness in her last interview with her stepson. It is of no use to argue with an angry woman, and in answer to this Hampstead made some gentle murmur which was intended neither to assent or to dispute the proposition made to him. "Because I ventured to disapprove of Mr. Roden as a husband for your sister I have been shut up here, and not allowed to speak to any one." "Fanny has left the house, so that she may no longer cause you annoyance by her presence." "She has left the house in order that she may be near the abominable lover with whom you have furnished her." "This is not true," said Hampstead, who was moved beyond his control by the double falseness of the accusation. "Of course you can be insolent to me, and tell me that I speak falsehoods. It is part of your new creed that you should be neither respectful to a parent, nor civil to a lady." "I beg your pardon, Lady Kingsbury,"--he had never called her Lady Kingsbury before,--"if I have been disrespectful or uncivil, but your statements were very hard to bear. Fanny's engagement with Mr. Roden has not even received my sanction. Much less was it arranged or encouraged by me. She has not gone to Hendon Hall to be near Mr. Roden, with whom she had undertaken to hold no communication as long as she remains there with me. Both for my own sake and for hers I am bound to repudiate the accusation." Then he went without further adieu, leaving with her a conviction that she had been treated with the greatest contumely by her husband's rebellious heir. Nothing could be sadder than the last words which the Marquis spoke to his son. "I don't suppose, Hampstead, that we shall ever meet again in this world." "Oh, father!" "I don't think Mr. Spicer knows how bad I am." "Will you have Sir James down from London?" "No Sir James can do me any good, I fear. It is ill ministering to a mind diseased." "Why, sir, should you have a mind diseased? With few men can things be said to be more prosperous than with you. Surely this affair of Fanny's is not of such a nature as to make you feel that all things are bitter round you." "It is not that." "What then? I hope I have not been a cause of grief to you?" "No, my boy;--no. It irks me sometimes to think that I should have trained you to ideas which you have taken up too violently. But it is not that." "My mother--?" "She has set her heart against me,--against you and Fanny. I feel that a division has been made between my two families. Why should my daughter be expelled from my own house? Why should I not be able to have you here, except as an enemy in the camp? Why am I to have that man take up arms against me, whom I have fed in idleness all his life?" "I would not let him trouble my thoughts." "When you are old and weak you will find it hard to banish thoughts that trouble you. As to going, where am I to go to?" "Come to Hendon." "And leave her here with him, so that all the world shall say that I am running away from my own wife? Hendon is your house now, and this is mine;--and here I must stay till my time has come." This was very sad, not as indicating the state of his father's health, as to which he was more disposed to take the doctor's opinion than that of the patient, but as showing the infirmity of his father's mind. He had been aware of a certain weakness in his father's character,--a desire not so much for ruling as for seeming to rule all that were around him. The Marquis had wished to be thought a despot even when he had delighted in submitting himself to the stronger mind of his first wife. Now he felt the chains that were imposed upon him, so that they galled him when he could not throw them off. All this was very sad to Hampstead; but it did not make him think that his father's health had in truth been seriously affected. END OF VOL. I. * * * * * * MARION FAY. A Novel. by ANTHONY TROLLOPE, Author of "Framley Parsonage," "Orley Farm," "The Way We Live Now," etc., etc. In Three Volumes. VOL. II. London: Chapman & Hall, Limited, 11, Henrietta St. 1882 [All Rights reserved.] Bungay: Clay and Taylor, Printers. CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. I. THE IRREPRESSIBLE CROCKER. II. MRS. RODEN'S ELOQUENCE. III. MARION'S VIEWS ABOUT MARRIAGE. IV. LORD HAMPSTEAD IS IMPATIENT. V. THE QUAKER'S ELOQUENCE. VI. MARION'S OBSTINACY. VII. MRS. DEMIJOHN'S PARTY. VIII. NEW YEAR'S DAY. IX. MISS DEMIJOHN'S INGENUITY. X. KING'S COURT, OLD BROAD STREET. XI. MR. GREENWOOD BECOMES AMBITIOUS. XII. LIKE THE POOR CAT I' THE ADAGE. XIII. LADY FRANCES SEES HER LOVER. XIV. MR. GREENWOOD'S FEELINGS. XV. "THAT WOULD BE DISAGREEABLE." XVI. "I DO." XVII. AT GORSE HALL. XVIII. POOR WALKER. XIX. FALSE TIDINGS. XX. NEVER, NEVER, TO COME AGAIN. XXI. DI CRINOLA. MARION FAY. CHAPTER I. THE IRREPRESSIBLE CROCKER. Hampstead remained nearly a fortnight down at Trafford, returning to Hendon only a few days before Christmas. Crocker, the Post Office clerk, came back to his duties at the same time, but, as was the custom with him, stole a day more than belonged to him, and thus incurred the frowns of Mr. Jerningham and the heavy wrath of the great Æolus. The Æoluses of the Civil Service are necessarily much exercised in their minds by such irregularities. To them personally it matters not at all whether one or another young man may be neglectful. It may be known to such a one that a Crocker may be missed from his seat without any great injury,--possibly with no injury at all,--to the Queen's service. There are Crockers whom it would be better to pay for their absence than their presence. This Æolus thought it was so with this Crocker. Then why not dismiss Crocker, and thus save the waste of public money? But there is a necessity,--almost a necessity,--that the Crockers of the world should live. They have mothers, or perhaps even wives, with backs to be clothed and stomachs to be fed, or perhaps with hearts to be broken. There is, at any rate, a dislike to proceed to the ultimate resort of what may be called the capital punishment of the Civil Service. To threaten, to frown, to scold, to make a young man's life a burden to him, are all within the compass of an official Æolus. You would think occasionally that such a one was resolved to turn half the clerks in his office out into the streets,--so loud are the threats. In regard to individuals he often is resolved to do so at the very next fault. But when the time comes his heart misgives him. Even an Æolus is subject to mercy, and at last his conscience becomes so callous to his first imperative duty of protecting the public service, that it grows to be a settled thing with him, that though a man's life is to be made a burden to him, the man is not to be actually dismissed. But there are men to whom you cannot make their life a burden,--men upon whom no frowns, no scoldings, no threats operate at all; and men unfortunately sharp enough to perceive what is that ultimate decision to which their Æolus had been brought. Such a one was our Crocker, who cared very little for the blusterings. On this occasion he had remained away for the sake of having an additional day with the Braeside Harriers, and when he pleaded a bilious headache no one believed him for an instant. It was in vain for Æolus to tell him that a man subject to health so precarious was altogether unfitted for the Civil Service. Crocker had known beforehand exactly what was going to be said to him, and had discounted it at its exact worth. Even in the presence of Mr. Jerningham he spoke openly of the day's hunting, knowing that Mr. Jerningham would prefer his own ease to the trouble of renewed complaint. "If you would sit at your desk now that you have come back, and go on with your docketing, instead of making everybody else idle, it would be a great deal better," said Mr. Jerningham. "Then my horse took the wall in a fly, and old Amblethwaite crept over afterwards," continued Crocker, standing with his back to the fire, utterly disregarding Mr. Jerningham's admonitions. On his first entrance into the room Crocker had shaken hands with Mr. Jerningham, then with Bobbin and Geraghty, and at last he came to Roden, with whom he would willingly have struck up terms of affectionate friendship had it been possible for him to do so. He had resolved that it should be so, but when the moment came his courage a little failed him. He had made himself very offensive to Roden at their last interview, and could see at a glance that Roden remembered it. As far as his own feelings were concerned such "tiffs," as he called them, went for nothing. He had, indeed, no feelings, and was accustomed to say that he liked the system of give and take,--meaning that he liked being impudent to others, and did not care how impudent others might be to him. This toughness and insolence are as sharp as needles to others who do not possess the same gifts. Roden had learned to detest the presence of the young man, to be sore when he was even spoken to, and yet did not know how to put him down. You may have a fierce bull shut up. You may muzzle a dog that will bite. You may shoot a horse that you cannot cure of biting and tearing. But you cannot bring yourself to spend a morning in hunting a bug or killing a flea. Crocker had made himself a serious annoyance even to Lord Hampstead, though their presence together had only been for a very short time. But Roden had to pass his life at the same desk with the odious companion. Absolutely to cut him, to let it be known all through the office that they two did not speak, was to make too much of the matter. But yet it was essentially necessary for his peace that some step should be taken to save himself from the man's insolence. On the present occasion he nodded his head to Crocker, being careful not to lay the pen down from his fingers. "Ain't you going to give us your hand, old fellow?" said Crocker, putting on his best show of courage. "I don't know that I am," said Roden. "Perhaps some of these days you may learn to make yourself less disagreeable." "I'm sure I've always meant to be very friendly, especially with you," said Crocker; "but it is so hard to get what one says taken in the proper sense." After this not a word was spoken between the two all the morning. This happened on a Saturday,--Saturday, the 20th of December, on which day Hampstead was to return to his own house. Punctually at one Crocker left his desk, and with a comic bow of mock courtesy to Mr. Jerningham, stuck his hat on the side of his head, and left the office. His mind, as he took himself home to his lodgings, was full of Roden's demeanour towards him. Since he had become assured that his brother clerk was engaged to marry Lady Frances Trafford, he was quite determined to cultivate an enduring and affectionate friendship. But what steps should he take to recover the ground which he had lost? It occurred to him now that while he was in Cumberland he had established quite an intimacy with Lord Hampstead, and he thought that it would be well to use Lord Hampstead's acknowledged good-nature for recovering the ground which he had lost with his brother clerk. * * * * * * At about three o'clock that afternoon, when Lady Frances was beginning to think that the time of her brother's arrival was near at hand, the servant came into the drawing-room, and told her that a gentleman had called, and was desirous of seeing her. "What gentleman?" asked Lady Frances. "Has he sent his name?" "No, my lady; but he says,--he says that he is a clerk from the Post Office." Lady Frances was at the moment so dismayed that she did not know what answer to give. There could be but one Post Office clerk who should be anxious to see her, and she had felt from the tone of the servant's voice that he had known that it was her lover who had called. Everybody knew that the Post Office clerk was her lover. Some immediate answer was necessary. She quite understood the pledge that her brother had made on her behalf; and, though she had not herself made any actual promise, she felt that she was bound not to receive George Roden. But yet she could not bring herself to turn him away from the door, and so to let the servant suppose that she was ashamed to see him to whom she had given the promise of her hand. "You had better show the gentleman in," she said at last, with a voice that almost trembled. A moment afterwards the door was opened, and Mr. Crocker entered the room! She had endeavoured in the minute which had been allowed her to study the manner in which she should receive her lover. As she heard the approaching footsteps, she prepared herself. She had just risen from her seat, nearly risen, when the strange man appeared. It has to be acknowledged that she was grievously disappointed, although she had told herself that Roden ought not to have come to her. What woman is there will not forgive her lover for coming, even though he certainly should not have come? What woman is there will fail to receive a stranger with hard looks when a stranger shall appear to her instead of an expected lover? "Sir?" she said, standing as he walked up the room and made a low bow to her as he took his position before her. Crocker was dressed up to the eyes, and wore yellow kid gloves. "Lady Frances," he said, "I am Mr. Crocker, Mr. Samuel Crocker, of the General Post Office. You may not perhaps have heard of me from my friend, Mr. Roden?" "No, indeed, sir." "You might have done so, as we sit in the same room and at the same desk. Or you may remember meeting me at dinner at your uncle's castle in Cumberland." "Is anything,--anything the matter with Mr. Roden?" "Not in the least, my lady. I had the pleasure of leaving him in very good health about two hours since. There is nothing at all to occasion your ladyship the slightest uneasiness." A dark frown came across her brow as she heard the man talk thus freely of her interest in George Roden's condition. She no doubt had betrayed her own secret as far as there was a secret; but she was not on that account the less angry because he had forced her to do so. "Has Mr. Roden sent you as a messenger?" she asked. "No, my lady; no. That would not be at all probable. I am sure he would very much rather come with any message of his own." At this he sniggered most offensively. "I called with a hope of seeing your brother, Lord Hampstead, with whom I may take the liberty of saying that I have a slight acquaintance." "Lord Hampstead is not at home." "So the servant told me. Then it occurred to me that as I had come all the way down from London for a certain purpose, to ask a little favour from his lordship, and as I was not fortunate enough to find his lordship at home, I might ask the same from your ladyship." "There can be nothing that I can do for you, sir." "You can do it, my lady, much better than any one else in the world. You can be more powerful in this matter even than his lordship." "What can it be?" asked Lady Frances. "If your ladyship will allow me I will sit down, as the story I have to tell is somewhat particular." It was impossible to refuse him the use of a chair, and she could therefore only bow as he seated himself. "I and George Roden, my lady, have known each other intimately for these ever so many years." Again she bowed her head. "And I may say that we used to be quite pals. When two men sit at the same desk together they ought to be thick as thieves. See what a cat and dog life it is else! Don't you think so, my lady?" "I know nothing of office life. As I don't think that I can help you, perhaps you wouldn't mind--going away?" "Oh, my lady, you must hear me to the end, because you are just the person who can help me. Of course as you two are situated he would do anything you were to bid him. Now he has taken it into his head to be very huffy with me." "Indeed I can do nothing in the matter," she said, in a tone of deep distress. "If you would only just tell him that I have never meant to offend him! I am sure I don't know what it is that has come up. It may be that I said a word in joke about Lord Hampstead, only that there really could not have been anything in that. Nobody could have a more profound respect for his lordship's qualities than I have, and I may say the same for your ladyship most sincerely. I have always thought it a great feather in Roden's cap that he should be so closely connected,--more than closely, I may say,--with your noble family." What on earth was she to do with a man who would go on talking to her, making at every moment insolent allusions to the most cherished secret of her heart! "I must beg you to go away and leave me, sir," she said. "My brother will be here almost immediately." This had escaped from her with a vain idea that the man would receive it as a threat,--that he would think probably that her brother would turn him out of the house for his insolence. In this she was altogether mistaken. He had no idea that he was insolent. "Then perhaps you will allow me to wait for his lordship," he said. "Oh dear, no! He may come or he may not. You really cannot wait. You ought not to have come at all." "But for the sake of peace, my lady! One word from your fair lips--." Lady Frances could endure it no longer. She got up from her seat and walked out of the room, leaving Mr. Crocker planted in his chair. In the hall she found one of the servants, whom she told to "take that man to the front door at once." The servant did as he was bid, and Crocker was ushered out of the house without any feeling on his part that he had misbehaved himself. Crocker had hardly got beyond the grounds when Hampstead did in truth return. The first words spoken between him and his sister of course referred to their father's health. "He is unhappy rather than ill," said Hampstead. "Is it about me?" she asked. "No; not at all about you in the first instance." "What does that mean?" "It is not because of you; but from what others say about you." "Mamma?" she asked. "Yes; and Mr. Greenwood." "Does he interfere?" "I am afraid he does;--not directly with my father, but through her ladyship, who daily tells my father what the stupid old man says. Lady Kingsbury is most irrational and harassing. I have always thought her to be silly, but now I cannot keep myself from feeling that she misbehaves herself grievously. She does everything she can to add to his annoyance." "That is very bad." "It is bad. He can turn Mr. Greenwood out of the house if Mr. Greenwood becomes unbearable. But he cannot turn his wife out." "Could he not come here?" "I am afraid not,--without bringing her too. She has taken it into her stupid head that you and I are disgracing the family. As for me, she seems to think that I am actually robbing her own boys of their rights. I would do anything for them, or even for her, if I could comfort her; but she is determined to look upon us as enemies. My father says that it will worry him into his grave." "Poor papa!" "We can run away, but he can not. I became very angry when I was there, both with her ladyship and that pestilential old clergyman, and told them both pretty much what I thought. I have the comfort of knowing that I have two bitter enemies in the house." "Can they hurt you?" "Not in the least,--except in this, that they can teach those little boys to regard me as an enemy. I would fain have had my brothers left to me. Mr. Greenwood, and I must now say her ladyship also, are nothing to me." It was not till after dinner that the story was told about Crocker. "Think what I must have felt when I was told that a clerk from the Post Office wanted to see me!" "And then that brute Crocker was shown in?" asked Hampstead. "Do you really know him?" "Know him! I should rather think so. Don't you remember him at Castle Hautboy?" "Not in the least. But he told me that he had been there." "He never would leave me. He absolutely drove me out of the country because he would follow me about when we were hunting. He insulted me so grievously that I had to turn tail and run away from him. What did he want of me?" "To intercede for him with George Roden." "He is an abominable man, irrepressible, so thick-skinned that you cannot possibly get at him so as to hurt him. It is of no use telling him to keep his distance, for he does not in the least know what you mean. I do not doubt that he has left the house with a conviction that he has gained a sincere friend in you." * * * * * * It was now more than a fortnight since Marion Fay had dined at Hendon, and Hampstead felt that unless he could succeed in carrying on the attack which he had commenced, any little beginning of a friendship which he had made with the Quaker would be obliterated by the length of time. If she thought about him at all, she must think that he was very indifferent to let so long a time pass by without any struggle on his part to see her again. There had been no word of love spoken. He had been sure of that. But still there had been something of affectionate intercourse which she could not have failed to recognize. What must she think of him if he allowed that to pass away without any renewal, without an attempt at carrying it further? When she had bade him go in out of the cold there had been something in her voice which had made him feel that she was in truth anxious for him. Now more than a fortnight had gone, and there had been no renewal! "Fanny," he said, "how would it be if we were to ask those Quakers to dine here on Christmas Day?" "It would be odd, wouldn't it, as they are strangers, and dined here so lately?" "People like that do not stand on ceremony at all. I don't see why they shouldn't come. I could say that you want to make their acquaintance." "Would you ask them alone?" In that he felt that the great difficulty lay. The Fays would hardly come without Mrs. Roden, and the Rodens could not be asked. "One doesn't always ask the same people to meet each other." "It would be very odd, and I don't think they'd come," said Lady Frances, gravely. Then after a pause she went on. "I fear, John, that there is more in it than mere dinner company." "Certainly there is," he said boldly;--"much more in it." "You are not in love with the Quaker's daughter?" "I rather think I am. When I have seen her three or four times more, I shall be able to find out. You may be sure of this, that I mean to see her three or four times more, and at any rate one of the times must be before I go down to Gorse Hall." Then of course she knew the whole truth. He did, however, give up the idea as to the Christmas dinner-party, having arrived at the belief, after turning the matter over in his mind, that Zachary Fay would not bring his daughter again so soon. CHAPTER II. MRS. RODEN'S ELOQUENCE. On Sunday Hampstead was nervous and fidgety. He had at one time thought that it would be the very day for him to go to Holloway. He would be sure to find Mrs. Roden at home after church, and then, if he could carry things to the necessary length, he might also see Zachary Fay. But on consideration it appeared to him that Sunday would not suit his purpose. George Roden would be there, and would be sadly in the way. And the Quaker himself would be in the way, as it would be necessary that he should have some preliminary interview with Marion before anything could be serviceably said to her father. He was driven, therefore, to postpone his visit. Nor would Monday do, as he knew enough of the manners of Paradise Row to be aware that on Monday Mrs. Vincent would certainly be there. It would be his object, if things could be made to go pleasantly, first to see Mrs. Roden for a few minutes, and then to spend as much of the afternoon as might be possible with Marion Fay. He therefore fixed on the Tuesday for his purpose, and having telegraphed about the country for his horses, groom, and other appurtenances, he went down to Leighton on the Monday, and consoled himself with a day's hunting with the staghounds. On his return his sister spoke to him very seriously as to her own affairs. "Is not this almost silly, John, about Mr. Roden not coming here?" "Not silly at all, according to my ideas." "All the world knows that we are engaged. The very servants have heard of it. That horrid young man who came from the Post Office was aware of it." "What has all that to do with it?" "If it has been made public in that way, what can be the object of keeping us apart? Mamma no doubt told her sister, and Lady Persiflage has published it everywhere. Her daughter is going to marry a duke, and it has crowned her triumph to let it be known that I am going to marry only a Post Office clerk. I don't begrudge her that in the least. But as they have talked about it so much, they ought, at any rate, to let me have my Post Office clerk." "I have nothing to say about it one way or the other," said Hampstead. "I say nothing about it, at any rate now." "What do you mean by that, John?" "When I saw how miserable you were at Trafford I did my best to bring you away. But I could only bring you here on an express stipulation that you should not meet George Roden while you were in my house. If you can get my father's consent to your meeting him, then that part of the contract will be over." "I don't think I made any promise." "I understand it so." "I said nothing to papa on the subject,--and I do not remember that I made any promise to you. I am sure I did not." "I promised for you." To this she was silent. "Are you going to ask him to come here?" "Certainly not. But if he did come, how could I refuse to see him? I thought that he was here on Saturday, and I told Richard to admit him. I could not send him away from the door." "I do not think he will come unless he is asked," said Hampstead. Then the conversation was over. On the following day, at two o'clock, Lord Hampstead again started for Holloway. On this occasion he drove over, and left his trap and servant at the "Duchess of Edinburgh." He was so well known in the neighbourhood now as hardly to be able to hope to enter on the domains of Paradise Row without being recognized. He felt that it was hard that his motions should be watched, telling himself that it was one of the evils belonging to an hereditary nobility; but he must accept this mischief as he did others, and he walked up the street trying to look as though he didn't know that his motions were being watched first from Number Fifteen as he passed it, and then from Number Ten opposite, as he stood at Mrs. Roden's door. Mrs. Roden was at home, and received him, of course, with her most gracious smile; but her heart sank within her as she saw him, for she felt sure that he had come in pursuit of Marion Fay. "It is very kind of you to call," she said. "I had heard from George that you had gone down into the country since we had the pleasure of dining with you." "Yes; my father has been unwell, and I had to stay with him a few days or I should have been here sooner. You got home all of you quite well?" "Oh, yes." "Miss Fay did not catch cold?" "Not at all;--though I fear she is hardly strong." "She is not ill, I hope?" "Oh, no; not that. But she lives here very quietly, and I doubt whether the excitement of going out is good for her." "There was not much excitement at Hendon Hall, I think," he said, laughing. "Not for you, but for her perhaps. In appreciating our own condition we are so apt to forget what is the condition of others! To Marion Fay it was a strange event to have to dine at your house,--and strange also to receive little courtesies such as yours. It is hard for you to conceive how strongly the nature of such a girl may be effected by novelties. I have almost regretted, Lord Hampstead, that I should have consented to take her there." "Has she said anything?" "Oh, no; there was nothing for her to say. You are not to suppose that any harm has been done." "What harm could have been done?" he asked. Of what nature was the harm of which Mrs. Roden was speaking? Could it be that Marion had made any sign of altered feelings; had declared in any way her liking or disliking; had given outward testimony of thoughts which would have been pleasant to him,--or perhaps unpleasant,--had he known them? "No harm, of course," said Mrs. Roden;--"only to a nature such as hers all excitement is evil." "I cannot believe that," he said, after a pause. "Now and then in the lives of all of us there must come moments of excitement which cannot be all evil. What would Marion say if I were to tell her that I loved her?" "I hope you will not do that, my lord." "Why should you hope so? What right have you to hope so? If I do love her, is it not proper that I should tell her?" "But it would not be proper that you should love her." "There, Mrs. Roden, I take the liberty of declaring that you are altogether in the wrong, and that you speak without due consideration." "Do I, my lord?" "I think so. Why am I not to be allowed the ordinary privilege of a man,--that of declaring my passion to a woman when I meet one who seems in all things to fulfil the image of perfection which I have formed for myself,--when I see a girl that I fancy I can love?" "Ah, there is the worst! It is only a fancy." "I will not be accused in that way without defending myself. Let it be fancy or what not, I love Marion Fay, and I have come here to tell her so. If I can make any impression on her I shall come again and tell her father so. I am here now because I think that you can help me. If you will not, I shall go on without your help." "What can I do?" "Go to her with me now, at once. You say that excitement is bad for her. The excitement will be less if you will come with me to her house." Then there was a long pause in the conversation, during which Mrs. Roden was endeavouring to determine what might be her duty at this moment. She certainly did not think that it would be well that Lord Hampstead, the eldest son of the Marquis of Kingsbury, should marry Marion Fay. She was quite sure that she had all the world with her there. Were any one to know that she had assisted in arranging such a marriage, that any one would certainly condemn her. That would assuredly be the case, not only with the young lord's family, not only with others of the young lord's order, but with all the educated world of Great Britain. How could it be that such a one as Marion Fay should be a fitting wife for such a one as Lord Hampstead? Marion Fay had undoubtedly great gifts of her own. She was beautiful, intelligent, sweet-minded, and possessed of natural delicacy,--so much so that to Mrs. Roden herself she had become as dear almost as a daughter; but it was impossible that she should have either the education or the manners fit for the wife of a great English peer. Though her manners might be good and her education excellent, they were not those required for that special position. And then there was cause for other fears. Marion's mother and brothers and sisters had all died young. The girl herself had hitherto seemed to escape the scourge under which they perished. But occasionally there would rise to her cheeks a bright colour, which for the moment would cause Mrs. Roden's heart to sink within her. Occasionally there would be heard from her not a cough, but that little preparation for coughing which has become so painfully familiar to the ears of those whose fate it has been to see their beloved ones gradually fade from presumed health. She had already found herself constrained to say a word or two to the old Quaker, not telling him that she feared any coming evil, but hinting that change of air would certainly be beneficial to such a one as Marion. Acting under this impulse, he had taken her during the inclemency of the past spring to the Isle of Wight. She was minded gradually to go on with this counsel, so as if possible to induce the father to send his girl out of London for some considerable portion of the year. If this were so, how could she possibly encourage Lord Hampstead in his desire to make Marion his wife? And then, as to the girl herself, could it be for her happiness that she should be thus lifted into a strange world, a world that would be hard and ungracious to her, and in which it might be only too probable that the young lord should see her defects when it would be too late for either of them to remedy the evil that had been done? She had thought something of all this before, having recognized the possibility of such a step as this after what she had seen at Hendon Hall. She had told herself that it would be well at any rate to discourage any such idea in Marion's heart, and had spoken jokingly of the gallantry of men of rank. Marion had smiled sweetly as she had listened to her friend's words, and had at once said that such manners were at any rate pretty and becoming in one so placed as Lord Hampstead. There had been something in this to make Mrs. Roden almost fear that her words had been taken as intending too much,--that Marion had accepted them as a caution against danger. Not for worlds would she have induced the girl to think that any danger was apprehended. But now the danger had come, and it behoved Mrs. Roden if possible to prevent the evil. "Will you come across with me now?" said Hampstead, having sat silent in his chair while these thoughts were passing through the lady's mind. "I think not, my lord." "Why not, Mrs. Roden? Will it not be better than that I should go alone?" "I hope you will not go at all." "I shall go,--certainly. I consider myself bound by all laws of honesty to tell her what she has done to me. She can then judge what may be best for herself." "Do not go at any rate to-day, Lord Hampstead. Let me beg at least as much as that of you. Consider the importance of the step you will be taking." "I have thought of it," said he. "Marion is as good as gold." "I know she is." "Marion, I say, is as good as gold; but is it likely that any girl should remain untouched and undazzled by such an offer as you can make her?" "Touched I hope she may be. As for dazzled,--I do not believe in it in the least. There are eyes which no false lights can dazzle." "But if she were touched, as would no doubt be the case," said Mrs. Roden, "could it be well that you with such duties before you should marry the daughter of Zachary Fay? Listen to me a moment," she continued, as he attempted to interrupt her. "I know what you would say, and I sympathize with much of it; but it cannot be well for society that classes should be mixed together suddenly and roughly." "What roughness would there be?" he asked. "As lords and ladies are at present, as dukes are, and duchesses, and such like, there would be a roughness to them in having Marion Fay presented to them as one of themselves. Lords have married low-born girls, I know, and the wives have been contented with a position which has almost been denied to them, or only grudgingly accorded. I have known something of that, my lord, and have felt--at any rate I have seen--its bitterness. Marion Fay would fade and sink to nothing if she were subjected to such contumely. To be Marion Fay is enough for her. To be your wife, and not to be thought fit to be your wife, would not be half enough." "She shall be thought fit." "You can make her Lady Hampstead, and demand that she shall be received at Court. You can deck her with diamonds, and cause her to be seated high in honour according to your own rank. But could you induce your father's wife to smile on her?" In answer to this he was dumb. "Do you think she would be contented if your father's wife were to frown on her?" "My father's wife is not everybody." "She would necessarily be much to your wife. Take a week, my lord, or a month, and think upon it. She expects nothing from you yet, and it is still in your power to save her from unhappiness." "I would make her happy, Mrs. Roden." "Think about it;--think about it." "And I would make myself happy also. You count my feelings as being nothing in the matter." "Nothing as compared with hers. You see how plainly I deal with you. Let me say that for a time your heart will be sore;--that you do in truth love this girl so as to feel that she is necessary to your happiness. Do you not know that if she were placed beyond your reach you would recover from that sting? The duties of the world would still be open to you. Being a man, you would still have before you many years for recovery before your youth had departed from you. Of course you would find some other woman, and be happy with her. For her, if she came to shipwreck in this venture, there would be no other chance." "I would make this chance enough for her." "So you think; but if you will look abroad you will see that the perils to her happiness which I have attempted to describe are not vain. I can say no more, my lord, but can only beg that you will take some little time to think of it before you put the thing out of your own reach. If she had once accepted your love I know that you would never go back." "Never." "Therefore think again while there is time." He slowly dragged himself up from his chair, and left her almost without a word at parting. She had persuaded him--to take another week. It was not that he doubted in the least his own purpose, but he did not know how to gainsay her as to this small request. In that frame of mind which is common to young men when they do not get all that they want, angry, disappointed, and foiled, he went down-stairs, and opened the front door,--and there on the very steps he met Marion Fay. "Marion," he said, pouring all the tenderness of his heart into his voice. "My lord?" "Come in, Marion,--for one moment." Then she followed him into the little passage, and there they stood. "I had come over to ask you how you are after our little party." "I am quite well;--and you?" "I have been away with my father, or I should have come sooner." "Nay;--it was not necessary that you should trouble yourself." "It is necessary;--it is necessary; or I should be troubled very much. I am troubled." She stood there looking down on the ground as though she were biding her time, but she did not speak to him. "She would not come with me," he said, pointing up the stairs on which Mrs. Roden was now standing. "She has told me that it is bad that I should come; but I will come one day soon." He was almost beside himself with love as he was speaking. The girl was so completely after his own heart as he stood there close to her, filled with her influences, that he was unable to restrain himself. "Come up, Marion dear," said Mrs. Roden, speaking from the landing. "It is hardly fair to keep Lord Hampstead standing in the passage." "It is most unfair," said Marion. "Good day, my lord." "I will stand here till you come down to me, unless you will speak to me again. I will not be turned out while you are here. Marion, you are all the world to me. I love you with my whole, whole heart. I had come here, dear, to tell you so;--but she has delayed me. She made me promise that I would not come again for a week, as though weeks or years could change me? Say one word to me, Marion. One word shall suffice now, and then I will go. Marion, can you love me?" "Come to me, Marion, come to me," said Mrs. Roden. "Do not answer him now." "No," said Marion, looking up, and laying her hand gently on the sleeve of his coat. "I will not answer him now. It is too sudden. I must think of words to answer such a speech. Lord Hampstead, I will go to her now." "But I shall hear from you." "You shall come to me again, and I will tell you." "To-morrow?" "Nay; but give me a day or two. On Friday I will be ready with my answer." "You will give me your hand, Marion." She gave it to him, and he covered it with kisses. "Only have this in your mind, fixed as fate, that no man ever loved a woman more truly than I love you. No man was ever more determined to carry out his purpose. I am in your hands. Think if you cannot dare to trust yourself into mine." Then he left her, and went back to the "Duchess of Edinburgh," not thinking much of the eyes which might be looking at him. CHAPTER III. MARION'S VIEWS ABOUT MARRIAGE. When Lord Hampstead shut the door behind him, Marion went slowly up the stairs to Mrs. Roden, who had returned to her drawing-room. When she entered, her friend was standing near the door, with anxiety plainly written on her face,--with almost more than anxiety. She took Marion by the hand and, kissing her, led her to the sofa. "I would have stopped him if I could," she said. "Why should you have stopped him?" "Such things should be considered more." "He had made it too late for considering to be of service. I knew, I almost knew, that he would come." "You did?" "I can tell myself now that I did, though I could not say it even to myself before." There was a smile on her face as she spoke, and, though her colour was heightened, there was none of that peculiar flush which Mrs. Roden so greatly feared to see. Nor was there any special excitement in her manner. There was no look either of awe or of triumph. She seemed to take it as a matter of course, quite as much at least as any Lady Amaldina could have done, who might have been justified by her position in expecting that some young noble eldest son would fling himself at her feet. "And are you ready with your answer?" Marion turned her eyes towards her friend, but made no immediate reply. "My darling girl,--for you in truth are very dear to me,--much thought should be given to such an appeal as that before any answer is made." "I have thought." "And are you ready?" "I think so. Dear Mrs. Roden, do not look at me like that. If I do not say more to tell you immediately it is because I am not perhaps quite sure;--not sure, at any rate, of the reasons I may have to give. I will come to you to-morrow, and then I will tell you." There was room then at any rate for hope! If the girl had not quite resolved to grasp at the high destiny offered to her, it was still her friend's duty to say something that might influence her. "Marion, dear!" "Say all that you think, Mrs. Roden. Surely you know that I know that whatever may come from you will come in love. I have no mother, and to whom can I go better than to you to fill a mother's place?" "Dear Marion, it is thus I feel towards you. What I would say to you I would say to my own child. There are great differences in the ranks of men." "I have felt that." "And though I do in my honest belief think that the best and honestest of God's creatures are not always to be found among so-called nobles, yet I think that a certain great respect should be paid to those whom chance has raised to high places." "Do I not respect him?" "I hope so. But perhaps you may not show it best by loving him." "As to that, it is a matter in which one can, perhaps, hardly control oneself. If asked for love it will come from you like water from a fountain. Unless it be so, then it cannot come at all." "That surely is a dangerous doctrine for a young woman." "Young women, I think, are compassed by many dangers," said Marion; "and I know but one way of meeting them." "What way is that, dear?" "I will tell you, if I can find how to tell it, to-morrow." "There is one point, Marion, on which I feel myself bound to warn you, as I endeavoured also to warn him. To him my words seemed to have availed nothing; but you, I think, are more reasonable. Unequal marriages never make happy either the one side or the other." "I hope I may do nothing to make him unhappy." "Unhappy for a moment you must make him;--for a month, perhaps, or for a year; though it were for years, what would that be to his whole life?" "For years?" said Marion. "No, not for years. Would it be more than for days, do you think?" "I cannot tell what may be the nature of the young man's heart;--nor can you. But as to that, it cannot be your duty to take much thought. Of his lasting welfare you are bound to think." "Oh, yes; of that certainly;--of that above all things." "I mean as to this world. Of what may come afterwards to one so little known we here can hardly dare to speak,--or even to think. But a girl, when she has been asked to marry a man, is bound to think of his welfare in this life." "I cannot but think of his eternal welfare also," said Marion. "Unequal marriages are always unhappy," said Mrs. Roden, repeating her great argument. "Always?" "I fear so. Could you be happy if his great friends, his father, and his stepmother, and all those high-born lords and ladies who are connected with him,--could you be happy if they frowned on you?" "What would their frowns be to me? If he smiled I should be happy. If the world were light and bright to him, it would certainly be light and bright to me." "I thought so once, Marion. I argued with myself once just as you are arguing now." "Nay, Mrs. Roden, I am hardly arguing." "It was just so that I spoke to myself, saying that the joy which I took in a man's love would certainly be enough for my happiness. But oh, alas! I fell to the ground. I will tell you now more of myself than I have told any one for many a year, more even than I have told George. I will tell you because I know that I can trust your faith." "Yes; you can trust me," said Marion. "I also married greatly; greatly, as the world's honours are concerned. In mere rank I stood as a girl higher perhaps than you do now. But I was lifted out of my own degree, and in accepting the name which my husband gave me I assured myself that I would do honour to it, at any rate by my conduct. I did it no dishonour;--but my marriage was most unfortunate." "Was he good?" asked Marion. "He was weak. Are you sure that Lord Hampstead is strong? He was fickle-hearted. Can you be sure that Lord Hampstead will be constant amidst the charms of others whose manners will be more like his own than yours can be?" "I think he would be constant," said Marion. "Because you are ready to worship him who has condescended to step down from his high pedestal and worship you. Is it not so?" "It may be that it is so," said Marion. "Ah, yes, my child. It may be that it is so. And then, think of what may follow,--not only for him, but for you also; not only for you, but for him also. Broken hearts, crushed ambitions, hopes all dead, personal dislikes, and perhaps hatred." "Not hatred; not hatred." "I lived to be hated;--and why not another?" Then she was silent, and Marion rising from her seat kissed her, and went away to her home. She had very much to think of. Though she had declared that she had almost expected this offer from her lover, still it could not be that the Quaker girl, the daughter of Zachary Fay, Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird's clerk, should not be astounded by having such an offer from such a suitor as Lord Hampstead. But in truth the glory of the thing was not very much to her. It was something, no doubt. It must be something to a girl to find that her own personal charms have sufficed to lure down from his lofty perch the topmost bird of them all. That Marion was open to some such weakness may be acknowledged of her. But of the coronet, of the diamonds, of the lofty title, and high seats, of the castle, and the parks, and well-arranged equipages, of the rich dresses, of the obsequious servants, and fawning world that would be gathered around her, it may be said that she thought not at all. She had in her short life seen one man who had pleased her ear and her eye, and had touched her heart; and that one man had instantly declared himself to be all her own. That made her bosom glow with some feeling of triumph! That same evening she abruptly told the whole story to her father. "Father," she said, "Lord Hampstead was here to-day." "Here, in this house?" "Not in this house. But I met him at our friend's, whom I went to see, as is my custom almost daily." "I am glad he came not here," said the Quaker. "Why should you be glad?" To this the Quaker made no answer. "His purpose was to have come here. It was to see me that he came." "To see thee?" "Father, the young lord has asked me to be his wife." "Asked thee to be his wife!" "Yes, indeed. Have you not often heard that young men may be infatuated? It has chanced that I have been the Cinderella for his eyes." "But thou art no princess, child." "And, therefore, am unfit to mate with this prince. I could not answer him at once, father. It was too sudden for me to find the words. And the place was hardly fitting. But I have found them now." "What words, my child?" "I will tell him with all respect and deference,--nay, I will tell him with some love, for I do love him,--that it will become him to look for his wife elsewhere." "Marion," said the Quaker, who was somewhat moved by those things which had altogether failed with the girl herself; "Marion, must it be so?" "Father, it must certainly be so." "And yet thou lovest him?" "Though I were dying for his love it must be so." "Why, my child, why? As far as I saw the young man he is good and gracious, of great promise, and like to be true-hearted." "Good, and gracious, and true-hearted! Oh, yes! And would you have it that I should bring such a one as that to sorrow,--perhaps to disgrace?" "Why to sorrow? Why to disgrace? Wouldst thou be more likely to disgrace a husband than one of those painted Jezebels who know no worship but that of their faded beauty? Thou hast not answered him, Marion?" "No, father. He is to come on Friday for my answer." "Think of it yet again, my child. Three days are no time for considering a matter of such moment. Bid him leave you for ten days further." "I am ready now," said Marion. "And yet thou lovest him! That is not true to nature, Marion. I would not bid thee take a man's hand because he is rich and great if thou couldst not give him thy heart in return. I would not have thee break any law of God or man for the glitter of gold or tinsel of rank. But the good things of this world, if they be come by honestly, are good. And the love of an honest man, if thou lovest him thyself in return, is not of the less worth because he stands high in wealth and in honour." "Shall I think nothing of him, father?" "Yea, verily; it will be thy duty to think of him, almost exclusively of him,--when thou shalt be his wife." "Then, father, shall I never think of him." "Wilt thou pay no heed to my words, so as to crave from him further time for thought?" "Not a moment. Father, you must not be angry with your child for this. My own feelings tell me true. My own heart, and my own heart alone, can dictate to me what I shall say to him. There are reasons--" "What reasons?" "There are reasons why my mother's daughter should not marry this man." Then there came a cloud across his brow, and he looked at her as though almost overcome by his anger. It seemed as though he strove to speak; but he sat for a while in silence. Then rising from his chair he left the room, and did not see her again that night. This was on a Tuesday; on the Wednesday he did not speak to her on the subject. The Thursday was Christmas Day, and she went to church with Mrs. Roden. Nor did he on that day allude to the matter; but on the evening she made to him a little request. "To-morrow, father, is a holiday, is it not, in the City?" "So they tell me. I hate such tom-fooleries. When I was young a man might be allowed to earn his bread on all lawful days of the week. Now he is expected to spend the wages he cannot earn in drinking and shows." "Father, you must leave me here alone after our dinner. He will come for his answer." "And you will give it?" "Certainly, father, certainly. Do not question me further, for it must be as I told you." Then he left her as he had done before; but he did not urge her with any repetition of his request. This was what occurred between Marion and her father; but on the Wednesday she had gone to Mrs. Roden as she had promised, and there explained her purpose more fully than she had before been able to do. "I have come, you see," she said, smiling. "I might have told you all at once, for I have changed nothing of my mind since first he spoke to me all so suddenly in the passage down-stairs." "Are you so sure of yourself?" "Quite sure;--quite sure. Do you think I would hurt him?" "No, no. You would not, I know, do so willingly." "And yet I must hurt him a little. I hope it will hurt him just a little." Mrs. Roden stared at her. "Oh, if I could make him understand it all! If I could bid him be a man, so that it should wound him only for a short time." "What wound!" "Did you think that I could take him, I, the daughter of a City clerk, to go and sit in his halls, and shame him before all the world, because he had thought fit to make me his wife? Never!" "Marion, Marion!" "Because he has made a mistake which has honoured me, shall I mistake also, so as to dishonour him? Because he has not seen the distance, shall I be blind to it? He would have given himself up for me. Shall I not be able to make a sacrifice? To such a one as I am to sacrifice myself is all that I can do in the world." "Is it such a sacrifice?" "Could it be that I should not love him? When such a one comes, casting his pearls about, throwing sweet odours through the air, whispering words which are soft-sounding as music in the heavens, whispering them to me, casting them at me, turning on me the laughing glances of his young eyes, how could I help to love him? Do you remember when for a moment he knelt almost at my feet, and told me that I was his friend, and spoke to me of his hearth? Did you think that that did not move me?" "So soon, my child;--so soon?" "In a moment. Is it not so that it is done always?" "Hearts are harder than that, Marion." "Mine, I think, was so soft just then that the half of his sweet things would have ravished it from my bosom. But I feel for myself that there are two parts in me. Though the one can melt away, and pass altogether from my control, can gush like water that runs out and cannot be checked, the other has something in it of hard substance which can stand against blows, even from him." "What is that something, Marion?" "Nay, I cannot name it. I think it be another heart, of finer substance, or it may be it is woman's pride, which will suffer all things rather than hurt the one it loves. I know myself. No words from him,--no desire to see his joy, as he would be joyful, if I told him that I could give him all he asks,--no longing for all his love could do for me, shall move me one tittle. He shall tell himself to his dying day that the Quaker girl, because she loved him, was true to his interests." "My child;--my child!" said Mrs. Roden, taking Marion in her arms. "Do you think that I do not know,--that I have forgotten? Was it nothing to me to see my--mother die, and her little ones? Do I not know that I am not, as others are, free to wed, not a lord like that, but even one of my own standing? Mrs. Roden, if I can live till my poor father shall have gone before me, so that he may not be left alone when the weakness of age shall have come upon him,--then,--then I shall be satisfied to follow them. No dream of loving had ever crossed my mind. He has come, and without my mind, the dream has been dreamed. I think that my lot will be happier so, than if I had passed away without any feeling such as that I have now. Perhaps he will not marry till I am gone." "Would that hurt you so sorely?" "It ought not. It shall not. It will be well that he should marry, and I will not wish to cause him evil. He will have gone away, and I shall hardly know of it. Perhaps they will not tell me." Mrs. Roden could only embrace her, sobbing, wiping her eyes with piteousness. "But I will not begrudge aught of the sacrifice," she continued. "There is nothing, I think, sweeter than to deny oneself all things for love. What are our lessons for but to teach us that? Shall I not do unto him as it would be well for me that some such girl should do for my sake if I were such as he?" "Oh, Marion, you have got the better part." "And yet,--and yet--. I would that he should feel a little because he cannot have the toy that has pleased his eye. What was it that he saw in me, do you think?" As she asked the question she cheered up wonderfully. "The beauty of your brow and eyes,--the softness of your woman's voice." "Nay, but I think it was my Quaker dress. His eye, perhaps, likes things all of a colour. I had, too, new gloves and a new frock when he saw me. How well I remember his coming,--how he would glance round at me till I hardly knew whether I was glad that he should observe me so much,--or offended at his persistence. I think that I was glad, though I told myself that he should not have glanced at me so often. And then, when he asked us to go down to his house I did long,--I did long,--to win father's consent to the journey. Had he not gone--" "Do not think of it, Marion." "That I will not promise;--but I will not talk of it. Now, dear Mrs. Roden, let all then be as though it had never been. I do not mean to mope, or to neglect my work, because a young lord has crossed my path and told me that he loves me. I must send him from me, and then I will be just as I have been always." Having made this promise she went away, leaving Mrs. Roden much more flurried by the interview than was she herself. When the Friday came, holiday as it was, the Quaker took himself off to the City after dinner, without another word as to his daughter's lover. CHAPTER IV. LORD HAMPSTEAD IS IMPATIENT. Hampstead, when he was sent away from Paradise Row, and bade to wait till Friday for an answer, was disappointed, almost cross, and unreasonable in his feelings towards Mrs. Roden. To Mrs. Roden altogether he attributed it that Marion had deferred her reply. Whether the delay thus enjoined told well or ill for his hopes he could not bring himself to determine. As he drove himself home his mind was swayed now in one direction and now in the other. Unless she loved him somewhat, unless she thought it possible that she should love him, she would hardly have asked for time to think of it all. And yet, had she really have loved him, why should she have asked for time? He had done for her all that a man could do for a girl, and if she loved him she should not have tormented him by foolish delays,--by coying her love! It should be said on his behalf that he attributed to himself no preponderance of excellence, either on the score of his money or his rank. He was able so to honour the girl as to think of her that such things would go for nothing with her. It was not that he had put his coronet at her feet, but his heart. It was of that he thought when he reminded himself of all that he had done for her, and told himself angrily that she should not have tormented him. He was as arrogant and impatient of disappointment as any young lord of them all,--but it was not, however, because he was a lord that he thought that Marion's heart was due to him. "I have been over to Holloway," he said to his sister, almost as soon as he had returned. Out of the full heart the mouth speaks. "Have you seen George?" asked Lady Frances. "No; I did not go to see him. He, of course, would be at his office during the day. I went about my own business." "You need not be so savage with me, John. What was your own business at Holloway?" "I went to ask Marion Fay to be my wife." "You did?" "Yes; I did. Why should I not? It seems the fashion for us all now to marry just those we fancy best." "And why not? Have I gainsaid you? If this Quaker's daughter be good and honest, and fair to look at--" "That she is fair to look at I can say certainly. That she is good I believe thoroughly. That she is honest, at any rate to me, I cannot say as yet." "Not honest?" "She will not steal or pick a pocket, if you mean that." "What is it, John? Why do you speak of her in this way?" "Because I have chosen to tell you. Having made up my mind to do this thing, I would not keep it secret as though I were ashamed of it. How can I say that she is honest till she has answered me honestly?" "What answer has she made you?" she asked. "None;--as yet! She has told me to come again another day." "I like her better for that." "Why should you like her better? Just because you're a woman, and think that shilly-shallying and pretending not to know your own mind, and keeping a fellow in suspense, is becoming. I am not going to change my mind about Marion; but I do think that mock hesitation is unnecessary, and in some degree dishonest." "Must it necessarily be mock hesitation? Ought she not to be sure of herself that she can love you?" "Certainly; or that she should not love me. I am not such a puppy as to suppose that she is to throw herself into my arms just because I ask her. But I think that she must have known something of herself so as to have been able to tell me either to hope or not to hope. She was as calm as a Minister in the House of Commons answering a question; and she told me to wait till Friday just as those fellows do when they have to find out from the clerks in the office what it is they ought to say." "You will go again on Friday?" she asked. "Of course I must. It is not likely that she should come to me. And then if she says that she'd rather not, I must come home once more with my tail between my legs." "I do not think she will say that." "How can you tell?" "It is the nature of a girl, I think," said Lady Frances, "to doubt a little when she thinks that she can love, but not to doubt at all when she feels that she cannot. She may be persuaded afterwards to change her mind, but at first she is certain enough." "I call that shilly-shally." "Not at all. The girl I'm speaking of is honest throughout. And Miss Fay will have been honest should she accept you now. It is not often that such a one as you, John, can ask a girl in vain." "That is mean," he said, angrily. "That is imputing falseness, and greed, and dishonour to the girl I love. If she has liked some fellow clerk in her father's office better than she likes me, shall she accept me merely because I am my father's son?" "It was not that of which I was thinking. A man may have personal gifts which will certainly prevail with a girl young and unsullied by the world, as I suppose is your Marion Fay." "Bosh," he said, laughing. "As far as personal gifts are concerned, one fellow is pretty nearly the same as another. A girl has to be good-looking. A man has got to have something to buy bread and cheese with. After that it is all a mere matter of liking and disliking--unless, indeed, people are dishonest, which they very often are." Up to this period of his life Lord Hampstead had never met any girl whom he had thought it desirable to make his wife. It was now two years since the present Marchioness had endeavoured to arrange an alliance between him and her own niece, Lady Amaldina Hauteville. This, though but two years had passed since, seemed to him to have occurred at a distant period of his life. Very much had occurred to him during those two years. His political creed had been strengthened by the convictions of others, especially by those of George Roden, till it had included those advanced opinions which have been described. He had annoyed, and then dismayed, his father by his continued refusal to go into Parliament. He had taken to himself ways of living of his own, which gave to him the manners and appearance of more advanced age. At that period, two years since, his stepmother still conceived high hopes of him, even though he would occasionally utter in her presence opinions which seemed to be terrible. He was then not of age, and there would be time enough for a woman of her tact and intellect to cure all those follies. The best way of curing them, she thought, would be by arranging a marriage between the heir to the Marquisate and the daughter of so distinguished a conservative Peer as her brother-in-law, Lord Persiflage. Having this high object in view, she opened the matter with diplomatic caution to her sister. Lady Persiflage had at that moment begun to regard Lord Llwddythlw as a possible son-in-law, but was alive to the fact that Lord Hampstead possessed some superior advantages. It was possible that her girl should really love such a one as Lord Hampstead,--hardly possible that there should be anything romantic in a marriage with the heir of the Duke of Merioneth. As far as wealth and rank went there was enough in both competitors. She whispered therefore to her girl the name of the younger aspirant,--aspirant as he might be hoped to be,--and the girl was not opposed to the idea. Only let there be no falling to the ground between two stools; no starving for want of fodder between two bundles of hay! Lord Llwddythlw had already begun to give symptoms. No doubt he was bald; no doubt he was pre-occupied with Parliament and the county. There was no doubt that his wife would have to encounter that touch of ridicule which a young girl incurs when she marries a man altogether removed beyond the world of romance. But dukes are scarce, and the man of business was known to be a man of high honour. There would be no gambling, no difficulties, no possible question of a want of money. And then his politics were the grandest known in England,--those of an old Tory willing always to work for his party without desiring any of those rewards which the "party" wishes to divide among as select a number as possible. What Lord Hampstead might turn out to be, there was as yet no knowing. He had already declared himself to be a Radical. He was fond of hunting, and it was quite on the cards that he should take to Newmarket. Then, too, his father might live for five-and-twenty years, whereas the Duke of Merioneth was already nearly eighty. But Hampstead was as beautiful as a young Phoebus, and the pair would instantly become famous if only from their good looks alone. The chance was given to Lady Amaldina, but only given on the understanding that she must make very quick work of her time. Hampstead was coaxed down to Castle Hautboy for a month in September, with an idea that the young lovers might be as romantic as they pleased among the Lakes. Some little romance there was; but at the end of the first week Amaldina wisely told her mother that the thing wouldn't do. She would always be glad to regard Lord Hampstead as a cousin, but as to anything else, there must be an end of it. "I shall some day give up my title and abandon the property to Freddy. I shall then go to the United States, and do the best I can there to earn my own bread." This little speech, made by the proposed lover to the girl he was expected to marry, opened Lady Amaldina's eyes to the danger of her situation. Lord Llwddythlw was induced to spend two days in the following month at Castle Hautboy, and then the arrangements for the Welsh alliance were completed. From that time forth a feeling of ill-will on the part of Lady Kingsbury towards her stepson had grown and become strong from month to month. She had not at first conceived any idea that her Lord Frederic ought to come to the throne. That had come gradually when she perceived, or thought that she perceived, that Hampstead would hardly make a marriage properly aristocratic. Hitherto no tidings of any proposed marriage had reached her ears. She lived at last in daily fear, as any marriage would be the almost sure forerunner of a little Lord Highgate. If something might happen,--something which she had taught herself to regard as beneficent and fitting rather than fatal,--something which might ensure to her little Lord Frederic those prospects which he had almost a right to expect, then in spite of all her sufferings Heaven would have done something for her for which she might be thankful. "What will her ladyship say when she hears of my maid Marion?" said Hampstead to his sister on the Christmas Day before his further visit to Holloway. "Will it matter much?" asked Lady Frances. "I think my feelings towards her are softer than yours. She is silly, arrogant, harsh, and insolent to my father, and altogether unprincipled in her expectations and ambitions." "What a character you give her," said his sister. "But nevertheless I feel for her to such an extent that I almost think I ought to abolish myself." "I cannot say that I feel for her." "It is all for her son that she wants it; and I agree with her in thinking that Freddy will be better fitted than I am for the position in question. I am determined to marry Marion if I can get her; but all the Traffords, unless it be yourself, will be broken-hearted at such a marriage. If once I have a son of my own the matter will be hopeless. If I were to call myself Snooks, and refused to take a shilling from the property, I should do them no good. Marion's boy would be just as much in their way as I am." "What a way of looking at it." "How my stepmother will hate her! A Quaker's daughter! A clerk at Pogson and Littlebird's! Living at Paradise Row! Can't you see her! Is it not hard upon her that we should both go to Paradise Row?" Lady Frances could not keep herself from laughing. "You can't do her any permanent injury, because you are only a girl; but I think she will poison me. It will end in her getting Mr. Greenwood to give me some broth." "John, you are too terrible." "If I could be on the jury afterwards, I would certainly acquit them both on the ground of extreme provocation." Early on the following morning he was in a fidget, having fixed no hour for his visit to Holloway. It was not likely that she should be out or engaged, but he determined not to go till after lunch. All employment was out of the question, and he was rather a trouble to his sister; but in the course of the morning there came a letter which did for a while occupy his thoughts. The envelope was addressed in a hand he did not know, and was absurdly addressed to the "RIGHT HONOURABLE, THE LORD HAMPSTEAD." "I wonder who this ass is," said he, tearing it open. The ass was Samuel Crocker, and the letter was as follows;-- Heathcote Street, Mecklenburg Square, Christmas Day, 18--. MY DEAR LORD HAMPSTEAD, I hope I may be excused for addressing your lordship in this familiar manner. I take occasion of this happy day to write to your lordship on a message of peace. Since I had the honour of meeting you at your noble uncle's mansion, Castle Hautboy, I have considered it one of the greatest delights of my life to be able to boast of your acquaintance. You will not, I am sure, forget that we have been fellow sportsmen, and that we rode together on that celebrated run when we killed our fox in the field just over Airey Force. I shall never forget the occasion, or how well your lordship went over our rough country. To my mind there is no bond of union so strong as that of sport. "Up strikes little Davy with his musical horn." I am sure you will remember that, my lord, and the beautiful song to which it belongs. I remember, too, how, as we were riding home after the run, your lordship was talking all the way about our mutual friend, George Roden. He is a man for whom I have a most sincere regard, both as being an excellent public servant, and as a friend of your lordship's. It is quite a pleasure to see the way in which he devotes himself to the service,--as I do also. When you have taken the Queen's shilling you ought to earn it. Those are my principles, my lord. We have a couple of young fellows there whose only object it is to get through the day and eat their lunches. I always tell them that official hours ain't their own. I suppose they'll understand me some day. But as I was saying to your lordship about George Roden, there has something come up which I don't quite understand, which seems to have turned him against me. Nothing has ever given me so much pleasure as when I heard of his prospects as to a certain matter--which your lordship will know what I mean. Nothing could be more flattering than the way I've wished him joy ever so many times. So I do also your lordship and her ladyship, because he is a most respectable young man, though his station in life isn't so high as some people's. But a clerk in H. M. S. has always been taken for a gentleman which I am proud to think is my position as well as his. But, as I was saying to your lordship, something seems to have gone against him as to our mutual friendship. He sits there opposite and won't speak a word to me, except just to answer a question, and that hardly civil. He is as sweet as sugar to those fellows who ain't at the same desk with him as I am,--or I should think it was his future prospects were making him upsetting. Couldn't your lordship do something to make things up between us again,--especially on this festive occasion? I'm sure your lordship will remember how pleasant we were together at Castle Hautboy, and at the hunt, and especially as we were riding home together on that day. I did take the liberty of calling at Hendon Hall, when her ladyship was kind enough to see me. Of course there was a delicacy in speaking to her ladyship about Mr. Roden, which nobody could understand better than I do; but I think she made me something of a promise that she would say a word when a proper time might come. It could only have been a joke of mine; and I do joke sometimes, as your lordship may have observed. But I shouldn't think Roden would be the man to be mortally offended by anything of that sort. Anyway, I will leave the matter in your lordship's hands, merely remarking that,--as your lordship may remember,--"Blessed are the peace-makers, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven." I have the honour to be, My dear Lord Hampstead, Your lordship's most obedient, Very humble servant, SAMUEL CROCKER. Fretful and impatient as he was on that morning, it was impossible for Hampstead not to laugh at this letter. He showed it to his sister, who, in spite of her annoyance, was constrained to laugh also. "I shall tell George to take him to his bosom at once," said he. "Why should George be bothered with him?" "Because George can't help himself. They sit at the same desk together, as Crocker has not forgotten to tell me a dozen times. When a man perseveres in this way, and is thick-skinned enough to bear all rebuffs, there is nothing he will not accomplish. I have no doubt he will be riding my horses in Leicestershire before the season is over." An answer, however, was written to him in the following words;-- DEAR MR. CROCKER, I am afraid I cannot interfere with Mr. Roden, who doesn't like to be dictated to in such matters. Yours truly, HAMPSTEAD. "There," said he; "I do not think he can take that letter as a mark of friendship." In this way the morning was passed till the time came for the start to Holloway. Lady Frances, standing at the hall door as he got into his trap, saw that the fashion of his face was unusually serious. CHAPTER V. THE QUAKER'S ELOQUENCE. When the Friday morning came in Paradise Row both father and daughter, at No. 17, were full of thought as they came down to breakfast. To each of them it was a day laden with importance. The father's mind had been full of the matter ever since the news had been told to him. He had received Marion's positive assurance that such a marriage was altogether impossible with something of impatience till she had used that argument as to her own health, which was so powerful with her. On hearing that he had said nothing, but had gone away. Nor had he spoken a word on the subject since. But his mind had been full of it. He had lost his wife,--and all his little ones, as she had said; but he had declared to himself with strong confidence that this child was to be spared to him. He was a man whose confidence was unbounded in things as to which he had resolved. It was as though he had determined, in spite of Fate, in spite of God, that his Marion should live. And she had grown up under his eyes, if not robust, by no means a weak creature. She did her work about the house, and never complained. In his eyes she was very beautiful; but he saw nothing in her colour which was not to him a sign of health. He told himself that it was nothing that she, having seen so many die in her own family, should condemn herself; but for himself he repudiated the idea, and declared to himself that she should not become an early victim. So thinking, he exercised his mind constantly during those few days in considering whether there was any adequate cause for the refusal which Marion had determined to give this man. He, in truth, was terribly anxious that this grand stroke of fortune should be acknowledged and accepted. He wanted nothing from the young lord himself,--except, perhaps, that he might be the young lord's father-in-law. But he did want it all, long for it all, pant for it all, on behalf of his girl. If all these good things came in his girl's way because of her beauty, her grace, and her merit, why should they not be accepted? Others not only accepted these things for their daughters, but hunted for them, cheated for them, did all mean things in searching for them,--and had their tricks and their lies regarded by the world quite as a matter of course,--because it was natural that parents should be anxious for their children. He had not hunted. He had not cheated. The thing had come in his girl's way. The man had found her to be the most lovely, the most attractive, the most loveable among all whom he had seen. And was this glory to be thrown away because she had filled her mind with false fears? Though she were to die, must not the man take his chance with her, as do other husbands in marrying other wives? He had been thinking of this, and of nothing but this, during the days which had intervened since Lord Hampstead had been in Paradise Row. He had not said a word to his daughter,--had indeed not dared to say a word to her, so abhorrent to him was the idea of discussing with her the probabilities of her own living or dying. And he was doubtful, too, whether any words coming from him at the present might not strengthen her in her resolution. If the man really loved her he might prevail. His words would be stronger to overcome her than any that could be spoken by her father. And then, too, if he really loved her, the one repulse would not send him back for ever. It might, perhaps, be better that any arguments from her father should be postponed till she should have heard her lover's arguments. But his mind was so filled with the whole matter that he could not bring himself to assure himself certainly that his decision was the best. Though he was one who rarely needed counsel from others, on this occasion he did need it, and now it was his purpose to ask counsel of Mrs. Roden before the moment should have come which might be fatal to his hopes. As this was the day immediately following Christmas, there was no business for him in the City. In order that the weary holiday might be quicker consumed, they breakfasted at No. 17 an hour later than was usual. After breakfast he got through the morning as well as he could with his newspaper, and some record of stocks and prices which he had brought with him from the City. So he remained, fretful, doing nothing, pretending to read, but with his mind fixed upon the one subject, till it was twelve o'clock, at which hour he had determined to make his visit. At half-past one they were to dine, each of them having calculated, without, however, a word having been spoken, that Lord Hampstead would certainly not come till the ceremony of dinner would be over. Though the matter was so vitally important to both of them, not a word concerning it was spoken. At twelve o'clock he took up his hat, and walked out. "You will be back punctually for dinner, father?" she asked. He made his promise simply by nodding his head, and then left the room. Five minutes afterwards he was closeted with Mrs. Roden in her drawing-room. Having conceived the difficulty of leading up to the subject gradually, he broke into it at once. "Marion has told thee that this young man will be here to-day?" She simply assented. "Hast thou advised her as to what she should say?" "She has not seemed to want advice." "How should a girl not want advice in so great a matter?" "How, indeed? But yet she has needed none." "Has she told thee," he asked, "what it is in her mind to do?" "I think so." "Has she said that she would refuse the man?" "Yes; that certainly was her purpose." "And given the reasons?" he said, almost trembling as he asked the question. "Yes, she gave her reasons." "And didst thou agree with her?" Before she could reply to this Mrs. Roden felt herself compelled to pause. When she thought of that one strongest reason, fully as she agreed with it, she was unable to tell the father of the girl that she did so. She sat looking at him, wanting words with which she might express her full concurrence with Marion without plunging a dagger into the other's heart. "Then thou didst agree with her?" There was something terrible in the intensity and slowness of the words as he repeated the question. "On the whole I did," she said. "I think that unequal marriages are rarely happy." "That was all?" he asked. Then when she was again silent, he made the demand which was so important to him. "Did she say aught of her health in discussing all this with thee?" "She did, Mr. Fay." "And thou?" "It was a subject, my friend, on which I could not speak to her. All that was said came from her. Her mind was so fully made up, as I have said before, no advice from me could avail anything. With some people it is easy to see that whether you agree with them or differ from them it is impossible to turn them." "But to me thou canst say whether thou hast agreed with her. Yes; I know well that the subject is one difficult to talk of in a father's hearing. But there are things which should be talked of, though the heart should break." After another pause he continued; "Is there, thinkest thou, sufficient cause in the girl's health to bid her sever herself from these delights of life and customary habits which the Lord has intended for His creatures?" At every separate question he paused, but when she was silent he went on with other questions. "Is there that in her looks, is there that in her present condition of life, which make it needful for thee, her friend, or for me, her father, to treat her as though she were already condemned by the hand of the Lord to an early grave?" Then, again, looking almost fiercely into her face, he went on with his examination, "That is what thou art doing." "Not I;--not I." "Yes, thou, my friend; thou, with all thy woman's softness in thy heart! It is what I shall do, unless I bring myself to tell her that her fears are vain. To me she has said that that is her reason. It is not that she cannot love the man. Has she not said as much to thee?" "Yes; truly." "And art thou not assenting to it unless thou tell'st her that her fancies are not only vain, but wrong? Though thou hast not spoken the word, has not thy silence assented as fully as words could do? Answer me at any rate to that." "It is so," she said. "Is it then necessary to condemn her? Art thou justified in thine own thoughts in bidding her regard herself as one doomed?" Again there was a pause. What was she to say? "Thou art aware that in our poor household she does all that the strictest economy would demand from an active mother of a family? She is never idle. If she suffers I do not see it. She takes her food, if not with strong appetite, yet regularly. She is upright, and walks with no languor. No doctor comes near her. If like others she requires change of air and scene, what can give her such chance as this marriage? Hast thou not heard that for girls of feeble health marriage itself will strengthen them? Is she such that thou as her friend must bid her know that she must perish like a blighted flower? Must I bid her to hem and stitch her own winding-sheet? It comes to that if no word be said to her to turn her from this belief. She has seen them all die,--one after another,--one after another, till the idea of death, of death for herself as well as for them, has gotten hold of her. And yet it will be the case that one in a family shall escape. I have asked among those who know, and I have found that it is so. The Lord does not strike them all, always. But if she thinks that she is stricken then she will fall. If she goes forth to meet Death on the path, Death will come half way to encounter her. Dost thou believe of me that it is because the man is a noble lord that I desire this marriage?" "Oh no, Mr. Fay." "He will take my child away from me. She will then be but little to me. What want I with lords, who for the few days of active life that are left to me would not change my City stool for any seat that any lord can give me? But I shall know that she has had her chance in the world, and has not been unnecessarily doomed--to an early grave!" "What would you have me do?" "Go to her, and tell her that she should look forward, with trust in God, to such a state of health as He may vouchsafe to give her. Her thoughts are mostly with her God. Bid her not shorten His mercies. Bid her not to tell herself that she can examine His purposes. Bid her do in this as her nature bids her, and, if she can love this man, give herself into his arms and leave the rest to the Lord." "But he will be there at once." "If he be there, what harm? Thou canst go when he comes to the door. I shall go to her now, and we shall dine together, and then at once I will leave her. When you see me pass the window then thou canst take thine occasion." So saying, without waiting for a promise, he left her and went back to his own house. And Marion's heart had been full of many thoughts that morning,--some of them so trifling in their object, that she herself would wonder at herself because that they should occupy her. How should she be dressed to receive her lover? In what words first should she speak to him,--and in what sort? Should she let any sign of love escape from her? Her resolution as to her great purpose was so fixed that there was no need for further thought on that matter. It was on the little things that she was intent. How far might she indulge herself in allowing some tenderness to escape her? How best might she save him from any great pain, and yet show him that she was proud that he had loved her? In what dress she might receive him, in that would she sit at table with her father. It was Christmas time, and the occasion would justify whatever of feminine smartness her wardrobe possessed. As she brought out from its recess the rich silk frock, still all but new, in which he had first seen her, she told herself that she would probably have worn it for her father's sake, had no lover been coming. On the day before, the Christmas Day, she had worn it at church. And the shoes with the pretty buckles, and the sober but yet handsome morsel of lace which was made for her throat,--and which she had not been ashamed to wear at that memorable dinner,--they were all brought out. It was Christmas, and her father's presence would surely have justified them all! And would she not wish to leave in her lover's eyes the memory of whatever prettiness she might have possessed? They were all produced. But when the moment came for arraying herself they were all restored to their homes. She would be the simple Quaker girl as she was to be found there on Monday, on Tuesday, and on Wednesday. It would be better that he should know how little there was for him to lose. Zachary Fay ate his dinner almost without a word. She, though she smiled on him and tried to look contented, found it almost impossible to speak. She uttered some little phrases which she intended to be peculiar to the period of the year; but she felt that her father's mind was intent on what was coming, and she discontinued her efforts. She found it hardly possible to guess at the frame of his mind, so silent had he been since first he had yielded to her when she assured him of her purpose. But she had assured him, and he could not doubt her purpose. If he were unhappy for the moment it was needful that he should be unhappy. There could be no change, and therefore it was well that he should be silent. He had hardly swallowed his dinner when he rose from his chair, and, bringing in his hat from the passage, spoke a word to her before he departed. "I am going into the City, Marion," he said. "I know it is well that I should be absent this afternoon. I shall return to tea. God bless thee, my child." Marion, rising from her chair, kissed his lips and cheeks, and accompanied him to the door. "It will be all well, my father," she said; "it will be all well, and your child will be happy." About half-an-hour afterwards there came a knock at the door, and Marion for a moment thought that her lover was already there. But it was Mrs. Roden who came up to her in the drawing-room. "Am I in the way, Marion?" she asked. "I will be gone in a minute; but perhaps I can say a word first." "Why should you be in the way?" "He is coming." "Yes, I suppose so. He said that he would come. But what if he come? You and he are old friends." "I would not be here to interrupt him. I will escape when we hear the knock. Oh, Marion!" "What is it, Mrs. Roden? You are sad, and something troubles you?" "Yes, indeed. There is something which troubles me sorely. This lover of yours?" "It is fixed, dear friend; fixed as fate. It does not trouble me. It shall not trouble me. Why should it be a trouble? Suppose I had never seen him!" "But you have seen him, my child." "Yes, indeed; and whether that be for good or evil, either to him or to me, it must be accepted. Nothing now can alter that. But I think, indeed, that it is a blessing. It will be something to me to remember that such a one as he has loved me. And for him--" "I would speak now of you, Marion." "I am contented." "It may be, Marion, that in this concerning your health you should be altogether wrong." "How wrong?" "What right have you or I to say that the Lord has determined to shorten your days." "Who has said so?" "It is on that theory that you are acting." "No;--not on that; not on that alone. Were I as strong as are other girls,--as the very strongest,--I would do the same. Has my father been with you?" "Yes, he has." "My poor father! But it is of no avail. It would be wrong, and I will not do it. If I am to die, I must die. If I am to live, let me live. I shall not die certainly because I have resolved to send this fine lover away. However weak Marion Fay may be, she is strong enough not to pine for that." "If there be no need?" "No need? What was it you said of unequal marriages? What was the story that you told me of your own? If I love this man, of whom am I to think the most? Could it be possible that I should be to him what a wife ought to be to her husband? Could I stand nobly on his hearth-rug, and make his great guests welcome? Should I be such a one that every day he should bless the kind fortune which had given him such a woman to help him to rule his house? How could I go from the littleness of these chambers to walk through his halls without showing that I knew myself to be an intruder? And yet I should be so proud that I should resent the looks of all who told me by their faces that I was so. He has done wrong in allowing himself to love me. He has done wrong in yielding to his passion, and telling me of his love. I will be wiser and nobler than he. If the Lord will help me, if my Saviour will be on my side, I will not do wrong. I did not think that you, Mrs. Roden, would turn against me." "Turn against thee, Marion? I to turn against thee!" "You should strengthen me." "It seems to me that you want no strength from others. It is for your poor father that I would say a word." "I would not have father believe that my health has aught to do with it. You know,--you know what right I have to think that I am fit to marry and to hope to be the mother of children. It needs not that he should know. Let it suffice for him to be told that I am not equal to this greatness. A word escaped me in speaking to him, and I repent myself that I so spoke to him. But tell him,--and tell him truly,--that were my days fixed here for the next fifty years, were I sure of the rudest health, I would not carry my birth, my manners, my habits into that young lord's house. How long would it be, Mrs. Roden, before he saw some little trick that would displease him? Some word would be wrongly spoken, some garment would be ill-folded, some awkward movement would tell the tale,--and then he would feel that he had done wrong to marry the Quaker's daughter. All the virtues under the sun cannot bolster up love so as to stand the battery of one touch of disgust. Tell my father that, and tell him that I have done well. Then you can tell him also, that, if God shall so choose it, I shall live a strong old maid for many years, to think night and day of his goodness to me,--of his great love." Mrs. Roden, as she had come across from her own house, had known that her mission would fail. To persuade another against one's own belief is difficult in any case, but to persuade Marion Fay on such a matter as this was a task beyond the eloquence of man or woman. She had made up her mind that she must fail utterly when the knock came at the door. She took the girl in her arms and kissed her without further attempt. She would not even bid her think of it once again, as might have been so easy at parting. "I will go into your room while he passes," she said. As she did so Lord Hampstead's voice was heard at the door. CHAPTER VI. MARION'S OBSTINACY. Lord Hampstead drove himself very fast from Hendon Hall to the "Duchess of Edinburgh" at Holloway, and then, jumping out of his trap, left it without saying a word to his servant, and walked quickly up Paradise Row till he came to No. 17. There, without pausing a moment, he knocked sharply at the door. Going on such a business as this, he did not care who saw him. There was an idea present to him that he would be doing honour to Marion Fay if he made it known to all the world of Holloway that he had come there to ask her to be his wife. It was this feeling which had made him declare his purpose to his sister, and which restrained him from any concealment as to his going and coming. Marion was standing alone in the middle of the room, with her two hands clasped together, but with a smile on her face. She had considered much as to this moment, determining even the very words that she would use. The words probably were forgotten, but the purpose was all there. He had resolved upon nothing, had considered nothing,--except that she should be made to understand that, because of his exceeding love, he required her to come to him as his wife. "Marion," he said, "Marion, you know why I am here!" And he advanced to her, as though he would at once have taken her in his arms. "Yes, my lord, I know." "You know that I love you. I think, surely, that never love was stronger than mine. If you can love me say but the one word, and you will make me absolutely happy. To have you for my wife is all that the world can give me now. Why do you go from me? Is it to tell me that you cannot love me, Marion? Do not say that, or I think my heart will break." She could not say that, but as he paused for her answer it was necessary that she should say something. And the first word spoken must tell the whole truth, even though it might be that the word must be repeated often before he could be got to believe that it was an earnest word. "My lord," she began. "Oh, I do hate that form of address. My name is John. Because of certain conventional arrangements the outside people call me Lord Hampstead." "It is because I can be to you no more than one of the outside people that I call you--my lord." "Marion!" "Only one of the outside people;--no more, though my gratitude to you, my appreciation, my friendship for you may be ever so strong. My father's daughter must be just one of the outside people to Lord Hampstead,--and no more." "Why so? Why do you say it? Why do you torment me? Why do you banish me at once, and tell me that I must go home a wretched, miserable man? Why?--why?--why? "Because, my lord--" "I can give a reason,--a good reason,--a reason which I cannot oppose, though it must be fatal to me unless I can remove it; a reason to which I must succumb if necessary, but to which, Marion, I will not succumb at once. If you say that you cannot love me that will be a reason." If it were necessary that she should tell him a lie, she must do so. It would have been pleasant if she could have made him understand that she would be content to love him on condition that he would be content to leave her. That she should continue to love him, and that he should cease to love her,--unless, perhaps, just a little,--that had been a scheme for the future which had recommended itself to her. There should be a something left which should give a romance to her life, but which should leave him free in all things. It had been a dream, in which she had much trusted, but which, while she listened to the violence of his words, she acknowledged to herself to be almost impossible. She must tell the lie;--but at the moment it seemed to her that there might be a middle course. "I dare not love you," she said. "Dare not love me, Marion? Who hinders you? Who tells you that you may not? Is it your father?" "No, my lord, no." "It is Mrs. Roden." "No, my lord. This is a matter in which I could obey no friend, no father. I have had to ask myself, and I have told myself that I do not dare to love above my station in life." "I am to have that bugbear again between me and my happiness?" "Between that and your immediate wishes;--yes. Is it not so in all things? If I,--even I,--had set my heart upon some one below me, would not you, as my friend, have bade me conquer the feeling?" "I have set my heart on one whom in the things of the world I regard as my equal,--in all other things as infinitely my superior." "The compliment is very sweet to me, but I have trained myself to resist sweetness. It may not be, Lord Hampstead. It may not be. You do not know as yet how obstinate such a girl as I may become when she has to think of another's welfare,--and a little, perhaps, of her own." "Are you afraid of me?" "Yes." "That I should not love you?" "Even of that. When you should come to see in me that which is not lovable you would cease to love me. You would be good to me because your nature is good; kind to me because your nature is kind. You would not ill-treat me because you are gentle, noble, and forgiving. But that would not suffice for me. I should see it in your eye, despite yourself,--and hear it in your voice, even though you tried to hide it by occasional softness. I should eat my own heart when I came to see that you despised your Quaker wife." "All that is nonsense, Marion." "My lord!" "Say the word at once if it has to be said,--so that I may know what it is that I have to contend with. For you my heart is so full of love that it seems to be impossible that I should live without you. If there could be any sympathy I should at once be happy. If there be none, say so." "There is none." "No spark of sympathy in you for me,--for one who loves you so truly?" When the question was put to her in that guise she could not quite tell so monstrous a lie as would be needed for an answer fit for her purpose. "This is a matter, Marion, in which a man has a right to demand an answer,--to demand a true answer." "Lord Hampstead, it may be that you should perplex me sorely. It may be that you should drive me away from you, and to beg you never to trouble me any further. It may be that you should force me to remain dumb before you, because that I cannot reply to you in proper words. But you will never alter my purpose. If you think well of Marion Fay, take her word when she gives it you. I can never become your lordship's wife." "Never?" "Never! Certainly never!" "Have you told me why;--all the reason why?" "I have told you enough, Lord Hampstead." "By heavens, no! You have not answered me the one question that I have asked you. You have not given me the only reason which I would take,--even for a while. Can you love me, Marion?" "If you loved me you would spare me," she said. Then feeling that such words utterly betrayed her, she recovered herself, and went to work with what best eloquence was at her command to cheat him out of the direct answer which he required. "I think," she said, "you do not understand the workings of a girl's heart in such a matter. She does not dare to ask herself about her love, when she knows that loving would avail her nothing. For what purpose should I inquire into myself when the object of such inquiry has already been obtained? Why should I trouble myself to know whether this thing would be a gain to me or not, when I am well aware that I can never have the gain?" "Marion, I think you love me." She looked at him and tried to smile,--tried to utter some half-joking word; and then as she felt that she could no longer repress her tears, she turned her face from him, and made no attempt at a reply. "Marion," he said again, "I think that you love me." "If you loved me, my lord, you would not torture me." She had seated herself now on the sofa, turning her face away from him over her shoulder so that she might in some degree hide her tears. He sat himself at her side, and for a moment or two got possession of her hand. "Marion," he said, pleading his case with all the strength of words which was at his command, "you know, do you not, that no moment of life can be of more importance to me than this?" "Is it so, my lord?" "None can be so important. I am striving to get her for my companion in life, who to me is the sweetest of all human beings. To touch you as I do now is a joy to me, even though you have made my heart so sad." At the moment she struggled to get her hand away from him, but the struggle was not at first successful. "You answer me with arguments which are to me of no avail at all. They are, to my thinking, simply a repetition of prejudices to which I have been all my life opposed. You will not be angry because I say so?" "Oh, no, my lord," she said; "not angry. I am not angry, but indeed you must not hold me." With that she extricated her hand, which he allowed to pass from his grasp as he continued his address to her. "As to all that, I have my opinion and you have yours. Can it be right that you should hold to your own and sacrifice me who have thought so much of what it is I want myself,--if in truth you love me? Let your opinion stand against mine, and neutralize it. Let mine stand against yours, and in that we shall be equal. Then after that let love be lord of all. If you love me, Marion, I think that I have a right to demand that you shall be my wife." There was something in this which she did not know how to answer;--but she did know, she was quite sure, that no word of his, no tenderness either on his part or on her own, would induce her to yield an inch. It was her duty to sacrifice herself for him,--for reasons which were quite apparent to herself,--and she would do it. The fortress of her inner purpose was safe, although he had succeeded in breaking down the bulwark by which it had been her purpose to guard it. He had claimed her love, and she had not been strong enough to deny the claim. Let the bulwark go. She was bad at lying. Let her lie as she might, he had wit enough to see through it. She would not take the trouble to deny her love should he persist in saying that it had been accorded to him. But surely she might succeed at last in making him understand that, whether she loved him or no, she would not marry him. "I certainly shall never be your wife," she said. "And that is all?" "What more, my lord?" "You can let me go, and never wish me to return?" "I can, my lord. Your return would only be a trouble to you, and a pain to me. Another time do not turn your eyes too often on a young woman because her face may chance to please you. It is well that you should marry. Go and seek a wife, with judgment, among your own people. When you have done that, then you may return and tell Marion Fay that you have done well by following her advice." "I will come again, and again, and again, and I will tell Marion Fay that her counsels are unnatural and impossible. I will teach her to know that the man who loves her can seek no other wife;--that no other mode of living is possible to him than one in which he and Marion Fay shall be joined together. I think I shall persuade her at last that such is the case. I think she will come to know that all her cold prudence and worldly would-be wisdom can be of no avail to separate those who love each other. I think that when she finds that her lover so loves her that he cannot live without her, she will abandon those fears as to his future fickleness, and trust herself to one of whose truth she will have assured herself." Then he took her hand, and kneeling at her knee, he kissed it before she was powerful enough to withdraw it. And so he left her, without another word, and mounting on his vehicle, drove himself home without having exchanged a single word at Holloway with any one save Marion Fay. She, when she was left alone, threw herself at full length on the sofa and burst into an ecstacy of tears. Trust herself to him! Yes, indeed. She would trust herself to him entirely, only in order that she might have the joy, for one hour, of confessing her love to him openly, let the consequences to herself afterwards be what they might! As to that future injury to her pride of which she had spoken both to her father and also to her friend,--of which she had said so much to herself in discussing this matter with her own heart--as to that he had convinced her. It did not become her in any way to think of herself in this matter. He certainly would be able to twist her as he would if she could stand upon no surer rock than her fears for her own happiness. One kiss from him would be payment for it all. But all his love, all his sweetness, all his truth, all his eloquence should avail nothing with her towards overcoming that spirit of self-sacrifice by which she was dominated. Though he should extort from her all her secret, that would be her strength. Though she should have to tell him of her failing health,--her certainly failing health,--though even that should be necessary, she certainly would not be won from her purpose. It might be sweet, she thought, to make him in all respects her friend of friends; to tell him everything; to keep no fear, no doubt, no aspiration a secret from him. "Love you, oh my dearest, thou very pearl of my heart, love you indeed! Oh, yes. Do you not know that not even for an instant could I hide my love? Are you not aware, did you not see at the moment, that when you first knelt at my feet, my heart had flown to you without an effort on my part to arrest it? But now, my beloved one, now we understand each other. Now there need be no reproaches between us. Now there need be no speaking of distrust. I am all yours,--only it is not fit, as you know, dearest, that the poor Quaker girl should become your wife. Now that we both understand that, why should we be sad? Why should we mourn?" Why should she not succeed in bringing things to such a pass as this; and if so, why should life be unhappy either to him or to her? Thus she was thinking of it till she had almost brought herself to a state of bliss, when her father returned to her. "Father," she said, getting up and embracing his arm as he stood, "it is all over." "What is over?" asked the Quaker. "He has been here." "Well, Marion; and what has he said?" "What he said it is hardly for me to tell you. What I said,--I would you could know it all without my repeating a word of it." "Has he gone away contented?" "Nay, not that, father. I hardly expected that. I hardly hoped for that. Had he been quite contented perhaps I might not have been so." "Why should you not have both been made happy?" asked the father. "It may be that we shall be so. It may be that he shall understand." "Thou hast not taken his offer then?" "Oh, no! No, father, no. I can never accept his offer. If that be in your mind put it forth. You shall never see your Marion the wife of any man, whether of that young lord or of another more fitted to her. No one ever shall be allowed to speak to me as he has spoken." "Why dost thou make thyself different from other girls?" he said, angrily. "Oh, father, father!" "It is romance and false sentiment, than which nothing is more odious to me. There is no reason why thou shouldst be different from others. The Lord has not marked thee out as different from other girls, either in His pleasure or His displeasure. It is wrong for thee to think it of thyself." She looked up piteously into his face, but said not a word. "It is thy duty to take thyself from His hands as He has made thee; and to give way to no vain ecstatic terrors. If, as I gather from thy words, this young man be dear to thee, and if, as I gather from this second coming of his, thou art dear to him, then I as thy father tell thee that thy duty calls thee to him. It is not that he is a lord." "Oh, no, father." "It is not, I say, that he is a lord, or that he is rich, or that he is comely to the eyes, that I would have thee go to him as his wife. It is because thou and he love each other, as it is the ordinance of the Lord Almighty that men and women should do. Marriage is honourable, and I, thy father, would fain see thee married. I believe the young man to be good and true. I could give thee to him, lord though he be, with a trusting heart, and think that in so disposing of my child I had done well for her. Think of this, Marion, if it be not already too late." All this he had said standing, so that he was able to leave the room without the ceremony of rising from his chair. Without giving her a moment for reply, having his hand on the lock of the door as he uttered the last words of his counsel to her, he marched off, leaving her alone. It may be doubted whether at the moment she could have found words for reply, so full was her heart with the feelings that were crowded there. But she was well aware that all her father's words could go for nothing. Of only one thing was she sure,--that no counsel, no eloquence, no love would ever induce her to become the wife of Lord Hampstead. CHAPTER VII. MRS. DEMIJOHN'S PARTY. Mrs. Demijohn presents her compliments to Mr. Crocker, and begs the honour of his company to tea at nine o'clock on Wednesday, 31st of December, to see the New Year in. R.I.V.P. (Do come, C. D.) 10, Paradise Row, Holloway. 29th December, 18--. This note was delivered to Crocker on his arrival at his office on the morning of Saturday, the 27th. It must be explained that Crocker had lately made the acquaintance of Miss Clara Demijohn without any very formal introduction. Crocker, with that determination which marked his character, in pursuit of the one present purport of his mind to effect a friendly reconciliation with George Roden, had taken himself down to Holloway, and had called at No. 11, thinking that he might induce his friend's mother to act on his behalf in a matter appertaining to peace and charity. Mrs. Roden had unhappily been from home, but he had had the good fortune to encounter Miss Demijohn. Perhaps it was that she had seen him going in and out of the house, and had associated him with the great mystery of the young nobleman; perhaps she had been simply attracted by the easy air with which he cocked his hat and swung his gloves;--or, perhaps it was simply chance. But so it was that in the gloom of the evening she met him just round the corner opposite to the "Duchess of Edinburgh," and the happy acquaintance was commenced. No doubt, as in all such cases, it was the gentleman who spoke first. Let us, at any rate, hope so for the sake of Paradise Row generally. Be that as it may, before many minutes were over she had explained to him that Mrs. Roden had gone out in a cab soon after dinner, and that probably something was up at Wimbledon, as Mrs. Roden never went anywhere else, and this was not the day of the week on which her visits to Mrs. Vincent were generally made. Crocker, who was simplicity itself, soon gave her various details as to his own character and position in life. He, too, was a clerk in the Post Office, and was George Roden's particular friend. "Oh, yes; he knew all about Lord Hampstead, and was, he might say, intimately acquainted with his lordship. He had been in the habit of meeting his lordship at Castle Hautboy, the seat of his friend, Lord Persiflage, and had often ridden with his lordship in the hunting-field. He knew all about Lady Frances and the engagement, and had had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of her ladyship. He had been corresponding lately with Lord Hampstead on the subject. No;--he had not as yet heard anything of Marion Fay, the Quaker's daughter. Then Clara had something to say on her side. She quite understood that if she expected to be communicated with, she also must communicate; and moreover, young Mr. Crocker was by his age, appearance, and sex, just such a one as prompted her to be communicative without loss of self-respect. What was the good of telling things to Mrs. Duffer, who was only an old widow without any friends, and with very small means of existence? She had communicated her secrets to Mrs. Duffer simply from want of a better pair of ears into which she could pour them. But here was one in telling secrets to whom she could take delight, and who had secrets of his own to give in return. It is not to be supposed that the friendship which arose grew from the incidents of one meeting only. On that first evening Crocker could not leave the fair one without making arrangements for a further interview, and so the matter grew. The intimacy between them was already of three days' standing when the letter of invitation above given reached Crocker's hands. To tell the very truth, the proposed party was made up chiefly for Crocker's sake. What is the good of having a young man if you cannot show him to your friends? "Crocker!" said Mrs. Demijohn to her niece; "where did you pick up Crocker?" "What questions you do ask, aunt! Pick him up, indeed!" "So you have--; picked him up, as you're always a doing with young men. Only you never know how to keep 'em when you've got 'em." "I declare, aunt, your vulgarity is unbearable." "I'm not going to have any Crocker in my house," said the old woman, "unless I know where he comes from. Perhaps he's a counter-skipper. He may be a ticket-of-leave man for all you know." "Aunt Jemima, you're so provoking that I sometimes think I shall have to leave you." "Where will you go to, my dear?" To this question, which had often been asked before, Clara thought it unnecessary to make any answer; but returned at once to the inquiries which were not unnaturally made by the lady who stood to her in the place of a mother. "Mr. Crocker, Aunt Jemima, is a clerk in the Post Office, who sits at the same desk with George Roden, and is intimately acquainted both with Lord Hampstead and with Lady Frances Trafford. He used to be George Roden's bosom friend; but there has lately been some little tiff between the young men, which would be so pleasant if we could make it up. You have got to a speaking acquaintance with Mrs. Roden, and perhaps if you will ask them they'll come. I am sure Marion Fay will come, because you always get your money from Pogson and Littlebird. I wish I had the cheek to ask Lord Hampstead." Having heard all this, the old lady consented to receive our sporting friend from the Post Office, and also assented to the other invitations, which were given. Crocker, of course, sent his compliments, and expressed the great pleasure he would have in "seeing the New Year in" in company with Mrs. Demijohn. As the old lady was much afflicted with rheumatism, the proposition as coming from her would have been indiscreet had she not known that her niece on such occasions was well able to act as her deputy. Mrs. Roden also promised to come, and with difficulty persuaded her son that it would be gracious on his part to be so far civil to his neighbours. Had he known that Crocker also would be there he certainly would not have yielded; but Crocker, when at the office, kept the secret of his engagement to himself. The Quaker also and Marion Fay were to be there. Mr. Fay and Mrs. Demijohn had long known each other in regard to matters of business, and he, for the sake of Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird's firm, could not refuse to drink a cup of tea at their client's house. A junior clerk from the same counting-house, one Daniel Tribbledale by name, with whom Clara had made acquaintance at King's Court some two years since, was also to be of the party. Mr. Tribbledale had at one time, among all Clara's young men, been the favourite. But circumstances had occurred which had somewhat lessened her goodwill towards him. Mr. Littlebird had quarrelled with him, and he had been refused promotion. It was generally supposed at the present time in the neighbourhood of Old Broad Street that Daniel Tribbledale was languishing for the love of Clara Demijohn. Mrs. Duffer, of course, was to be there, and so the list of friends for the festive occasion was completed. Mrs. Duffer was the first to come. Her aid, indeed, was required for the cutting up of the cakes and arrangements of the cups and saucers. The Quaker and his daughter were next, appearing exactly at nine o'clock,--to do which he protested to be the best sign of good manners that could be shown. "If they want me at ten, why do they ask me at nine?" demanded the Quaker. Marion was forced to give way, though she was by no means anxious to spend a long evening in company with Mrs. Demijohn. As to that seeing of the New Year in, it was quite out of the question for the Quaker or for his daughter. The company altogether came early. The only touch of fashion evinced on this occasion was shown by Mr. Crocker. The Rodens, with Mr. Tribbledale at their heels, appeared not long after Mr. Fay, and then the demolition of the Sally Lunns was commenced. "I declare I think he means to deceive us," whispered Clara to her friend, Mrs. Duffer, when all the good tea had been consumed before the young man appeared. "I don't suppose he cares much for tea," said Mrs. Duffer; "they don't now-a-days." "It isn't just for the tea that a man is expected to come," said Clara, indignantly. It was now nearly ten, and she could not but feel that the evening was going heavily. Tribbledale had said one tender word to her; but she had snubbed him, expecting Crocker to be there almost at once, and he had retired silent into a corner. George Roden had altogether declined to make himself agreeable--to her; but as he was an engaged man, and engaged to a lady of rank, much could not be expected of him. Mrs. Roden and the Quaker and Mrs. Demijohn did manage to keep up something of conversation. Roden from time to time said a few words to Marion. Clara, who was repenting herself of her hardness to young Tribbledale, was forced to put up with Mrs. Duffer. When suddenly there came a thundering knock at the door, and Mr. Crocker was announced by the maid, who had been duly instructed beforehand as to all peculiarities in the names of the guests. There was a little stir, as there always is when a solitary guest comes in much after the appointed time. Of course there was rebuke,--suppressed rebuke from Mrs. Demijohn, mild rebuke from Mrs. Duffer, a very outburst of rebuke from Clara. But Crocker was up to the occasion. "Upon my word, ladies, I had no help for it. I was dining with a few friends in the City, and I couldn't get away earlier. If my own ideas of happiness had been consulted I should have been here an hour ago. Ah, Roden, how are you? Though I know you live in the same street, I didn't think of meeting you." Roden gave him a nod, but did not vouchsafe him a word. "How's his lordship? I told you, didn't I, that I had heard from him the other day?" Crocker had mentioned more than once at his office the fact that he had received a letter from Lord Hampstead. "I don't often see him, and very rarely hear from him," said Roden, without turning away from Marion to whom he was at the moment speaking. "If all our young noblemen were like Hampstead," said Crocker, who had told the truth in declaring that he had been dining, "England would be a very different sort of place from what it is. The most affable young lord that ever sat in the House of Peers." Then he turned himself towards Marion Fay, at whose identity he made a guess. He was anxious at once to claim her as a mutual friend, as connected with himself by her connection with the lord in question. But as he could find no immediate excuse for introducing himself, he only winked at her. "Are you acquainted with Mr. Tribbledale, Mr. Crocker?" asked Clara. "Never had the pleasure as yet," said Crocker. Then the introduction was effected. "In the Civil Service?" asked Crocker. Tribbledale blushed, and of necessity repudiated the honour. "I thought, perhaps, you were in the Customs. You have something of the H.M.S. cut about you." Tribbledale acknowledged the compliment with a bow. "I think the Service is the best thing a man can do with himself," continued Crocker. "It is genteel," said Mrs. Duffer. "And the hours so pleasant," said Clara. "Bank clerks have always to be there by nine." "Is a young man to be afraid of that?" asked the Quaker, indignantly. "Ten till four, with one hour for the newspapers and another for lunch. See the consequence. I never knew a young man yet from a public office who understood the meaning of a day's work." "I think that is a little hard," said Roden. "If a man really works, six hours continuously is as much as he can do with any good to his employers or himself." "Well done, Roden," said Crocker. "Stick up for Her Majesty's shop." Roden turned himself more round than before, and continued to address himself to Marion. "Our employers wouldn't think much of us," said the Quaker, "if we didn't do better for them than that in private offices. I say that the Civil Service destroys a young man, and teaches him to think that the bread of idleness is sweet. As far as I can see, nothing is so destructive of individual energy as what is called public money. If Daniel Tribbledale would bestir himself he might do very well in the world without envying any young man his seat either at the Custom House or the Post Office." Mr. Fay had spoken so seriously that they all declined to carry that subject further. Mrs. Demijohn and Mrs. Duffer murmured their agreement, thinking it civil to do so, as the Quaker was a guest. Tribbledale sat silent in his corner, awestruck at the idea of having given rise to the conversation. Crocker winked at Mrs. Demijohn, and thrust his hands into his pockets as much as to say that he could get the better of the Quaker altogether if he chose to exercise his powers of wit and argument. Soon after this Mr. Fay rose to take his daughter away. "But," said Clara, with affected indignation, "you are to see the Old Year out and the New Year in." "I have seen enough of the one," said Mr. Fay, "and shall see enough of the other if I live to be as near its close as I am to its birth." "But there are refreshments coming up," said Mrs. Demijohn. "I have refreshed myself sufficiently with thy tea, madam. I rarely take anything stronger before retiring to my rest. Come, Marion, thou requirest to be at no form of welcoming the New Year. Thou, too, wilt be better in thy bed, as thy duties call upon thee to be early." So saying, the Quaker bowed formally to each person present, and took his daughter out with him under his arm. Mrs. Roden and her son escaped almost at the same moment, and Mrs. Demijohn, having waited to take what she called just a thimbleful of hot toddy, went also to her rest. "Here's a pretty way of seeing the New Year in," said Clara, laughing. "We are quite enough of us for the purpose," said Crocker, "unless we also are expected to go away." But as he spoke he mixed a tumbler of brandy and water, which he divided among two smaller glasses, handing them to the two ladies present. "I declare," said Mrs. Duffer, "I never do anything of the kind,--almost never." "On such an occasion as this everybody does it," said Crocker. "I hope Mr. Tribbledale will join us," said Clara. Then the bashful clerk came out of his corner, and seating himself at the table prepared to do as he was bid. He made his toddy very weak, not because he disliked brandy, but guided by an innate spirit of modesty which prevented him always from going more than halfway when he was in company. Then the evening became very pleasant. "You are quite sure that he is really engaged to her ladyship?" asked Clara. "I wish I were as certainly engaged to you," replied the polite Crocker. "What nonsense you do talk, Mr. Crocker;--and before other people too. But you think he is?" "I am sure of it. Both Hampstead and she have told me so much themselves out of their own mouths." "My!" exclaimed Mrs. Duffer. "And here's her brother engaged to Marion Fay," said Clara. Crocker declared that as to this he was by no means so well assured. Lord Hampstead in spite of their intimacy had told him nothing about it. "But it is so, Mr. Crocker, as sure as ever you are sitting there. He has been coming here after her over and over again, and was closeted with her only last Friday for hours. It was a holiday, but that sly old Quaker went out of the way, so as to leave them together. That Mrs. Roden, though she's as stiff as buckram, knows all about it. To the best of my belief she got it all up. Marion Fay is with her every day. It's my belief there's something we don't understand yet. She's got a hold of them young people, and means to do just what she likes with 'em." Crocker, however, could not agree to this. He had heard of Lord Hampstead's peculiar politics, and was assured that the young lord was only carrying out his peculiar principles in selecting Marion Fay for himself and devoting his sister to George Roden. "Not that I like that kind of thing, if you ask me," said Crocker. "I'm very fond of Hampstead, and I've always found Lady Frances to be a pleasant and affable lady. I've no cause to speak other than civil of both of them. But when a man has been born a lord, and a lady a lady--. A lady of that kind, Miss Demijohn." "Oh, exactly;--titled you mean, Mr. Crocker?" "Quite high among the nobs, you know. Hampstead will be a Marquis some of these days, which is next to a Duke." "And do you know him,--yourself?" asked Tribbledale with a voice of awe. "Oh, yes," said Crocker. "To speak to him when you see him?" "I had a long correspondence with him about a week ago about a matter which interested both of us very much." "And how does he address you?" asked Clara,--also with something of awe. "'Dear Crocker;'--just that. I always say 'My dear Lord Hampstead,' in return. I look upon 'Dear Hampstead,' as a little vulgar, you know, and I always think that one ought to be particular in these matters. But, as I was saying, when it comes to marriage, people ought to be true to themselves. Now if I was a Marquis,--I don't know what I mightn't do if I saw you, you know, Clara." "Clara" pouted, but did not appear to have been offended either by the compliment or by the familiarity. "But under any other circumstances less forcible I would stick to my order." "So would I," said Mrs. Duffer. "Marquises ought to marry marquises, and dukes dukes." "There it is!" said Clara, "and now we must drink its health, and I hope we may be all married to them we like best before it comes round again." This had reference to the little clock on the mantelpiece, the hands of which had just crept round to twelve o'clock. "I wish we might," said Crocker, "and have a baby in the cradle too." "Go away," said Clara. "That would be quick," said Mrs. Duffer. "What do you say, Mr. Tribbledale?" "Where my heart's fixed," said Tribbledale, who was just becoming warm with the brandy-and-water, "there ain't no hope for this year, nor yet for the one after." Whereupon Crocker remarked that "care killed a cat." "You just put on your coat and hat, and take me across to my lodgings. See if I don't give you a chance," said Mrs. Duffer, who was also becoming somewhat merry under the influences of the moment. But she knew that it was her duty to do something for her young hostess, and, true woman as she was, thought that this was the best way of doing it. Tribbledale did as he was bid, though he was obliged thus to leave his lady-love and her new admirer together. "Do you really mean it?" said Clara, when she and Crocker were alone. "Of course I do,--honest," said Crocker. "Then you may," said Clara, turning her face to him. CHAPTER VIII. NEW YEAR'S DAY. Crocker had by no means as yet got through his evening. Having dined with his friends in the City, and "drank tea" with the lady of his love, he was disposed to proceed, if not to pleasanter delights, at any rate to those which might be more hilarious. Every Londoner, from Holloway up to Gower Street, in which he lived, would be seeing the New Year in,--and beyond Gower Street down in Holborn, and from thence all across to the Strand, especially in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden and the theatres, there would be a whole world of happy revellers engaged in the same way. On such a night as this there could certainly be no need of going to bed soon after twelve for such a one as Samuel Crocker. In Paradise Row he again encountered Tribbledale, and suggested to that young man that they should first have a glass of something at the "Duchess" and then proceed to more exalted realms in a hansom. "I did think of walking there this fine starlight night," said Tribbledale, mindful of the small stipend at which his services were at present valued by Pogson and Littlebird. But Crocker soon got the better of all this. "I'll stand Sammy for this occasion," said he. "The New Year comes in only once in twelve months." Then Tribbledale went into "The Duchess," and after that was as indifferent, while his money lasted him, as was Crocker himself. "I've loved that girl for three years," said Tribbledale, as soon as they had left "The Duchess" and were again in the open air. It was a beautiful night, and Crocker thought that they might as well walk a little way. It was pleasant under the bright stars to hear of the love adventures of his new friend, especially as he himself was now the happy hero. "For three years?" he asked. "Indeed I have, Crocker." That glass of hot whiskey-and-water, though it enhanced the melancholy tenderness of the young man, robbed him of his bashfulness, and loosened the strings of his tongue. "For three years! And there was a time when she worshipped the very stool on which I sat at the office. I don't like to boast." "You have to be short, sharp, and decisive if you mean to get a girl like that to travel with you." "I should have taken the ball at the hop, Crocker; that's what I ought to have done. But I see it all now. She's as fickle as she is fair;--fickler, perhaps, if anything." "Come, Tribbledale; I ain't going to let you abuse her, you know." "I don't want to abuse her. God knows I love her too well in spite of all. It's your turn now. I can see that. There's a great many of them have had their turns." "Were there now?" asked Crocker anxiously. "There was Pollocky;--him at the Highbury Gas Works. He came after me. It was because of him she dropped me." "Was that going on for a marriage?" "Right ahead, I used to think. Pollocky is a widower with five children." "Oh Lord!" "But he's the head of all the gas, and has four hundred a year. It wasn't love as carried her on with him. I could see that. She wouldn't go and meet him anywhere about the City, as she did me. I suppose Pollocky is fifty, if he's a day." "And she dropped him also?" "Or else it was he." On receipt of this information Crocker whistled. "It was something about money," continued Tribbledale. "The old woman wouldn't part." "There is money I suppose?" "The old woman has a lot." "And isn't the niece to have it?" asked Crocker. "No doubt she will; because there never was a pair more loving. But the old lady will keep it herself as long as she is here." Then there entered an idea into Crocker's head that if he could manage to make Clara his own, he might have power enough to manage the aunt as well as the niece. They had a little more whiskey-and-water at the Angel at Islington before they got into the cab which was to take them down to the Paphian Music-Hall, and after that Tribbledale passed from the realm of partial fact to that of perfect poetry. "He would never," he said, "abandon Clara Demijohn, though he should live to an age beyond that of any known patriarch. He quite knew all that there was against him. Crocker he thought might probably prevail. He rather hoped that Crocker might prevail;--for why should not so good a fellow be made happy, seeing how utterly impossible it was that he, Daniel Tribbledale, should ever reach that perfect bliss in dreaming of which he passed his miserable existence. But as to one thing he had quite made up his mind. The day that saw Clara Demijohn a bride would most undoubtedly be the last of his existence." "Oh, no, damme; you won't," said Crocker turning round upon him in the cab. "I shall!" said Tribbledale with emphasis. "And I've made up my mind how to do it too. They've caged up the Monument, and you're so looked after on the Duke of York's, that there isn't a chance. But there's nothing to prevent you from taking a header at the Whispering Gallery of Saint Paul's. You'd be more talked of that way, and the vergers would be sure to show the stains made on the stones below. 'It was here young Tribbledale fell,--a clerk at Pogson and Littlebird's, who dashed out his brains for love on the very day as Clara Demijohn got herself married.' I'm of that disposition, Crocker, as I'd do anything for love;--anything." Crocker was obliged to reply that he trusted he might never be the cause of such a fatal attempt at glory; but he went on to explain that in the pursuit of love a man could not in any degree give way to friendship. Even though numberless lovers might fall from the Whispering Gallery in a confused heap of mangled bodies, he must still tread the path which was open to him. These were his principles, and he could not abandon them even for the sake of Tribbledale. "Nor would I have you," shouted Tribbledale, leaning out over the door of the cab. "I would not delay you not for a day, not for an hour. Were to-morrow to be your bridal morning it would find me prepared. My only request to you is that a boy might be called Daniel after me. You might tell her it was an uncle or grandfather. She would never think that in her own child was perpetuated a monument of poor Daniel Tribbledale." Crocker, as he jumped out of the cab with a light step in front of the Paphian Hall, promised that in this particular he would attend to the wishes of his friend. The performances at the Paphian Hall on that festive occasion need not be described here with accuracy. The New Year had been seen well in with music, dancing, and wine. The seeing of it in was continued yet for an hour, till an indulgent policeman was forced to interfere. It is believed that on the final ejection of our two friends, the forlorn lover, kept steady, no doubt, by the weight of his woe, did find his way home to his own lodgings. The exultant Crocker was less fortunate, and passed his night without the accommodation of sheets and blankets somewhere in the neighbourhood of Bow Street. The fact is important to us, as it threatened to have considerable effect upon our friend's position at his office. Having been locked up in a cell during the night, and kept in durance till he was brought on the following morning before a magistrate, he could not well be in his room at ten o'clock. Indeed when he did escape from the hands of the Philistines, at about two in the day, sick, unwashed and unfed, he thought it better to remain away altogether for that day. The great sin of total absence would be better than making an appearance before Mr. Jerningham in his present tell-tale condition. He well knew his own strength and his own weakness. All power of repartee would be gone from him for the day. Mr. Jerningham would domineer over him, and Æolus, should the violent god be pleased to send for him, would at once annihilate him. So he sneaked home to Gower Street, took a hair of the dog that bit him, and then got the old woman who looked after him to make him some tea and to fry a bit of bacon for him. In this ignominious way he passed New Year's Day,--at least so much of it as was left to him after the occurrences which have been described. But on the next morning the great weight of his troubles fell upon him heavily. In his very heart of hearts he was afraid of Æolus. In spite of his "brummagem" courage the wrath of the violent god was tremendous to him. He knew what it was to stand with his hand on the lock of the door and tremble before he dared to enter the room. There was something in the frown of the god which was terrible to him. There was something worse in the god's smile. He remembered how he had once been unable to move himself out of the room when the god had told him that he need not remain at the office, but might go home and amuse himself just as he pleased. Nothing crushes a young man so much as an assurance that his presence can be dispensed with without loss to any one. Though Crocker had often felt the mercies of Æolus, and had told himself again and again that the god never did in truth lift up his hand for final irrevocable punishment, still he trembled as he anticipated the dread encounter. When the morning came, and while he was yet in his bed, he struggled to bethink himself of some strategy by which he might evade the evil hour. Could he have been sent for suddenly into Cumberland? But in this case he would of course have telegraphed to the Post Office on the preceding day. Could he have been taken ill with a fit,--so as to make his absence absolutely necessary, say for an entire week? He well knew that they had a doctor at the Post Office, a crafty, far-seeing, obdurate man, who would be with him at once and would show him no mercy. He had tried these schemes all round, and had found that there were none left with which Æolus was not better acquainted than was he himself. There was nothing for it but to go and bear the brunt. Exactly at ten o'clock he entered the room, hung his hat up on the accustomed peg, and took his seat on the accustomed chair before any one spoke a word to him. Roden on the opposite seat took no notice of him. "Bedad, he's here anyhow this morning," whispered Geraghty to Bobbin, very audibly. "Mr. Crocker," said Mr. Jerningham, "you were absent throughout the entire day yesterday. Have you any account to give of yourself?" There was certainly falsehood implied in this question, as Mr. Jerningham knew very well what had become of Crocker. Crocker's misadventure at the police office had found its way into the newspapers, and had been discussed by Æolus with Mr. Jerningham. I am afraid that Mr. Jerningham must have intended to tempt the culprit into some false excuse. "I was horribly ill," said Crocker, without stopping the pen with which he was making entries in the big book before him. This no doubt was true, and so far the trap had been avoided. "What made you ill, Mr. Crocker?" "Headache." "It seems to me, Mr. Crocker, you're more subject to such attacks as these than any young man in the office." "I always was as a baby," said Crocker, resuming something of his courage. Could it be possible that Æolus should not have heard of the day's absence? "There is ill-health of so aggravated a nature," said Mr. Jerningham, "as to make the sufferer altogether unfit for the Civil Service." "I'm happy to say I'm growing out of them gradually," said Crocker. Then Geraghty got up from his chair and whispered the whole truth into the sufferer's ears. "It was all in the _Pall Mall_ yesterday, and Æolus knew it before he went away." A sick qualm came upon the poor fellow as though it were a repetition of yesterday's sufferings. But still it was necessary that he should say something. "New Year's Day comes only once a year, I suppose." "It was only a few weeks since that you remained a day behind your time when you were on leave. But Sir Boreas has taken the matter up, and I have nothing to say to it. No doubt Sir Boreas will send for you." Sir Boreas Bodkin was that great Civil servant in the General Post Office whom men were wont to call Æolus. It was a wretched morning for poor Crocker. He was not sent for till one o'clock, just at the moment when he was going to eat his lunch! That horrid sickness, the combined result of the dinner in the City, of Mrs. Demijohn's brandy, and of the many whiskies which followed, still clung to him. The mutton-chop and porter which he had promised himself would have relieved him; but now he was obliged to appear before the god in all his weakness. Without a word he followed a messenger who had summoned him, with his tail only too visibly between his legs. Æolus was writing a note when he was ushered into the room, and did not condescend to arrest himself in the progress merely because Crocker was present. Æolus well knew the effect on a sinner of having to stand silent and all alone in the presence of an offended deity. "So, Mr. Crocker," said Æolus at last, looking up from his completed work; "no doubt you saw the Old Year out on Wednesday night." The jokes of the god were infinitely worse to bear than his most furious blasts. "Like some other great men," continued Æolus, "you have contrived to have your festivities chronicled in the newspapers." Crocker found it impossible to utter a word. "You have probably seen the _Pall Mall_ of yesterday, and the _Standard_ of this morning?" "I haven't looked at the newspaper, sir, since--" "Since the festive occasion," suggested Æolus. "Oh, Sir Boreas--" "Well, Mr. Crocker; what is it that you have to say for yourself?" "I did dine with a few friends." "And kept it up tolerably late, I should think." "And then afterwards went to a tea-party," said Crocker. "A tea-party!" "It was not all tea," said Crocker, with a whine. "I should think not. There was a good deal besides tea, I should say." Then the god left off to smile, and the blasts began to blow. "Now, Mr. Crocker, I should like to know what you think of yourself. After having read the accounts of your appearance before the magistrate in two newspapers, I suppose I may take it for granted that you were abominably drunk out in the streets on Wednesday night." It is very hard for a young man to have to admit under any circumstances that he has been abominably drunk out in the streets;--so that Crocker stood dumb before his accuser. "I choose to have an answer, sir. I must either have your own acknowledgment, or must have an official account from the police magistrate." "I had taken something, sir." "Were you drunk? If you will not answer me you had better go, and I shall know how to deal with you." Crocker thought that he had perhaps better go and leave the god to deal with him. He remained quite silent. "Your personal habits would be nothing to me, sir," continued Æolus, "if you were able to do your work and did not bring disgrace on the department. But you neglect the office. You are unable to do your work. And you do bring disgrace on the department. How long is it since you remained away a day before?" "I was detained down in Cumberland for one day, after my leave of absence." "Detained in Cumberland! I never tell a gentleman, Mr. Crocker, that I do not believe him,--never. If it comes to that with a gentleman, he must go." This was hard to bear; but yet Crocker was aware that he had told a fib on that occasion in reference to the day's hunting. Then Sir Boreas took up his pen and again had recourse to his paper, as though the interview was over. Crocker remained standing, not quite knowing what he was expected to do. "It's of no use your remaining there," said Sir Boreas. Whereupon Crocker retired, and, with his tail still between his legs, returned to his own desk. Soon afterwards Mr. Jerningham was sent for, and came back with an intimation that Mr. Crocker's services were no longer required, at any rate for that day. When the matter had been properly represented to the Postmaster-General, a letter would be written to him. The impression made on the minds of Bobbin and Geraghty was that poor Crocker would certainly be dismissed on this occasion. Roden, too, thought that it was now over with the unfortunate young man, as far as the Queen's service was concerned, and could not abstain from shaking hands with the unhappy wretch as he bade them all a melancholy good-bye. "Good afternoon," said Mr. Jerningham to him severely, not condescending to shake hands with him at all. But Mr. Jerningham heard the last words which the god had spoken on the subject, and was not therefore called upon to be specially soft-hearted. "I never saw a poor devil look so sick in my life," Æolus had said. "He must have been very bad, Sir Boreas." Æolus was fond of a good dinner himself, and had a sympathy for convivial offences. Indeed for all offences he had a sympathy. No man less prone to punish ever lived. But what is a man to do with inveterate offenders? Æolus would tear his hair sometimes in dismay because he knew that he was retaining in the service men whom he would have been bound to get rid of had he done his duty. "You had better tell him to go home," said Æolus,--"for to-day, you know." "And what then, Sir Boreas?" "I suppose he'll sleep it off by to-morrow. Have a letter written to him,--to frighten him, you know. After all, New Year's Day only does come once a year." Mr. Jerningham, having thus received instructions, went back to his room and dismissed Crocker in the way we have seen. As soon as Crocker's back was turned Roden was desired to write the letter. SIR, Your conduct in absenting yourself without leave from the office yesterday is of such a nature as to make it necessary for me to inform you, that should it be repeated I shall have no alternative but to bring your name under the serious consideration of my Lord the Postmaster-General. I am, sir, Your obedient servant, (Signed) BOREAS BODKIN. In the same envelope was a short note from one of his brother clerks. DEAR CROCKER, You had better be here sharp at ten to-morrow. Mr. Jerningham bids me tell you. Yours truly, BART. BOBBIN. Thus Crocker got through his troubles on this occasion. CHAPTER IX. MISS DEMIJOHN'S INGENUITY. On the day on which Crocker was going through his purgatory at the Post Office, a letter reached Lady Kingsbury at Trafford Park, which added much to the troubles and annoyances felt by different members of the family there. It was an anonymous letter, and the reader,--who in regard to such mysteries should never be kept a moment in ignorance,--may as well be told at once that the letter was written by that enterprising young lady, Miss Demijohn. The letter was written on New Year's Day, after the party,--perhaps in consequence of the party, as the rash doings of some of the younger members of the Trafford family were made specially obvious to Miss Demijohn by what was said on that occasion. The letter ran as follows: MY LADY MARCHIONESS-- I conceive it to be my duty as a well-wisher of the family to inform you that your stepson, Lord Hampstead, has become entangled in what I think to be a dangerous way with a young woman living in a neighbouring street to this. The "neighbouring" street was of course a stroke of cunning on the part of Miss Demijohn. She lives at No. 17, Paradise Row, Holloway, and her name is Marion Fay. She is daughter to an old Quaker, who is clerk to Pogson and Littlebird, King's Court, Great Broad Street, and isn't of course in any position to entertain such hopes as these. He may have a little money saved, but what's that to the likes of your ladyship and his lordship the Marquis? Some think she is pretty. I don't. Now I don't like such cunning ways. Of what I tell your ladyship there isn't any manner of doubt. His lordship was there for hours the other day, and the girl is going about as proud as a peacock. It's what I call a regular Paradise Row conspiracy, and though the Quaker has lent himself to it, he ain't at the bottom. Next door but two to the Fays there is a Mrs. Roden living, who has got a son, a stuck-up fellow and a clerk in the Post Office. I believe there isn't a bit of doubt but he has been and got himself engaged to another of your ladyship's noble family. As to that, all Holloway is talking of it. I don't believe there is a 'bus driver up and down the road as doesn't know it. It's my belief that Mrs. Roden is the doing of it all! She has taken Marion Fay by the hand just as though she were her own, and now she has got the young lord and the young lady right into her mashes. If none of 'em isn't married yet it won't be long so unless somebody interferes. If you don't believe me do you send to the 'Duchess of Edinburgh' at the corner, and you'll find that they know all about it. Now, my Lady Marchioness, I've thought it my duty to tell you all this because I don't like to see a noble family put upon. There isn't nothing for me to get out of it myself. But I do it just as one of the family's well-wishers. Therefore I sign myself your very respectful, A WELL-WISHER. The young lady had told her story completely as far as her object was concerned, which was simply that of making mischief. But the business of anonymous letter-writing was one not new to her hand. It is easy, and offers considerable excitement to the minds of those whose time hangs heavy on their hands. The Marchioness, though she would probably have declared beforehand that anonymous letters were of all things the most contemptible, nevertheless read this more than once with a great deal of care. And she believed it altogether. As to Lady Frances, of course she knew the allegations to be true. Seeing that the writer was so well acquainted with the facts as to Lady Frances, why should she be less well-informed in reference to Lord Hampstead? Such a marriage as this with the Quaker girl was exactly the sort of match which Hampstead would be pleased to make. Then she was especially annoyed by the publicity of the whole affair. That Holloway and the drivers of the omnibuses, and the "Duchess of Edinburgh" should know all the secrets of her husband's family,--should be able to discuss the disgrace to which "her own darlings" would be subjected, was terrible to her. But perhaps the sting that went sharpest to her heart was that which came from the fact that Lord Hampstead was about to be married at all. Let the wife be a Quaker or what not, let her be as low as any woman that could be found within the sound of Bow Bells, still, if the marriage ceremony were once pronounced over them, that woman's son would become Lord Highgate, and would be heir to all the wealth and all the titles of the Marquis of Kingsbury,--to the absolute exclusion of the eldest-born of her own darlings. She had had her hopes in the impracticability of Lord Hampstead. Such men as that, she had told herself, were likely to keep themselves altogether free of marriage. He would not improbably, she thought, entertain some abominable but not unlucky idea that marriage in itself was an absurdity. At any rate, there was hope as long as he could be kept unmarried. Were he to marry and then have a son, even though he broke his neck out hunting next day, no good would come of it. In this condition of mind she thought it well to show the letter to Mr. Greenwood before she read it to her husband. Lord Kingsbury was still very ill,--so ill as to have given rise to much apprehension; but still it would be necessary to discuss this letter with him, ill as he might be. Only it should be first discussed with Mr. Greenwood. Mr. Greenwood's face became flatter, and his jaw longer, and his eyes more like gooseberries as he read the letter. He had gradually trained himself to say and to hear all manner of evil things about Lady Frances in the presence of the Marchioness. He had too accustomed himself to speak of Lord Hampstead as a great obstacle which it would be well if the Lord would think proper to take out of the way. He had also so far followed the lead of his patroness as to be deep if not loud in his denunciations of the folly of the Marquis. The Marquis had sent him word that he had better look out for a new home, and without naming an especial day for his dismissal, had given him to understand that it would not be convenient to receive him again in the house in Park Lane. But the Marquis had been ill when he had thus expressed his displeasure,--and was now worse. It might be that the Marquis himself would never again visit Park Lane. As no positive limit had been fixed for Mr. Greenwood's departure from Trafford Park, there he remained,--and there he intended to remain for the present. As he folded up the letter carefully after reading it slowly, he only shook his head. "Is it true, I wonder?" asked the Marchioness. "There is no reason why it should not be." "That's just what I say to myself. We know it is true about Fanny. Of course there's that Mr. Roden, and the Mrs. Roden. When the writer knows so much, there is reason to believe the rest." "A great many people do tell a great many lies," said Mr. Greenwood. "I suppose there is such a person as this Quaker,--and that there is such a girl?" "Quite likely." "If so, why shouldn't Hampstead fall in love with her? Of course he's always going to the street because of his friend Roden." "Not a doubt, Lady Kingsbury." "What ought we to do?" To this question Mr. Greenwood was not prepared with an immediate answer. If Lord Hampstead chose to get himself married to a Quaker's daughter, how could it be helped? "His father would hardly have any influence over him now." Mr. Greenwood shook his head. "And yet he must be told." Mr. Greenwood nodded his head. "Perhaps something might be done about the property." "He wouldn't care two straws about settlements," said Mr. Greenwood. "He doesn't care about anything he ought to. If I were to write and ask him, would he tell the truth about this marriage?" "He wouldn't tell the truth about anything," said Mr. Greenwood. The Marchioness passed this by, though she knew it at the moment to be calumny. But she was not unwilling to hear calumny against Lord Hampstead. "There used to be ways," she said, "in which a marriage of that kind could be put on one side afterwards." "You must put it on one side before, now-a-days, if you mean to do it at all," said the clergyman. "But how?--how?" "If he could be got out of the way." "How out of the way?" "Well;--that's what I don't know. Suppose he could be made to go out yachting, and she be married to somebody else when he's at sea!" Lady Kingsbury felt that her friend was but little good at a stratagem. But she felt also that she was not very good herself. She could wish; but wishing in such matters is very vain. She had right on her side. She was quite confident as to that. There could be no doubt but that "gods and men" would desire to see her little Lord Frederic succeed to the Marquisate rather than this infidel Republican. If this wretched Radical could be kept from marrying there would evidently be room for hope, because there was the fact,--proved by the incontestable evidence of Burke's Peerage,--that younger sons did so often succeed. But if another heir were to be born, then, as far as she was aware, Burke's Peerage promised her nothing. "It's a pity he shouldn't break his neck out hunting," said Mr. Greenwood. "Even that wouldn't be much if he were to be married first," said the Marchioness. Every day she went to her husband for half-an-hour before her lunch, at which time the nurse who attended him during the day was accustomed to go to her dinner. He had had a physician down from London since his son had visited him, and the physician had told the Marchioness that though there was not apparently any immediate danger, still the symptoms were such as almost to preclude a hope of ultimate recovery. When this opinion had been pronounced there had arisen between the Marchioness and the chaplain a discussion as to whether Lord Hampstead should be once again summoned. The Marquis himself had expressed no such wish. A bulletin of a certain fashion had been sent three or four times a week to Hendon Hall purporting to express the doctor's opinion of the health of their noble patient; but the bulletin had not been scrupulously true. Neither of the two conspirators had wished to have Lord Hampstead at Trafford Park. Lady Kingsbury was anxious to make the separation complete between her own darlings and their brother, and Mr. Greenwood remembered, down to every tittle of a word and tone, the insolence of the rebuke which he had received from the heir. But if Lord Kingsbury were really to be dying, then they would hardly dare to keep his son in ignorance. "I've got something I'd better show you," she said, as she seated herself by her husband's sofa. Then she proceeded to read to him the letter, without telling him as she did so that it was anonymous. When he had heard the first paragraph he demanded to know the name of the writer. "I'd better read it all first," said the Marchioness. And she did read it all to the end, closing it, however, without mentioning the final "Well-Wisher." "Of course it's anonymous," she said, as she held the letter in her hand. "Then I don't believe a word of it," said the Marquis. "Very likely not; but yet it sounds true." "I don't think it sounds true at all. Why should it be true? There is nothing so wicked as anonymous letters." "If it isn't true about Hampstead it's true at any rate of Fanny. That man comes from Holloway, and Paradise Row and the 'Duchess of Edinburgh.' Where Fanny goes for her lover, Hampstead is likely to follow. 'Birds of a feather flock together.'" "I won't have you speak of my children in that way," said the sick lord. "What can I do? Is it not true about Fanny? If you wish it, I will write to Hampstead and ask him all about it." In order to escape from the misery of the moment he assented to this proposition. The letter being anonymous had to his thinking been disgraceful and therefore he had disbelieved it. And having induced himself to disbelieve the statements made, he had been drawn into expressing,--or at any rate to acknowledging by his silence,--a conviction that such a marriage as that proposed with Marion Fay would be very base. Her ladyship felt therefore that if Lord Hampstead could be got to acknowledge the engagement, something would have been done towards establishing a quarrel between the father and the son. "Has that man gone yet?" he asked as his wife rose to leave the room. "Has what man gone?" "Mr. Greenwood." "Gone? How should he have gone? It has never been expected that he should go by this time. I don't see why he should go at all. He was told that you would not again require his services up in London. As far as I know, that is all that has been said about going." The poor man turned himself on his sofa angrily, but did not at the moment give any further instructions as to the chaplain's departure. "He wants to know why you have not gone," Lady Kingsbury said to the clergyman that afternoon. "Where am I to go to?" whined the unfortunate one. "Does he mean to say that I am to be turned out into the road at a moment's notice because I can't approve of what Lady Frances is doing? I haven't had any orders as to going. If I am to go I suppose he will make some arrangement first." Lady Kingsbury said what she could to comfort him, and explained that there was no necessity for his immediate departure. Perhaps the Marquis might not think of it again for another week or two; and there was no knowing in what condition they might find themselves. Her ladyship's letter to her stepson was as follows; and by return of post her stepson's answer came;-- MY DEAR HAMPSTEAD,-- Tidings have reached your father that you have engaged yourself to marry a girl, the daughter of a Quaker named Fay, living at No. 17, Paradise Row. He, the Quaker, is represented as being a clerk in a counting-house in the City. Of the girl your father has heard nothing, but can only imagine that she should be such as her position would make probable. He desires me to ask you whether there is any truth in the statement. You will observe that I express no opinion myself whether it be true or false, whether proper or improper. After your conduct the other day I should not think of interfering myself; but your father wishes me to ask for his information. Yours truly, CLARA KINGSBURY. Hampstead's answer was very short, but quite sufficient for the purpose;-- MY DEAR LADY KINGSBURY, I am not engaged to marry Miss Fay,--as yet. I think that I may be some day soon. Yours affectionately, HAMPSTEAD. By the same post he wrote a letter to his father, and that shall also be shown to the reader. MY DEAR FATHER,-- I have received a letter from Lady Kingsbury, asking me as to a report of an engagement between me and a young lady named Marion Fay. I am sorry that her writing should be evidence that you are hardly yet strong enough to write yourself. I trust that it may not long be so. Would you wish to see me again at Trafford? I do not like to go there without the expression of a wish from you; but I hold myself in readiness to start whenever you may desire it. I had hoped from the last accounts that you were becoming stronger. I do not know how you may have heard anything of Marion Fay. Had I engaged myself to her, or to any other young lady, I should have told you at once. I do not know whether a young man is supposed to declare his own failures in such matters, when he has failed,--even to his father. But, as I am ashamed of nothing in the matter, I will avow that I have asked the young lady to be my wife, but she has as yet declined. I shall ask her again, and still hope to succeed. She is the daughter of a Mr. Fay who, as Lady Kingsbury says, is a Quaker, and is a clerk in a house in the City. As he is in all respects a good man, standing high for probity and honour among those who know him, I cannot think that there is any drawback. She, I think, has all the qualities which I would wish to find in the woman whom I might hope to make my wife. They live at No. 17, Paradise Row, Holloway. Lady Kingsbury, indeed, is right in all her details. Pray let me have a line, if not from yourself, at any rate dictated by you, to say how you are. Your affectionate son, HAMPSTEAD. It was impossible to keep the letter from Lady Kingsbury. It thus became a recognized fact by the Marquis, by the Marchioness, and by Mr. Greenwood, that Hampstead was going to marry the Quaker's daughter. As to that pretence of a refusal, it went for nothing, even with the father. Was it probable that a Quaker's daughter, the daughter of a merchant's clerk out of the City, should refuse to become a Marchioness? The sick man was obliged to express anger, having been already made to treat the report as incredible because of the disgrace which would accompany it, if true. Had he been left to himself he would have endeavoured to think as little about it as possible. Not to quarrel with his two eldest children was the wish that was now strongest at his heart. But his wife recalled the matter to him at each of the two daily visits which she made. "What can I do?" he was driven to ask on the third morning. "Mr. Greenwood suggests--," began his wife, not intending to irritate him, having really forgotten at the moment that no suggestion coming from Mr. Greenwood could be welcome to him. "D---- Mr. Greenwood," he shouted, lifting himself up erect from the pillows on his sofa. The Marchioness was in truth so startled by the violence of his movement, and by the rage expressed on his haggard face, that she jumped from her chair with unexpected surprise. "I desire," said the Marquis, "that that man shall leave the house by the end of this month." CHAPTER X. KING'S COURT, OLD BROAD STREET. Hampstead received the letter from Lady Kingsbury, and answered it on Saturday, the 3rd of January, having at that time taken no active steps in regard to Marion Fay after the rejection of his suit on the day following Christmas. Eight days had thus elapsed, and he had done nothing. He had done nothing, though there was not an hour in the day in which he was not confirming his own resolve to do something by which he might make Marion Fay his own. He felt that he could hardly go to the girl again immediately after the expression of her resolution. At first he thought that he would write to her, and did sit down to the table for that purpose; but as he strove to produce words which might move her, he told himself that the words which he might speak would be better. Then he rode half way to Holloway, with the object of asking aid from Mrs. Roden; but he returned without completing his purpose, telling himself that any such aid, even if it could be obtained, would avail him nothing. In such a contest, if a man cannot succeed by his own doing, surely he will not do so by the assistance of any one else; and thus he was in doubt. After having written to Lady Kingsbury and his father he reflected that, in his father's state of health, he ought to go again to Trafford Park. If it were only for a day or for an hour he ought to see his father. He knew that he was not wanted by his stepmother. He knew also that no desire to see him had reached him from the Marquis. He was afraid that the Marquis himself did not wish to see him. It was almost impossible for him to take his sister to the house unless an especial demand for her attendance was made; and he could not very well leave her alone for any lengthened period. Nevertheless he determined to make a rapid run into Shropshire, with the intention of returning the following day, unless he found the state of his father's health so bad as to make it expedient that he should remain. He intended to hunt on the Monday and the Tuesday, travelling from London to Leighton and back. But he would leave London by the night mail train from Paddington on Wednesday evening so as to reach Trafford Park House on the following morning between four and five. It was a journey which he had often made before in the same manner, and to which the servants at Trafford were well accustomed. Even at that time in the morning he would walk to the Park from the station, which was four miles distant, leaving his luggage, if he had any, to be sent for on the following morning; but he would usually travel without luggage, having all things necessary for his use in his own room at Trafford. It had hitherto been his custom to acquaint his sister with his manoeuvres on these occasions, having never been free in his correspondence with his stepmother. He had written or telegraphed to Lady Frances, and she had quite understood that his instructions, whatever they might be, were to be obeyed. But Lady Frances was no longer a resident at Trafford Park, and he therefore telegraphed to the old butler, who had been a servant in the family from a period previous to his own birth. This telegram he sent on the Monday, as follows;--"Shall be at Trafford Thursday morning, 4.30 A.M. Will walk over. Let Dick be up. Have room ready. Tell my father." He fixed Wednesday night for his journey, having made up his mind to devote a portion of the Wednesday morning to the business which he had on hand in reference to Marion Fay. It was not the proper thing, he thought, to go to a girl's father for permission to ask the girl to be his wife, before the girl had herself assented; but the circumstances in this case were peculiar. It had seemed to him that Marion's only reason for rejecting him was based on disparity in their social condition,--which to his thinking was the worst reason that could be given. It might be that the reason had sprung from some absurd idea originating with the Quaker father; or it might be that the Quaker father would altogether disapprove of any such reason. At any rate he would be glad to know whether the old man was for him or against him. And with the object of ascertaining this, he determined that he would pay a visit to the office in King's Court on the Wednesday morning. He could not endure the thought of leaving London,--it might be for much more than the one day intended,--without making some effort in regard to the object which was nearest his heart. Early in the day he walked into Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird's office, and saw Mr. Tribbledale seated on a high stool behind a huge desk, which nearly filled up the whole place. He was rather struck by the smallness and meanness of Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird's premises, which, from a certain nobility belonging to the Quaker's appearance, he would have thought to be spacious and important. It is impossible not to connect ideas after this fashion. Pogson and Littlebird themselves carried in their own names no flavour of commercial grandeur. Had they been only known to Hampstead by their name, any small mercantile retreat at the top of the meanest alley in the City might have sufficed for them. But there was something in the demeanour of Zachary Fay which seemed to give promise of one of those palaces of trade which are now being erected in every street and lane devoted in the City to business. Nothing could be less palatial than Pogson and Littlebird's counting-house. Hampstead had entered it from a little court, which it seemed to share with one other equally unimportant tenement opposite to it, by a narrow low passage. Here he saw two doors only, through one of which he passed, as it was open, having noticed that the word "Private" was written on the other. Here he found himself face to face with Tribbledale and with a little boy who sat at Tribbledale's right hand on a stool equally high. Of these two, as far as he could see, consisted the establishment of Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird. "Could I see Mr. Fay?" asked Hampstead. "Business?" suggested Tribbledale. "Not exactly. That is to say, my business is private." Then there appeared a face looking at him over a screen about five feet and a-half high, which divided off from the small apartment a much smaller apartment, having, as Hampstead now regarded it, the appearance of a cage. In this cage, small as it was, there was a desk, and there were two chairs; and here Zachary Fay carried on the business of his life, and transacted most of those affairs appertaining to Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird which could be performed in an office. Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird themselves, though they had a room of their own, to which that door marked "Private" belonged, were generally supposed to be walking on 'Change as British merchants should do, or making purchases of whole ships' cargos in the Docks, or discounting bills, the least of which would probably represent £10,000. The face which looked over the barrier of the cage at Lord Hampstead was of course that of Zachary Fay. "Lord Hampstead!" he said, with surprise. "Oh, Mr. Fay, how do you do? I have something I want to say to you. Could you spare me five minutes?" The Quaker opened the door of the cage and asked Lord Hampstead to walk in. Tribbledale, who had heard and recognized the name, stared hard at the young nobleman,--at his friend Crocker's noble friend, at the lord of whom it had been asserted positively that he was engaged to marry Mr. Fay's daughter. The boy, too, having heard that the visitor was a lord, stared also. Hampstead did as he was bid, but remembering that the inhabitant of the cage had at once heard what had been said in the office, felt that it would be impossible for him to carry on his conversation about Marion without other protection from the ears of the world. "It is a little private what I have to say," remarked Hampstead. The Quaker looked towards the private room. "Old Mr. Pogson is there," whispered Tribbledale. "I heard him come in a quarter of an hour ago." "Perhaps thou wouldst not mind walking up and down the yard," said the Quaker. Hampstead of course walked out, but on looking about him found that the court was very small for the communication which he had to make. Space would be required, so that he might not be troubled by turning when he was in the midst of his eloquence. Half-a-dozen steps would carry him the whole length of King's Court; and who could tell his love-story in a walk limited to six steps? "Perhaps we might go out into the street?" he suggested. "Certainly, my lord," said the Quaker. "Tribbledale, should any one call before I return, and be unable to wait for five minutes, I shall be found outside the court, not above fifty yards either to the right or to the left." Hampstead, thus limited to a course not exceeding a hundred yards in one of the most crowded thoroughfares of the City, began the execution of his difficult task. "Mr. Fay," he said, "are you aware of what has passed between me and your daughter Marion?" "Hardly, my lord." "Has she told you nothing of it?" "Yea, my lord; she has in truth told me much. She has told me no doubt all that it behoves a father to hear from a daughter in such circumstances. I live on such terms with my Marion that there are not many secrets kept by either of us from the other." "Then you do know?" "I know that your lordship tendered to her your hand,--honestly, nobly, and truly, as I take it." "With perfect honesty and perfect truth most certainly." "And I know also that she declined the honour thus offered her." "She did." "Is this you, Zachary? How are you this morning?" This came from a stout, short, red-faced man, who stopped them, standing in the middle of the pavement. "Well, I thank thee, Mr. Gruby. At this moment I am particularly engaged. That is Jonathan Gruby," said the Quaker to his companion as soon as the stout man had walked on; "one of the busiest men in the City. You have heard probably of Gruby and Inderwald." Hampstead had never heard of Gruby and Inderwald, and wished that the stout man had been minding his business at that moment. "But as to Miss Fay," he said, endeavouring to continue to tell his love-story. "Yes, as to Marion. I hardly do know what passed between you two, not having heard the reasons she gave thee." "No reasons at all;--nothing worth speaking of between persons who know anything of the world." "Did she tell thee that she did not love thee, my lord?--because that to my thinking would be reason enough." "Nothing of the kind. I don't mean to boast, but I don't see why she should not like me well enough." "Nor in sooth do I either." "What, Zachary; you walking about at this busy time of the day?" "I am walking about, Sir Thomas. It is not customary with me, but I am walking about." Then he turned on his heel, moved almost to dudgeon by the interruption, and walked the other way. "Sir Thomas Bolster, my lord; a very busy sort of gentleman, but one who has done well in the world.--Nor in sooth do I either; but this is a matter in which a young maiden must decide for herself. I shall not bid her not to love thee, but I cannot bid her to do so." "It isn't that, Mr. Fay. Of course I have no right to pretend to any regard from her. But as to that there has been no question." "What did she say to thee?" "Some trash about rank." "Nay, my lord, it is not trash. I cannot hear thee speak so of thine own order without contradiction." "Am I to be like a king in the old days, who was forced to marry any ugly old princess that might be found for him, even though she were odious to him? I will have nothing to do with rank on such terms. I claim the right to please myself, as do other men, and I come to you as father to the young lady to ask from you your assistance in winning her to be my wife." At this moment up came Tribbledale running from the office. "There is Cooke there," said Tribbledale, with much emphasis in his voice, as though Cooke's was a very serious affair; "from Pollock and Austen's." "Is not Mr. Pogson within?" "He went out just after you. Cooke says that it's most important that he should see some one immediately." "Tell him that he must wait yet five minutes longer," said Zachary Fay, frowning. Tribbledale, awestruck as he bethought himself how great were the affairs of Pollock and Austen, retreated back hurriedly to the court. "You know what I mean, Mr. Fay," continued Lord Hampstead. "I know well what thou meanest, my lord. I think I know what thou meanest. Thou meanest to offer to my girl not only high rank and great wealth, but, which should be of infinitely more value to her, the heart and the hand of an honest man. I believe thee to be an honest man, my lord." "In this matter, Mr. Fay, at any rate, I am." "In all matters as I believe; and how should I, being such a one as I am, not be willing to give my girl to such a suitor as thee? And what is it now?" he shrieked in his anger, as the little boy off the high stool came rushing to him. "Mr. Pogson has just come back, Mr. Fay, and he says that he can't find those letters from Pollock and Austen anywhere about the place. He wants them immediately, because he can't tell the prices named without seeing them." "Lord Hampstead," said the Quaker, almost white with rage, "I must pray thee to excuse me for five minutes." Hampstead promised that he would confine himself to the same uninteresting plot of ground till the Quaker should return to him, and then reflected that there were certain reasons upon which he had not calculated against falling in love with the daughter of a City clerk. "We will go a little further afield," said the Quaker, when he returned, "so that we may not be troubled again by those imbeciles in the court. It is little, however, that I have to say to thee further. Thou hast my leave." "I am glad of that." "And all my sympathies. But, my lord, I suppose I had better tell the truth." "Oh, certainly." "My girl fears that her health may fail her." "Her health!" "It is that as I think. She has not said so to me openly; but I think it is that. Her mother died early,--and her brothers and her sisters. It is a sad tale, my lord." "But need that hinder her?" "I think not, my lord. But it must be for thee to judge. As far as I know she is as fit to become a man's wife as are other girls. Her health has not failed her. She is not robust, but she does her work in looking after my household, such as it is, well and punctually. I think that her mind is pervaded with vain terrors. Now I have told thee all, placing full confidence in thee as in an honest man. There is my house. Thou art welcome to go there if it seemeth thee good, and to deal with Marion in this matter as thy love and thy judgment may direct thee." Having said this he returned hurriedly to King's Court as though he feared that Tribbledale or the boy might again find him out. So far Hampstead had succeeded; but he was much troubled in his mind by what he had heard as to Marion's health. Not that it occurred to him for a moment that such a marriage as he contemplated would be undesirable because his Marion might become ill. He was too thoroughly in love to entertain such an idea. Nor is it one which can find ready entrance into the mind of a young man who sees a girl blooming with the freshness and beauty of youth. It would have seemed to him, had he thought about it at all, that Marion's health was perfect. But he was afraid of her obstinacy, and he felt that this objection might be more binding on her than that which she put forward in reference to his rank. He went back, therefore, to Hendon Hall only half-satisfied,--sometimes elated, but sometimes depressed. He would, however, go and discuss the matter with her at full length as soon as he should have returned from Shropshire. He would remain there only for one day,--though it might be necessary for him to repeat the journey almost immediately,--so that no time might be lost in using his eloquence upon Marion. After what had passed between him and the Quaker, he thought that he was almost justified in assuring himself that the girl did in truth love him. "Give my father my kindest love," said Lady Frances, as her brother was about to start for the train. "Of course I will." "And tell him that I will start at a moment's notice whenever he may wish to see me." "In such case of course I should take you." "And be courteous to her if you can." "I doubt whether she will allow me. If she abuses you or insults me I must answer her." "I wouldn't." "You would be more ready than I am. One cannot but answer her because she expects to hear something said in return. I shall keep out of her way as much as possible. I shall have my breakfast brought to me in my own room to-morrow, and shall then remain with my father as much as possible. If I leave him at all I shall get a walk. There will only be the dinner. As to one thing I have quite made up my mind. Nothing shall drive me into having any words with Mr. Greenwood;--unless, indeed, my father were to ask me to speak to him." CHAPTER XI. MR. GREENWOOD BECOMES AMBITIOUS. Mr. Greenwood was still anxious as to the health of the Rector of Appleslocombe. There might be even yet a hope for him; but his chance, he thought, would be better with the present Marquis--ill-disposed towards him as the Marquis was--than with the heir. The Marquis was weary of him, and anxious to get rid of him,--was acting very meanly to him, as Mr. Greenwood thought, having offered him £1000 as a final payment for a whole life's attention. The Marquis, who had ever been a liberal man, had now, perhaps on his death-bed, become unjust, harsh, and cruel. But he was weak and forgetful, and might possibly be willing to save his money and get rid of the nuisance of the whole affair by surrendering the living. This was Mr. Greenwood's reading of the circumstances as they at present existed. But the Marquis could not dispose of the living while the Rector was still alive; nor could he even promise it, to any good effect, without his son's assent. That Lord Hampstead would neither himself so bestow his patronage or allow it to be so bestowed, Mr. Greenwood was very sure. There had been that between him and Lord Hampstead which convinced him that the young man was more hostile to him even than the father. The Marquis, as Mr. Greenwood thought, had insulted him of late;--but Lord Hampstead, young as he was, had also been insolent; and what was worse, he had insulted Lord Hampstead. There had been something in the young lord's eye which had assured him of the young lord's contempt as well as dislike. If anything could be done about the living it must be done by the Marquis. The Marquis was very ill; but it was still probable that the old rector should die first. He had been given to understand that the old rector could hardly live many weeks. Mr. Greenwood understood but little of the young lord's character. The Marquis, no doubt, he knew well, having lived with him for many years. When he supposed his patron to be fretful and irascible because of his infirmities, but to be by nature forgiving, unreasonable, and weak, he drew an easy portrait, which was like the person portrayed. But in attributing revenge, or harshness, or pride of power to Lord Hampstead he was altogether wrong. As regarded Appleslocombe and other parishes, the patronage of which would some day belong to him, Lord Hampstead had long since made up his mind that he would have nothing to do with them, feeling himself unfit to appoint clergymen to ministrations in a Church to which he did not consider himself to belong. All that he would leave to the Bishop, thinking that the Bishop must know more about it than himself. Was his father, however, to make any request to him with reference to Appleslocombe especially, he would no doubt regard the living as bestowed before his father's death. But of all this Mr. Greenwood could understand nothing. He felt, however, that as the Marquis had given him cause for anger, so had the young lord given him cause for hatred as well as anger. Daily, almost hourly, these matters were discussed between Lady Kingsbury and the chaplain. There had come to be strong sympathy between them as far as sympathy can exist where the feelings are much stronger on the one side than on the other. The mother of the "darlings" had allowed herself to inveigh very bitterly against her husband's children by his former marriage, and at first had been received only half way by her confidential friend. But of late her confidential friend had become more animated and more bitter than herself, and had almost startled her by the boldness of his denunciations. She in her passion had allowed herself more than once to express a wish that her stepson--were dead. She had hardly in truth meant as much as she implied,--or meaning it had hardly thought of what she meant. But the chaplain taking the words from her lips, had repeated them till she was almost terrified by their iniquity and horror. He had no darlings to justify him! No great injury had been done to him by an unkind fortune! Great as were the sin of Lord Hampstead and his sister, they could bring no disgrace upon him! And yet there was a settled purpose of hatred in his words which frightened her, though she could not bring herself to oppose them. She in her rage had declared that it would be well that Lord Hampstead should break his neck out hunting or go down in his yacht at sea; and she had been gratified to find that her friend had sanctioned her ill-wishes. But when Mr. Greenwood spoke as though something might possibly be done to further those wishes, then she almost repented herself. She had been induced to say that if any power should come to her of bestowing the living of Appleslocombe she would bestow it on Mr. Greenwood. Were Lord Hampstead to die before the Marquis, and were the Marquis to die before the old rector, such power would belong to her during the minority of her eldest son. There had, therefore, been some meaning in the promise; and the clergyman had referred to it more than once or twice. "It is most improbable, you know, Mr. Greenwood," she had said very seriously. He had replied as seriously that such improbabilities were of frequent occurrence. "If it should happen I will do so," she had answered. But after that she had never of her own accord referred to the probability of Lord Hampstead's death. From day to day there grew upon her a feeling that she had subjected herself to domination, almost to tyranny from Mr. Greenwood. The man whom she had known intimately during her entire married life now appeared to assume different proportions and almost a different character. He would still stand before her with his flabby hands hanging listlessly by his side, and with eyes apparently full of hesitation, and would seem to tremble as though he feared the effect of his own words; but still the words that fell from him were felt to be bonds from which she could not escape. When he looked at her from his lack-lustre eyes, fixing them upon her for minutes together, till the minutes seemed to be hours, she became afraid. She did not confess to herself that she had fallen into his power; nor did she realize the fact that it was so; but without realizing it she was dominated, so that she also began to think that it would be well that the chaplain should be made to leave Trafford Park. He, however, continued to discuss with her all family matters as though his services were indispensable to her; and she was unable to answer him in such a way as to reject his confidences. The telegram reached the butler as to Hampstead's coming on the Monday, and was, of course, communicated at once to Lord Kingsbury. The Marquis, who was now confined to his bed, expressed himself as greatly gratified, and himself told the news to his wife. She, however, had already heard it, as had also the chaplain. It quickly went through the whole household, in which among the servants there existed an opinion that Lord Hampstead ought to have been again sent for some days since. The Doctor had hinted as much to the Marchioness, and had said so plainly to the butler. Mr. Greenwood had expressed to her ladyship his belief that the Marquis had no desire to see his son, and that the son certainly had no wish to pay another visit to Trafford. "He cares more about the Quaker's daughter than anything else," he had said,--"about her and his hunting. He and his sister consider themselves as separated from the whole of the family. I should leave them alone if I were you." Then she had said a faint word to her husband, and had extracted from him something that was supposed to be the expression of a wish that Lord Hampstead should not be disturbed. Now Lord Hampstead was coming without any invitation. "Going to walk over, is he, in the middle of the night?" said Mr. Greenwood, preparing to discuss the matter with the Marchioness. There was something of scorn in his voice, as though he were taking upon himself to laugh at Lord Hampstead for having chosen this way of reaching his father's house. "He often does that," said the Marchioness. "It's an odd way of coming into a sick house,--to disturb it in the middle of the night." Mr. Greenwood, as he spoke, stood looking at her ladyship severely. "How am I to help it? I don't suppose anybody will be disturbed at all. He'll come round to the side door, and one of the servants will be up to let him in. He always does things differently from anybody else." "One would have thought that when his father was dying--" "Don't say that, Mr. Greenwood. There's nothing to make you say that. The Marquis is very ill, but nobody has said that he's so bad as that." Mr. Greenwood shook his head, but did not move from the position in which he was standing. "I suppose that on this occasion Hampstead is doing what is right." "I doubt whether he ever does what is right. I am only thinking that if anything should happen to the Marquis, how very bad it would be for you and the young lords." "Won't you sit down, Mr. Greenwood?" said the Marchioness, to whom the presence of the standing chaplain had become almost intolerable. The man sat down,--not comfortably in his chair, but hardly more than on the edge of it, so as still to have that air of restraint which had annoyed his companion. "As I was saying, if anything should happen to my lord it would be very sad for your ladyship and for Lord Frederick, and Lord Augustus, and Lord Gregory." "We are all in the hands of God," said her ladyship, piously. "Yes;--we are all in the hands of God. But it is the Lord's intention that we should all look out for ourselves, and do the best we can to avoid injustice, and cruelty, and,--and--robbery." "I do not think there will be any robbery, Mr. Greenwood." "Would it not be robbery if you and their little lordships should be turned at once out of this house?" "It would be his own;--Lord Hampstead's,--of course. I should have Slocombe Abbey in Somersetshire. As far as a house goes, I should like it better than this. Of course it is much smaller;--but what comfort do I ever have out of a house like this?" "That's true enough. But why?" "There is no good in talking about it, Mr. Greenwood." "I cannot help talking about it. It is because Lady Frances has broken up the family by allowing herself to be engaged to a young man beneath her own station in life." Here he shook his head, as he always did when he spoke of Lady Frances. "As for Lord Hampstead, I look upon it as a national misfortune that he should outlive his father." "What can we do?" "Well, my lady; it is hard to say. What will my feelings be, should anything happen to the Marquis, and should I be left to the tender mercies of his eldest son? I should have no claim upon Lord Hampstead for a shilling. As he is an infidel, of course he would not want a chaplain. Indeed I could not reconcile it to my conscience to remain with him. I should be cast out penniless, having devoted all my life, as I may say, to his lordship's service." "He has offered you a thousand pounds." "A thousand pounds, for the labours of a whole life! And what assurance shall I have of that? I don't suppose he has ever dreamed of putting it into his will. And if he has, what will a thousand pounds do for me? You can go to Slocombe Abbey. But the rectory, which was as good as promised, will be closed against me." The Marchioness knew that this was a falsehood, but did not dare to tell him so. The living had been talked about between them till it was assumed that he had a right to it. "If the young man were out of the way," he continued, "there would be some chance for me." "I cannot put him out of the way," said the Marchioness. "And some chance for Lord Frederic and his brothers." "You need not tell me of that, Mr. Greenwood." "But one has to look the truth in the face. It is for your sake that I have been anxious,--rather than my own. You must own that." She would not own anything of the kind. "I suppose there was no doubt about the first marriage?" "None at all," said the Marchioness, terrified. "Though it was thought very odd at the time. It ought to be looked to, I think. No stone ought to be left unturned." "There is nothing to be hoped for in that direction, Mr. Greenwood." "It ought to be looked to;--that's all. Only think what it will be if he marries, and has a son before anything is--is settled." To this Lady Kingsbury made no answer; and after a pause Mr. Greenwood turned to his own grievances. "I shall make bold," he said, "to see the Marquis once again before Lord Hampstead comes down. He cannot but acknowledge that I have a great right to be anxious. I do not suppose that any promise would be sacred in his son's eyes, but I must do the best I can." To this her ladyship would make no answer, and they parted, not in the best humour with each other. That was on the Monday. On the Tuesday Mr. Greenwood, having asked to be allowed an interview, crept slowly into the sick man's room. "I hope your lordship find yourself better this morning?" The sick man turned in his bed, and only made some feeble grunt in reply. "I hear that Lord Hampstead is coming down to-morrow, my lord." "Why should he not come?" There must have been something in the tone of Mr. Greenwood's voice which had grated against the sick man's ears, or he would not have answered so sulkily. "Oh, no, my lord. I did not mean to say that there was any reason why his lordship should not come. Perhaps it might have been better had he come earlier." "It wouldn't have been at all better." "I only just meant to make the remark, my lord; there was nothing in it." "Nothing at all," said the sick man. "Was there anything else you wished to say, Mr. Greenwood?" The nurse all this time was sitting in the room, which the chaplain felt to be uncomfortable. "Could we be alone for a few minutes, my lord?" he asked. "I don't think we could," said the sick man. "There are a few points which are of so much importance to me, Lord Kingsbury." "I ain't well enough to talk business, and I won't do it. Mr. Roberts will be here to-morrow, and you can see him." Mr. Roberts was a man of business, or agent to the property, who lived at Shrewsbury, and whom Mr. Greenwood especially disliked. Mr. Greenwood being a clergyman was, of course, supposed to be a gentleman, and regarded Mr. Roberts as being much beneath himself. It was not customary for Mr. Roberts to dine at the house, and he was therefore regarded by the chaplain as being hardly more than an upper servant. It was therefore very grievous to him to be told that he must discuss his own private affairs and make his renewed request as to the living through Mr. Roberts. It was evidently intended that he should have no opportunity of discussing his private affairs. Whatever the Marquis might offer him he must take; and that, as far as he could see, without any power of redress on his side. If Mr. Roberts were to offer him a thousand pounds, he could only accept the cheque and depart with it from Trafford Park, shaking off from his feet the dust which such ingratitude would forbid him to carry with him. He was in the habit of walking daily for an hour before sunset, moving very slowly up and down the driest of the roads near the house, generally with his hands clasped behind his back, believing that in doing so he was consulting his health, and maintaining that bodily vigour which might be necessary to him for the performance of the parochial duties at Appleslocombe. Now when he had left the bed-room of the Marquis he went out of the front door, and proceeded on his walk at a somewhat quicker pace than usual. He was full of wrath, and his passion gave some alacrity to his movements. He was of course incensed against the Marquis; but his anger burnt hottest against Lord Hampstead. In this he was altogether unreasonable, for Lord Hampstead had said nothing and done nothing that could injure his position. Lord Hampstead disliked him and, perhaps, despised him, but had been anxious that the Marquis should be liberal in the mode of severing a connection which had lasted so long. But to Mr. Greenwood himself it was manifest that all his troubles came from the iniquities of his patron's two elder children; and he remembered at every moment that Lord Hampstead had insulted him when they were both together. He was certainly not a man to forgive an enemy, or to lose any opportunity for revenge which might come in his way. Certainly it would be good if the young man could be got to break his neck out hunting;--or good if the yacht could be made to founder, or go to pieces on a rock, or come to any other fatal maritime misfortune. But these were accidents which he personally could have no power to produce. Such wishing was infantine, and fit only for a weak woman, such as the Marchioness. If anything were to be done it must be done by some great endeavour; and the endeavour must come from himself. Then he reflected how far the Marchioness would certainly be in his power, if both the Marquis and his eldest son were dead. He did believe that he had obtained great influence over her. That she should rebel against him was of course on the cards. But he was aware that within the last month, since the date, indeed, at which the Marquis had threatened to turn him out of the house, he had made considerable progress in imposing himself upon her as a master. He gave himself in this respect much more credit than was in truth due to him. Lady Kingsbury, though she had learnt to fear him, had not so subjected herself to his influence as not to be able to throw him off should a time come at which it might be essential to her comfort to do so. But he had misread the symptoms, and had misread also the fretfulness of her impatience. He now assured himself that if anything could be done he might rely entirely on her support. After all that she had said to him, it would be impossible that she should throw him over. Thinking of all this, and thinking also how expedient it was that something should be done, he returned to the house when he had taken the exact amount of exercise which he supposed necessary for his health. CHAPTER XII. LIKE THE POOR CAT I' THE ADAGE. Wishing will do nothing. If a man has sufficient cause for action he should act. "Letting I dare not wait upon I would, Like the poor cat i' the adage," never can produce results. Cherries will not fall into your mouth without picking. "If it were done, when 'tis done then 'twere well it were done quickly." If grapes hang too high what is the use of thinking of them? Nevertheless,--"Where there's a will there's a way." But certainly no way will be found amidst difficulties, unless a man set himself to work seriously to look for it. With such self-given admonitions, counsels, and tags of old quotations as these, Mr. Greenwood went to work with himself on Monday night, and came to a conclusion that if anything were to be done it must be done at once. Then came the question--what was the thing to be done, and what at once meant? When a thing has to be done which requires a special summoning of resolution, it is too often something which ought not to be done. To virtuous deeds, if they recommend themselves to us at all, we can generally make up our minds more easily. It was pleasanter to Mr. Greenwood to think of the thing as something in the future, as something which might possibly get itself done for him by accident, than as an act the doing of which must fall into his own hands. Then came the "cat i' the adage," and the "when 'tis done then 'twere well," and the rest of it. Thursday morning, between four and five o' clock, when it would be pitch dark, with neither star nor moon in the heavens, when Lord Hampstead would certainly be alone in a certain spot, unattended and easily assailable;--would Thursday morning be the fittest time for any such deed as that which he had now in truth began to contemplate? When the thing presented itself to him in this new form, he recoiled from it. It cannot be said that Mr. Greenwood was a man of any strong religious feelings. He had been ordained early in life to a curacy, having probably followed, in choosing his profession, the bent given to him by his family connections, and had thus from circumstances fallen into the household of his present patron's uncle. From that to this he had never performed a service in a church, and his domestic services as chaplain had very soon become nothing. The old Lord Kingsbury had died very soon afterwards, and Mr. Greenwood's services had been continued rather as private secretary and librarian than as domestic chaplain. He had been crafty, willing, and, though anxious, he had been able to conceal his anxiety in that respect, and ready to obey when he found it necessary. In this manner he had come to his present condition of life, and had but few of the manners or feelings of a clergyman about him. He was quite willing to take a living if it should come in his way,--but to take it with a purpose that the duties should be chiefly performed by a curate. He was not a religious man; but when he came to look the matter in the face, not on that account could he regard himself as a possible murderer without terrible doubts. As he thought of it his first and prevailing fear did not come from the ignominious punishment which is attached to, and which generally attends, the crime. He has been described as a man flabby in appearance, as one who seemed to tremble in his shoes when called upon for any special words, as one who might be supposed to be devoid of strong physical daring. But the true character of the man was opposed to his outward bearing. Courage is a virtue of too high a nature to be included among his gifts; but he had that command of his own nerves, that free action of blood round his heart, that personal audacity coming from self-confidence, which is often taken to represent courage. Given the fact that he wanted an enemy out of the way, he could go to work to prepare to put him out of the way without exaggerated dread of the consequences as far as this world is concerned. He trusted much in himself, and thought it possible that he could so look through all the concomitant incidents of such an act as that he contemplated without allowing one to escape him which might lead to detection. He could so look at the matter, he thought, as to be sure whether this or the other plot might or might not be safe. It might be that no safe plot were possible, and that the attempt must therefore be abandoned. These, at any rate, were not the dangers which made him creep about in dismay at his own intentions. There were other dangers of which he could not shake off the dread. Whether he had any clear hope as to eternal bliss in another life, it may be doubted. He probably drove from his mind thoughts on the subject, not caring to investigate his own belief. It is the practice of many to have their minds utterly callous in that respect. To suppose that such men think this or think the other as to future rewards and punishments is to give them credit for a condition of mind to which they have never risen. Such a one was probably Mr. Greenwood; but nevertheless he feared something when this idea respecting Lord Hampstead presented itself to him. It was as is some boggy-bo to a child, some half-belief in a spectre to a nervous woman, some dread of undefined evil to an imaginative but melancholy man. He did not think that by meditating such a deed, by hardening his heart to the necessary resolution, by steeling himself up to its perpetration, he would bring himself into a condition unfitted for a life of bliss. His thoughts did not take any such direction. But though there might be no punishment in this world,--even though there were to be no other world in which punishment could come,--still something of evil would surely fall upon him. The convictions of the world since the days of Cain have all gone in that direction. It was thus that he allowed himself to be cowed, and to be made to declare to himself again and again that the project must be abandoned. But "the cat i' the adage" succeeded so far on the Tuesday in getting the better of his scruples, that he absolutely did form a plot. He did not as yet quite see his way to that security which would be indispensable;--but he did form a plot. Then came the bitter reflection that what he would do would be done for the benefit of others rather than his own. What would Lord Frederic know of his benefactor when he should come to the throne--as in such case he would do--as Marquis of Kingsbury? Lord Frederic would give him no thanks, even were he to know it,--which of course could never be the case. And why had not that woman assisted him,--she who had instigated him to the doing of the deed? "For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind," he said to himself over and over again, not, however, in truth thinking of the deed with any of the true remorse to which Macbeth was a prey. The "filing of his mind" only occurred to him because the words were otherwise apt. Would she even be grateful when she should tell herself,--as she surely would do,--that the deed had been done by the partner of her confidences? When he thought of the reward which was to come to him in payment of the intended deed something like a feeling of true conscience did arise within him. Might it not be the case that even he, callous as he was to most things, should find himself unable to go down to Appleslocombe and read himself in, as the phrase goes, as rector and pastor of the parish? He thought of this as he lay in his bed, and acknowledged to himself that his own audacity would probably be insufficient to carry him through such a struggle. But still on the morning when he rose he had not altogether rejected the idea. The young man had scorned him and had insulted him, and was hateful to him. But still why should he be the Macbeth, seeing that the Lady Macbeth of the occasion was untrue to him? In all this he was unaware how very little his Lady Macbeth had really meant when she had allowed herself in his presence to express wishes as to her stepson's death. He thought he saw his plan. The weapon was there ready to his hand;--a weapon which he had not bought, which could not be traced to him, which would certainly be fatal if used with the assurance of which he was confident. And there would be ample time for retreat. But still as he arranged it all in his mind he regarded it all not as a thing fixed, but as a thing which was barely possible. It was thus that it might be done, had the Lady Macbeth of the occasion really shown herself competent to such a task. Why should he trouble himself on such a matter? Why should he file his mind for Banquo's issue? Yet he looked at the pistol and at the window as he prepared to go up to her ladyship's room before lunch on the Wednesday morning. It certainly could be done, he said to himself, telling himself at the same time that all that had been passing in his own mind was no more than a vague speculation. A man is apt to speculate on things which have no reality to him, till they become real. He had assumed the practice of going to her ladyship's sitting-room up-stairs without a special summons, latterly to her ladyship's great disgust. When her quarrel had first become strong with Lady Frances she had no doubt received comfort from his support. But now she had become weary of him, and had sometimes been almost dismayed by the words he spoke to her. At half-past twelve punctually she went down to her husband's room, and it was now customary with the chaplain to visit her before she did so. She had more than once almost resolved to tell him that she preferred to be left alone during the morning. But she had not as yet assumed the courage to do this. She was aware that words had fallen from her in her anger which it was possible he might use against her, were she to subject herself to his displeasure. "Lord Hampstead will be here at half-past four--what you may call the middle of the night--to-morrow morning, Lady Kingsbury," said he, repeating an assertion which he had already made to her two or three times. As he did so he stood in the middle of the room, looking down upon her with a gaze under which she had often suffered, but which she did not in the least understand. "Of course I know he's coming." "Don't you think it a very improper time, with a sick man in the house?" "He won't disturb his father." "I don't know. There will be the opening and the shutting of the door, and the servant will be going about the passages, and there will be the bringing in of the luggage." "He won't have any luggage." Mr. Greenwood had been aware of this; but it might be well that he should affect ignorance. "It is like everything else that he does," he said, being anxious to induce the stepmother to speak ill of her stepson. But the bent of her mind had been turned. She was not conscious of the cause which had produced the change, but she was determined to speak no further evil of her stepchildren before Mr. Greenwood. "I suppose there is nothing to be done?" said Mr. Greenwood. "What should there be to be done? If you do remain here I wish you would sit down, Mr. Greenwood. You oppress me by standing up in that way in the middle of the room." "I do not wonder that you should be oppressed," he said, seating himself, as was his wont, on the edge of a chair. "I am oppressed, I know. No one ever says a word to comfort me. What am I to do if anything should happen?" "Mr. Greenwood, what is the use of all this?" "What would you think, Lady Kingsbury, if you had to live all the rest of your life on an income arising from a thousand pounds?" "It isn't my fault. What's the good of your coming to me with all that? I have had nothing to do with the arrangement which Lord Kingsbury has made with you. You know very well that I do not dare even to mention your name to him, lest he should order that you should be turned out of the house." "Turned out of the house!" he said, jumping off his chair on to his legs with an alacrity which was quite unusual to him. "Turned out of the house?--as if I were a dog! No man alive would stand such language." "You know very well that I've always stood your friend," said the Marchioness, alarmed by the man's impetuosity. "And you tell me that I'm to be turned out of the house." "I only say that it would be better not to mention your name to him. I must go now, because he will be waiting for me." "He doesn't care a straw for you; not a straw." "Mr. Greenwood!" "He cares only for his son and daughter;--for the son and daughter of his first wife; for those two ignoble young persons who, as you have said so often, are altogether unworthy of their name." "Mr. Greenwood, I cannot admit this." "Have you not said it over and over again? Have you not declared how good a thing it would be that Lord Hampstead should die? You cannot go back from all that, Lady Kingsbury." "I must go now, Mr. Greenwood," she said, shuffling out of the room. He had altogether frightened her, and, as she went down-stairs, she determined that at whatever cost she must save herself from further private conversation with the chaplain. Mr. Greenwood, when he was thus left alone, did not at once leave the room. He had reseated himself, and there he remained still gazing as though there had been some one for him to gaze at, and still seated on the edge of his chair as though there were some one to see the affected humility of his position. But in truth the gazing and the manner of sitting had become so customary to him that they were assumed without thought. His mind was now full of the injury done to him by the Marchioness. She had made him her confidant; she had poured her secret thoughts into his ears; she had done her best to inspire him with her hatred and her desires;--and now, when she had almost taught him to be the minister of her wishes, she turned upon him, and upbraided him and deserted him! Of course when he had sympathized with her as to her ill-used darlings he had expected her to sympathize with him as to the hardships inflicted upon him. But she cared nothing for his hardships, and was anxious to repudiate the memory of all the hard words which she had spoken as to her husband's children. It should not be so! She should not escape from him in this manner! When confidences have been made, the persons making them must abide the consequences. When a partnership has been formed, neither partner has a right to retreat at once, leaving the burden of all debts upon the other. Had not all these thoughts, and plottings, which had been so heavy on his mind since that telegram had come, which had been so heavy on his soul, been her doing? Had not the idea come from her? Had there not been an unspoken understanding between them that in consequence of certain mutual troubles and mutual aspirations there should be a plan of action arranged between them? Now she was deserting him! Well;--he thought that he could so contrive things that she should not do so with impunity. Having considered all this he got up from his chair and slowly walked down to his own room. He lunched by himself, and then sat himself down with a novel, as was his wont at that hour of the day. There could be no man more punctual in all his daily avocations than Mr. Greenwood. After lunch there always came the novel; but there was seldom much of it read. He would generally go to sleep, and would remain so, enjoying perfect tranquillity for the best part of an hour. Then he would go out for his constitutional walk, after which he would again take up the novel till the time came for her ladyship's tea. On this occasion he did not read at all, but neither did he at once sleep. There had been that on his mind which, even though it had not been perfected, banished sleep from him for some minutes. There was no need of any further conversation as to safety or danger. The deed, whether it would or could not have been done in the manner he had premeditated, certainly would not be done now. Certainly not now would he file his mind for Banquo's issue. But after half-an-hour of silent meditation he did sleep. When he arose and went out for a walk he felt that his heart was light within him. He had done nothing by which he had compromised himself. He had bound himself to no deed. As he walked up and down the road he assured himself that he had never really thought of doing it. He had only speculated as to the probability,--which is so common for men to do as to performances which they had no thought of attempting. There was a great burden gone from him. Had he desired to get rid of Lord Hampstead, it was in that way that he would have done it;--and he would so have done it that he would never have been suspected of the deed. He had never intended more than that. As he returned to the house he assured himself that he had never intended anything more. And yet there was a great burden gone from him. At five o'clock a message was brought to him that her ladyship, finding herself to be rather unwell, begged to be excused from asking him up to tea. The message was brought by the butler himself, with a suggestion that he should have tea in his own room. "I think I will, Harris," he said, "just take a cup. By-the-bye, Harris, have you seen my lord to-day?" Harris declared that he had seen his lordship, in a tone of voice which implied that he at any rate had not been banished from my lord's presence. "And how do you find him?" Harris thought that the Marquis was a little more like himself to-day than he had been for the last three days. "That's right. I am very glad to hear that. Lord Hampstead's coming to-morrow will be a great comfort to him." "Yes, indeed," said Harris, who was quite on Lord Hampstead's side in the family quarrels. He had not been pleased with the idea of the Roden marriage, which certainly was unfortunate for the daughter of a Marquis; but he was by no means inclined to take part against the heir to the family honours. "I wish he were coming at a little more reasonable hour in the day," said Mr. Greenwood with a smile. But Harris thought that the time of the day would do very well. It was the kind of thing which his lordship very often did, and Harris did not see any harm in it. This Harris said with his hand on the lock of the door, showing that he was not anxious for a prolonged conversation with the chaplain. CHAPTER XIII. LADY FRANCES SEES HER LOVER. On the Monday in that week,--Monday, the 5th of January, on which day Hampstead had been hunting and meditating the attack which he subsequently made on Zachary Fay, in King's Court,--Mrs. Vincent had paid a somewhat unusually long visit in Paradise Row. As the visit was always made on Monday, neither had Clara Demijohn or Mrs. Duffer been very much surprised; but still it had been observed that the brougham had been left at the "Duchess of Edinburgh" for an hour beyond the usual time, and a few remarks were made. "She is so punctual about her time generally," Clara had said. But Mrs. Duffer remarked that as she had exceeded the hour usually devoted to her friend's company she had probably found it quite as well to stay another. "They don't make half-hours in any of those yards, you know," said Mrs. Duffer. And so the matter had been allowed to pass as having been sufficiently explained. But there had in truth been more than that in Mrs. Vincent's prolonged visit to her cousin. There had been much to be discussed, and the discussion led to a proposition made that evening by Mrs. Roden to her son by which the latter was much surprised. She was desirous of starting almost immediately for Italy, and was anxious that he should accompany her. If it were to be so he was quite alive to the expediency of going with her. "But what is it, mother?" he asked, when she had requested his attendance without giving the cause which rendered the journey necessary. Then she paused as though considering whether she would comply with his request, and tell him that whole secret of his life which she had hitherto concealed from him. "Of course, I will not press you," he said, "if you think that you cannot trust me." "Oh, George, that is unkind." "What else am I to say? Is it possible that I should start suddenly upon such a journey, or that I should see you doing so, without asking the reason why? Or can I suppose if you do not tell me, but that there is some reason why you should not trust me?" "You know I trust you. No mother ever trusted a son more implicitly. You ought to know that. It is not a matter of trusting. There may be secrets to which a person shall be so pledged that she cannot tell them to her dearest friend. If I had made a promise would you not have me keep it?" "Promises such as that should not be exacted, and should not be made." "But if they have been exacted and have been made? Do as I ask you now, and it is probable that everything will be clear to you before we return, or at any rate as clear to you as it is to me." After this, with a certain spirit of reticence which was peculiar with him, he made up his mind to do as his mother would have him without asking further questions. He set himself to work immediately to make the necessary arrangements for his journey with as much apparent satisfaction as though it were to be done on his own behalf. It was decided that they would start on the next Friday, travel through France and by the tunnel of the Mont Cenis to Turin, and thence on to Milan. Of what further there was to befall them he knew nothing at this period. It was necessary in the first place that he should get leave of absence from Sir Boreas, as to which he professed himself to be in much doubt, because he had already enjoyed the usual leave of absence allowed by the rules of the office. But on this matter he found Æolus to be very complaisant. "What, Italy?" said Sir Boreas. "Very nice when you get there, I should say, but a bad time of year for travelling. Sudden business, eh?--To go with your mother! It is bad for a lady to go alone. How long? You don't know? Well! come back as soon as you can; that's all. You couldn't take Crocker with you, could you?" For at this time Crocker had already got into further trouble in regard to imperfections of handwriting. He had been promised absolution as to some complaint made against him on condition that he could read a page of his own manuscript. But he had altogether failed in the attempt. Roden didn't think that he could carry Crocker to Italy, but arranged his own affair without that impediment. But there was another matter which must be arranged also. It was now six weeks since he had walked with Lord Hampstead half-way back from Holloway to Hendon, and had been desired by his friend not to visit Lady Frances while she was staying at Hendon Hall. The reader may remember that he had absolutely refused to make any promise, and that there had consequently been some sharp words spoken between the two friends. There might, he had then said, arise an occasion on which he should find it impossible not to endeavour to see the girl he loved. But hitherto, though he had refused to submit himself to the demand made upon him, he had complied with its spirit. At this moment, as it seemed to him, a period had come in which it was essential to him that he should visit her. There had been no correspondence between them since those Königsgraaf days in consequence of the resolutions which she herself had made. Now, as he often told himself, they were as completely separated as though each had determined never again to communicate with the other. Months had gone by since a word had passed between them. He was a man, patient, retentive, and by nature capable of enduring such a trouble without loud complaint; but he did remember from day to day how near they were to each other, and he did not fail to remind himself that he could hardly expect to find constancy in her unless he took some means of proving to her that he was constant himself. Thinking of all this, he determined that he would do his best to see her before he started for Italy. Should he fail to be received at Hendon Hall then he would write. But he would go to the house and make his attempt. On Thursday morning, the day on which Hampstead arrived at Trafford Park, he went down from London, and knocking at the door asked at once for Lady Frances. Lady Frances was at home and alone;--alone altogether, having no companion with her in the house during her brother's absence. The servant who opened the door, the same who had admitted poor Crocker and had understood how much his young mistress had been dismayed when the Post Office clerk had been announced, was unwilling at once to show this other Post Office clerk into the house, although he probably understood well the difference between the two comers. "I'll go and see," he said, leaving George Roden to sit or stand in the hall as he liked best. Then the man, with a sagacity which certainly did him credit, made a roundabout journey through the house, so that the lover stationed in the hall might not know that his mistress was to be reached merely by the opening of a single door. "A gentleman in the hall?" said Lady Frances. "Mr. Roden, my lady," said the man. "Show him in," said Lady Frances, allowing herself just a moment for consideration,--a moment so short that she trusted that no hesitation had been visible. And yet she had doubted much. She had been very clear in explaining to her brother that she had made no promise. She had never pledged herself to any one that she would deny herself to her lover should he come to see her. She would not admit to herself that even her brother, even her father, had a right to demand from her such a pledge. But she knew what were her brother's wishes on this matter, and what were the reasons for them. She knew also how much she owed to him. But she too had suffered from that long silence. She had considered that a lover whom she never saw, and from whom she never heard, was almost as bad as no lover at all. She had beaten her feathers against her cage, as she thought of this cruel separation. She had told herself of the short distance which separated Hendon from Holloway. She perhaps had reflected that had the man been as true to her as was she to him, he would not have allowed himself to be deterred by the injunctions either of father or brother. Now, at any rate, when her lover was at the door, she could not turn him away. It had all to be thought of, but it was thought of so quickly that the order for her lover's admittance was given almost without a pause which could have been felt. Then, in half a minute, her lover was in the room with her. Need the chronicler of such scenes declare that they were in each other's arms before a word was spoken between them? The first word that was spoken came from her. "Oh, George, how long it has been!" "It has been long to me." "But at last you have come?" "Did you expect me sooner? Had you not agreed with Hampstead and your father that I was not to come?" "Never mind. You are here now. Poor papa, you know, is very ill. Perhaps I may have to go down there. John is there now." "Is he so ill as that?" "John went last night. We do not quite know how ill he is. He does not write, and we doubt whether we get at the truth. I was very nearly going with him; and then, sir, you would not have seen me--at all." "Another month, another six months, another year, would have made no difference in my assurance of your truth to me." "That is a very pretty speech for you to make." "Nor I think in yours for me." "I am bound, of course, to be just as pretty as you are. But why have you come now? You shouldn't have come when John had left me all alone." "I did not know that you were here alone." "Or you would not have come, perhaps? But you should not have come. Why did you not ask before you came?" "Because I should have been refused. It would have been refused; would it not?" "Certainly it would." "But as I wish to see you specially--" "Why specially? I have wanted to see you always. Every day has been a special want. It should have been so with you also had you been as true as I am. There should have been no special times." "But I am going--" "Going! Where are you going? Not for always! You are leaving Holloway, you mean, or the Post Office." Then he explained to her that as far as he knew the journey would not be for long. He was not leaving his office, but had permission to absent himself for a time, so that he might travel with his mother as far as Milan. "Nay," said he, laughing, "why I am to do so I do not in the least know. My mother has some great Italian mystery of which she has never yet revealed to me any of the circumstances. All I know is that I was born in Italy." "You an Italian?" "I did not say that. There is an old saying that you need not be a horse because you were born in a stable. Nor do I quite know that I was born in Italy, though I feel sure of it. Of my father I have never known anything,--except that he was certainly a bad husband to my mother. There are circumstances which do make me almost sure that I was born in Italy; but as my mother has been unwilling to talk to me of my earliest days, I have never chosen to ask her. Now I shall perhaps know it all." Of what else passed between them the reader need learn no details. To her the day was one of exceeding joy. A lover in China, or waging wars in Zululand or elsewhere among the distant regions, is a misfortune. A lover ought to be at hand, ready at the moment, to be kissed or scolded, to wait upon you, or, so much sweeter still, to be waited upon, just as the occasion may serve. But the lover in China is better than one in the next street or the next parish,--or only a few miles off by railway,--whom you may not see. The heart recognizes the necessity occasioned by distance with a sweet softness of tender regrets, but is hardened by mutiny, or crushed by despair in reference to stern parents or unsuitable pecuniary circumstances. Lady Frances had been enduring the sternness of parents, and had been unhappy. Now there had come a break. She had seen what he was like, and had heard his voice, and been reassured by his vows, and had enjoyed the longed-for opportunity of repeating her own. "Nothing, nothing, nothing can change me!" How was he to be sure of that while she had no opportunity of telling him that it was so? "No time;--nothing that papa can say, nothing that John can do, will have any effect. As to Lady Kingsbury, of course you know that she has thrown me off altogether." It was nothing to him, he said, who might have thrown her off. Having her promise, he could bide his time. Not but that he was impatient; but that he knew that when so much was to be given to him at last, it behoved him to endure all things rather than to be faint of heart. And so they parted. She, however, in spite of her joy, had a troubled spirit when he was gone. She had declared to her brother that she was bound by no promise as to seeing or not seeing her lover, but yet she was aware how much she owed to him, and that, though she had not promised, he had made a promise on her behalf, to her father. But for that promise she would never have been allowed to be at Hendon Hall. His brother had made all his arrangements so as to provide for her a home in which she might be free from the annoyances inflicted upon her by her stepmother; but had done so almost with a provision that she should not see George Roden. She certainly had done nothing herself to infringe that stipulation; but George Roden had come, and she had seen him. She might have refused him admittance, no doubt; but then again she thought that it would have been impossible to do so. How could she have told the man to deny her, thus professing her indifference for him in regard to whom she had so often declared that she was anxious that all the world should know that they were engaged to marry each other? It would have been impossible for her not to see him; and yet she felt that she had been treacherous to her brother, to whom she owed so much! One thing seemed to her to be absolutely necessary. She must write at once and tell him what had occurred. Thinking of this she sat down and wrote so that she might despatch her letter by that post;--and what she wrote is here given. MY DEAR JOHN-- I shall be so anxious to get news from Trafford, and to hear how you found papa. I cannot but think that were he very ill somebody would have let us know the truth. Though Mr. Greenwood is cross-grained and impertinent, he would hardly have kept us in the dark. Now I have a piece of news to tell you which I hope will not make you very angry. It was not my doing, and I do not know how I could have helped it. Your friend, George Roden, called to-day and asked to see me. Of course I could have refused. He was in the hall when Richard announced him, and I suppose I could have sent out word to say that I was not at home. But I think you will feel that that was in truth impossible. How is one to tell a lie to a man when one feels towards him as I do about George? Or how could I even let the servants think that I would treat him so badly? Of course every one knows about it. I want every one to know about it, so that it may be understood that I am not in the least ashamed of what I mean to do. And when you hear why he came I do not think that you can be angry even with him. He has been called upon, for some reason, to go at once with his mother to Italy. They start for Milan to-morrow, and he does not at all know when he may return. He had to get leave at the Post Office, but that Sir Boreas whom he talks about seems to have been very good-natured about giving it. He asked him whether he would not take Mr. Crocker with him to Italy; but that of course was a joke. I suppose they do not like Mr. Crocker at the Post Office any better than you do. Why Mrs. Roden should have to go he does not understand. All he knows is that there is some Italian secret which he will hear all about before he comes home. Now I really do think that you cannot be surprised that he should have come to see me when he is going to take such a journey as that. What should I have thought if I had heard that he had gone without saying a word to me about it? Don't you think that that would have been most unnatural? I should have almost broken my heart when I heard that he had started. I do hope, therefore, that you will not be angry with either of us. But yet I feel that I may have brought you into trouble with papa. I do not care in the least for Lady Kingsbury, who has no right to interfere in the matter at all. After her conduct everything I think is over between us. But I shall be indeed sorry if papa is vexed; and shall feel it very much if he says anything to you after all your great kindness to me. Your affectionate sister, FANNY. "I have done one other thing to-day," said George Roden, when he was explaining to his mother on Thursday evening all the preparations he had made for their journey. "What other thing?" she asked, guessing accurately, however, the nature of the thing of which he was about to speak. "I have seen Lady Frances Trafford." "I thought it probable that you might endeavour to do so." "I have done more than endeavour on this occasion. I went down to Hendon Hall, and was shown into the drawing-room. I am sorry for Hampstead's sake, but it was impossible for me not to do so." "Why sorry for his sake?" she asked. "Because he had pledged himself to his father that I should not do so. He clearly had no right to make such a pledge. I could not bind myself to an assurance by keeping which I might seem to show myself to be indifferent. A girl may bind herself by such a promise, but hardly a man. Had I made the promise I almost think I must have broken it. I did not make it, and therefore I have no sin to confess. But I fear I shall have done him a mischief with his father." "And what did she say, George?" "Oh; just the old story, mother, I suppose. What she said was what I knew just as well before I went there. But yet it was necessary that I should hear what she had to say;--and as necessary I think that she should hear me." "Quite as necessary, I am sure," said his mother kissing his forehead. CHAPTER XIV. MR. GREENWOOD'S FEELINGS. On that Wednesday night Mr. Greenwood did not sleep much. It may be doubted whether he once closed his eyes in slumber. He had indeed been saved from the performance of an act which now seemed to him to be so terrible that he could hardly believe that he had in truth contemplated it; but yet he knew,--he knew that it for some hours had been the purpose of his mind to do it! He struggled to make himself believe that it had in truth been no more than a speculation, that there had been no formed purpose, that he had only amused himself by considering how he could do such a deed without detection, if the deed were to be done. He had simply been thinking over the blunders of others, the blindness of men who had so bungled in their business as to have left easy traces for the eyes and intelligence of the world outside, and had been assuring himself how much better he could manage if the necessity of such an operation were to come upon him. That was all. No doubt he hated Lord Hampstead,--and had cause to do so. It was thus that he argued with himself. But his hatred had surely not carried him to the intention of murder! There could have been no question of real murder; for why should he have troubled himself either with the danger or with the load which it would certainly have imposed on his conscience? Much as he hated Lord Hampstead, it was no business of his. It was that Lady Macbeth up-stairs, the mother of the darlings, who had really thought of murder. It was she who had spoken openly of her great desire that Lord Hampstead should cease to live. Had there been any real question of murder it would have been for her to meditate, for her to think, for her to plot;--surely not for him! Certainly, certainly he had contemplated no such deed as that, with the object of obtaining for the comfort of his old age the enjoyment of the living of Appleslocombe! He told himself now that had he in truth committed such a crime, had he carried out the plot which had formed itself in his brain only as a matter of speculation, though he might not have been detected, yet he would have been suspected; and suspicion would have been as destructive to his hopes as detection. Of course all that had been clear enough to him throughout his machinations; and therefore how could he really have intended it? He had not intended it. It had only been one of those castles in the air which the old build as well as the young,--which are no more than the "airy fabrics" of the brain! It was thus he struggled to drive from his mind and from his eyes the phantom of the terrible deed. But that he did not succeed was made evident to himself by the hot clammy drops of sweat which came out upon his brow, by his wakefulness throughout the livelong night, by the carefulness with which his ears watched for the sound of the young man's coming, as though it were necessary that he should be made assured that the murder had in truth not been done. Before that hour had come he found himself to be shaking even in his bed; to be drawing the clothes around him to dispel the icy cold, though the sweat still stood upon his brow; to be hiding his eyes under the bed-clothes in order that he might not see something which seemed to be visible to him through the utmost darkness of the chamber. At any rate he had done nothing! Let his thoughts have been what they might, he had soiled neither his hands nor his conscience. Though everything that he had ever done or ever thought were known, he was free from all actual crime. She had talked of death and thought of murder. He had only echoed her words and her thoughts, meaning nothing,--as a man is bound to do to a woman. Why then could he not sleep? Why should he be hot and shiver with cold by turns? Why should horrid phantoms perplex him in the dark? He was sure he had never meant it. What must be the agony of those who do mean, of those who do execute, if such punishment as this were awarded to one who had done no more than build a horrid castle in the air? Did she sleep;--he wondered,--she who had certainly done more than build a castle in the air; she who had wished and longed, and had a reason for her wishing and her longing? At last he heard a footfall on the road, which passed but some few yards distant from his window, a quick, cheery, almost running footfall, a step full of youth and life, sounding crisp on the hard frozen ground; and he knew that the young man whom he hated had come. Though he had never thought of murdering him,--as he told himself,--yet he hated him. And then his thoughts, although in opposition to his own wishes,--which were intent upon sleep, if sleep would only come to him,--ran away to the building of other castles. How would it have been now, now at this moment, if that plan, which he had never really intended to carry out, which had only been a speculation, had been a true plan and been truly executed? How would it have been with them all now at Trafford Park? The Marchioness would have been at any rate altogether satisfied;--but what comfort would there have been in that to him? Lord Frederic would have been the heir to a grand title and to vast estates;--but how would he have been the better for that? The old lord who was lying there so sick in the next room might probably have sunk into his grave with a broken heart. The Marquis had of late been harsh to him; but there did come to him an idea at the present moment that he had for thirty years eaten the sick man's bread. And the young man would have been sent without a moment's notice to meet his final doom! Of what nature that might have been, the wretched man lying there did not dare even to make a picture in his imagination. It was a matter which he had sedulously and successfully dismissed from all his thoughts. It was of the body lying out there in the cold, not of the journey which the winged soul might make, that he unwillingly drew a picture to himself. He conceived how he himself, in the prosecution of the plan which he had formed, would have been forced to have awakened the house, and to tell of the deed, and to assist in carrying the body to what resting-place might have been found for it. There he would have had to enact a part of which he had, a few hours since, told himself that he would be capable, but in attempting which he was now sure that he would have succumbed to the difficulties of the struggle. Who would have broken the news to the father? Who would have attempted to speak the first word of vain consolation? Who would have flown to the lady's door up-stairs and have informed her that death was in the house--and have given her to understand that the eldest of her darlings was the heir? It would have been for him to do it all; for him with a spirit weighed down to the ground by that terrible burden with which the doing of such a deed would have loaded it. He would certainly have revealed himself in the struggle! But why should he allow his mind to be perplexed with such thoughts? No such deed had been done. There had been no murder. The young man was there now in the house, light-hearted after his walk; full of life and youthful energy. Why should he be troubled with such waking dreams as these? Must it be so with him always, for the rest of his life, only because he had considered how a thing might best be done? He heard a footstep in a distant passage, and a door closed, and then again all was silent. Was there not cause to him for joy in the young man's presence? If his speculations had been wicked, was there not time to turn for repentance,--for repentance, though there was so little for which repentance were needed? Nevertheless the night was to him so long, and the misery connected with the Trafford name so great, that he told himself that he would quit the place as soon as possible. He would take whatever money were offered to him and go. How would it have been with him had he really done the deed, when he found himself unable to sleep in the house in which he would not quite admit to himself that he had even contemplated it? On the next morning his breakfast was brought to him in his own room, and he inquired from the servant after Lord Hampstead and his purposes. The servant thought that his lordship meant to remain on that day and the next. So he had heard Harris, the butler, say. His lordship was to see his father at eleven o'clock that morning. The household bulletin respecting the Marquis had that morning been rather more favourable than usual. The Marchioness had not yet been seen. The doctor would probably be there by twelve. This was the news which Mr. Greenwood got from the servant who waited upon him. Could he not escape from the house during the period that the young lord would be there, without seeing the young lord? The young lord was hateful to him--more hateful than ever. He would, if possible, get himself carried into Shrewsbury, and remain there on some excuse of visiting a friend till the young lord should have returned to London. He could not tell himself why, but he felt that the sight of the young lord would be oppressive to him. But in this he was prevented by an intimation that was given to him early in the day, before he had made preparations for his going, that Lord Hampstead wished to see him, and would wait upon him in his own room. The Marquis had expressed himself grateful to his son for coming, but did not wish to detain him at Trafford. "Of course it is very dull for you, and I think I am better." "I am so glad of that;--but if you think that I am of any comfort to you I shall be delighted to stay. I suppose Fanny would come down if I remain here." Then the Marquis shook his head. Fanny, he thought, had better be away. "The Marchioness and Fanny would not be happy in the house together,--unless, indeed, she has given up that young man." Hampstead could not say that she had given up the young man. "I do hope she never sees him," said the Marquis. Then his son assured him that the two had never met since Fanny had gone to Hendon Hall. And he was rash enough to assure his father that there would be no such meeting while his sister was his guest. At that moment George Roden was standing in the drawing-room at Hendon Hall with Lady Frances in his arms. After that there arose a conversation between the father and son as to Mr. Greenwood. The Marquis was very desirous that the man who had become so objectionable to him should quit the house. "The truth is," said the Marquis, "that it is he who makes all the mischief between me and your stepmother. It is he that makes me ill. I have no comfort while he is here, making plots against me." If they two had only known the plot which had been made! Hampstead thought it reasonable that the man should be sent away, if only because his presence was disagreeable. Why should a man be kept in the house simply to produce annoyance? But there must be the question of compensation. He did not think that £1000 was sufficient. Then the Marquis was unusually difficult of persuasion in regard to money. Hampstead thought that an annuity of £300 a year should be settled on the poor clergyman. The Marquis would not hear of it. The man had not performed even the slight duties which had been required of him. The books had not even been catalogued. To bribe a man, such as that, by £300 a year for making himself disagreeable would be intolerable. The Marquis had never promised him anything. He ought to have saved his money. At last the father and son came to terms, and Hampstead sent to prepare a meeting with the chaplain. Mr. Greenwood was standing in the middle of the room when Lord Hampstead entered it, rubbing his fat hands together. Hampstead saw no difference in the man since their last meeting, but there was a difference. Mr. Greenwood's manner was at first more submissive, as though he were afraid of his visitor; but before the interview was over he had recovered his audacity. "My father has wished me to see you," said Hampstead. Mr. Greenwood went on rubbing his hands, still standing in the middle of the room. "He seems to think it better that you should leave him." "I don't know why he should think it better;--but, of course, I will go if he bids me." Mr. Greenwood had quite made up his mind that it would be better for him also that he should go. "There will be no good in going into that. I think we might as well sit down, Mr. Greenwood." They did sit down, the chaplain as usual perching himself on the edge of a chair. "You have been here a great many years." "A great many, Lord Hampstead;--nearly all my life;--before you were born, Lord Hampstead." Then, as he sat gazing, there came before his eyes the phantom of Lord Hampstead being carried into the house as a corpse while he himself was struggling beneath a portion of the weight. "Just so; and though the Marquis cannot admit that there is any claim upon him--" "No claim, Lord Hampstead!" "Certainly no claim. Yet he is quite willing to do something in acknowledgment of the long connection. His lordship thinks that an annuity of £200 a year--." Mr. Greenwood shook his head, as though he would say that that certainly would not satisfy him. Hampstead had been eager to secure the full £300 for the wretched, useless man, but the Marquis had declared that he would not burden the estate with a charge so unnecessarily large. "I say," continued Hampstead, frowning, "that his lordship has desired me to say that you shall receive during your life an annuity of £200." It certainly was the fact that Lord Hampstead could frown when he was displeased, and that at such moments he would assume a look of aristocratic impatience which was at variance with his professed political theories. Mr. Greenwood again shook his head. "I do not think that I need say anything farther," continued the young lord. "That is my father's decision. He presumes that you would prefer the annuity to the immediate payment of a thousand pounds." Here the shaking of the head became more violent. "I have only in addition to ask you when it will suit you to leave Trafford Park." Lord Hampstead, when he had left his father, had determined to use his blandest manner in communicating these tidings to the chaplain. But Mr. Greenwood was odious to him. The way in which the man stood on the floor and rubbed his hands together, and sat on the edge of his chair, and shook his head without speaking a word, were disgusting to him. If the man had declared boldly his own view of what was due to him, Hampstead would have endeavoured to be gracious to him. As it was he was anything but gracious, as he asked the chaplain to name the day on which he would be prepared to leave the house. "You mean to say that I am to be--turned out." "It is some months since you were told that my father no longer required your services." "I am to be turned out,--like a dog,--after thirty years!" "I cannot contradict you when you say so, but I must ask you to name a day. It is not as though the suggestion were now made to you for the first time." Mr. Greenwood got up from the edge of the chair, and again stood in the middle of the room. Lord Hampstead felt himself constrained also to stand. "Have you any answer to make to me?" "No; I have not," said the chaplain. "You mean that you have not fixed upon a day?" "I shan't go with £200 a year," said the chaplain. "It's unreasonable; it's brutal!" "Brutal!" shouted Lord Hampstead. "I shan't stir till I've seen the Marquis himself. It's out of the question that he should turn me out in this way. How am I to live upon £200 a year? I always understood that I was to have Appleslocombe." "No such promise was ever made to you," said Lord Hampstead, very angrily. "No hint of such a thing has ever been made except by yourself." "I always understood it," said Mr. Greenwood. "And I shall not leave this till I've had an opportunity of discussing the matter with the Marquis himself. I don't think the Marquis would ever have treated me in this way,--only for you, Lord Hampstead." This was intolerable. What was he to do with the abominable man? It would be very disagreeable, the task of turning him out while the Marquis was still so ill, and yet it was not to be endured that such a man should be allowed to hold his position in the house in opposition to the will of the owner. It was, he felt, beneath him to defend himself against the charge made--or even to defend his father. "If you will not name a day, I must," said the young lord. The man remained immovable on his seat except that he continued to rub his hands. "As I can get no answer I shall have to instruct Mr. Roberts that you cannot be allowed to remain here after the last day of the month. If you have any feeling left to you you will not impose upon us so unpleasant a duty while my father is ill." With this he left the room, while Mr. Greenwood was still standing and rubbing his hands. Two hundred pounds a year! He had better go and take it. He was quite aware of that. But how was he to live upon £200,--he who had been bedded and boarded all his life at the expense of another man, and had also spent £300? But at the moment this was not the thought uppermost in his mind. Would it not have been better that he should have carried out that project of his? Only that he had been merciful, this young lord would not have been able to scorn him and ill-treat him as he had done. There were no phantoms now. Now he thought that he could have carried his share of the corpse into the house without flinching. CHAPTER XV. "THAT WOULD BE DISAGREEABLE." Things at Trafford on that day and on the next were very uncomfortable. No house could possibly be more so. There were four persons who, in the natural course of things, would have lived together, not one of whom would sit down to table with any other. The condition of the Marquis, of course, made it impossible that he should do so. He was confined to his room, in which he would not admit Mr. Greenwood to come near him, and where his wife's short visits did not seem to give him much satisfaction. Even with his son he was hardly at his ease, seeming to prefer the society of the nurse, with occasional visits from the doctor and Mr. Roberts. The Marchioness confined herself to her own room, in which it was her intention to prevent the inroads of Mr. Greenwood as far as it might be possible. That she should be able to exclude him altogether was more than she could hope, but much, she thought, could be done by the dint of headaches, and by a resolution never to take her food down-stairs. Lord Hampstead had declared his purpose to Harris, as well as to his father, never again to sit down to table with Mr. Greenwood. "Where does he dine?" he asked the butler. "Generally in the family dining-room, my lord," said Harris. "Then give me my dinner in the breakfast parlour." "Yes, my lord," said the butler, who at once resolved to regard Mr. Greenwood as an enemy of the family. In this manner Mr. Greenwood gave no trouble, as he had his meat sent to him in his own sitting-room. But all this made the house very uncomfortable. In the afternoon Mr. Roberts came over from Shrewsbury, and saw Lord Hampstead. "I knew he would make himself disagreeable, my lord," said Mr. Roberts. "How did you know it?" "Things creep out. He had made himself disagreeable to his lordship for some months past; and then we heard that he was talking of Appleslocombe as though he were certain to be sent there." "My father never thought of it." "I didn't think he did. Mr. Greenwood is the idlest human being that ever lived, and how could he have performed the duties of a parish?" "He asked my father once, and my father flatly refused him." "Perhaps her ladyship--," suggested Mr. Roberts, with some hesitation. "At any rate he is not to have Appleslocombe, and he must be made to go. How is it to be done?" Mr. Roberts raised his eyebrows. "I suppose there must be some means of turning an objectionable resident out of a house." "The police, of course, could carry him out--with a magistrate's order. He would have to be treated like any other vagrant." "That would be disagreeable." "Very disagreeable, my lord," said Mr. Roberts. "My lord should be saved from that if possible." "How if we gave him nothing to eat?" said Lord Hampstead. "That would be possible; but it would be troublesome. What if he resolved to remain and be starved? It would be seeing which would hold out the longer. I don't think my lord would have the heart to keep him twenty-four hours without food. We must try and save my lord from what is disagreeable as much as we can." Lord Hampstead was in accord as to this, but did not quite see his way how to effect it. There were still, however, more than three weeks to run before the day fixed for the chaplain's exit, and Mr. Roberts suggested that it might in that time be fully brought home to the man that his £200 a year would depend on his going. "Perhaps you'd better leave him to me, my lord," said Mr. Roberts; "and I shall deal with him better when you're not here." When the time came for afternoon tea Mr. Greenwood, perceiving that no invitation came to him from the Marchioness, sent a note up to her asking for the favour of an interview. "He had a few words to say, and would be much obliged to her if she would allow him to come to her." On receiving this she pondered for some time before she could make up her mind as to what answer she should give. She would have been most anxious to do as she had already heard that Lord Hampstead had done, and decline to meet him at all. She could not analyze her own feelings about the man, but had come during the last few days to hold him in horror. It was as though something of the spirit of the murderer had shown itself to her in her eyes. She had talked glibly, wickedly, horribly of the death of the man who had seemed to stand in her way. She had certainly wished for it. She had taught herself to think, by some ultra-feminine lack of logic, that she had really been injured in that her own eldest boy had not been born heir to his father's titles. She had found it necessary to have some recipient for her griefs. Her own sister, Lady Persiflage, had given her no comfort, and then she had sought for and had received encouragement from her husband's chaplain. But in talking of Lord Hampstead's death she had formed no plan. She had only declared in strong language that if, by the hand of Providence, such a thing should be done, it would be to her a happy chance. She had spoken out where another more prudent than she would perhaps only have wished. But this man had taken up her words with an apparently serious purpose which had frightened her; and then, as though he had been the recipient of some guilty secret, he had laid aside the respect which had been usual to him, and had assumed a familiarity of co-partnership which had annoyed and perplexed her. She did not quite understand it all, but was conscious of a strong desire to be rid of him. But she did not dare quite as yet to let him know that such was her purpose, and she therefore sent her maid down to him with a message. "Mr. Greenwood wants to see me," she said to the woman. "Will you tell him with my compliments that I am not very well, and that I must beg him not to stay long." "Lord Hampstead has been a' quarrelling with Mr. Greenwood, my lady,--this very morning," said the maid. "Quarrelling, Walker?" "Yes, my lady. There has been ever so much about it. My lord says as he won't sit down to dinner with Mr. Greenwood on no account, and Mr. Roberts has been here, all about it. He's to be turned away." "Who is to be turned away?" "Mr. Greenwood, my lady. Lord Hampstead has been about it all the morning. It's for that my lord the Marquis has sent for him, and nobody's to speak to him till he's packed up everything, and taken himself right away out of the house." "Who has told you all that, Walker?" Walker, however, would not betray her informant. She answered that it was being talked of by everybody down-stairs, and she repeated it now only because she thought it proper that "my lady" should be informed of what was going on. "My lady" was not sorry to have received the information even from her maid, as it might assist her in her conversation with the chaplain. On this occasion Mr. Greenwood sat down without being asked. "I am sorry to hear that you are so unwell, Lady Kingsbury." "I have got one of my usual headaches;--only it's rather worse than usual." "I have something to say which I am sure you will not be surprised that I should wish to tell you. I have been grossly insulted by Lord Hampstead." "What can I do?" "Well;--something ought to be done." "I cannot make myself answerable for Lord Hampstead, Mr. Greenwood." "No; of course not. He is a young man for whom no one would make himself answerable. He is head-strong, violent, and most uncourteous. He has told me very rudely that I must leave the house by the end of the month." "I suppose the Marquis had told him." "I don't believe it. Of course the Marquis is ill, and I could bear much from him. But I won't put up with it from Lord Hampstead." "What can I do?" "Well;--after what has passed between us, Lady Kingsbury,--" He paused, and looked at her as he made this appeal. She compressed her lips and collected herself, and prepared for the fight which she felt was coming. He saw it all, and prepared himself also. "After what has passed between us, Lady Kingsbury," he said, repeating his words, "I think you ought to be on my side." "I don't think anything of the kind. I don't know what you mean about sides. If the Marquis says you're to go, I can't keep you." "I'll tell you what I've done, Lady Kingsbury. I have refused to stir out of this house till I've been allowed to discuss the matter with his lordship; and I think you ought to give me your countenance. I'm sure I've always been true to you. When you have unburdened your troubles to my ears I have always been sympathetic. When you have told me what a trouble this young man has been to you, have not I always,--always,--always taken your part against him?" He almost longed to tell her that he had formed a plan for ridding her altogether of the obnoxious young man; but he could not find the words in which to do this. "Of course I have felt that I might depend upon you for assistance and countenance in this house." "Mr. Greenwood," she said, "I really cannot talk to you about these things. My head is aching very badly, and I must ask you to go." "And that is to be all?" "Don't you hear me tell you that I cannot interfere?" Still he kept that horrid position of his upon the chair, staring at her with his large, open, lustreless eyes. "Mr. Greenwood, I must ask you to leave me. As a gentleman you must comply with my request." "Oh," he said; "very well! Then I am to know that after thirty years' faithful service all the family has turned against me. I shall take care--" But he paused, remembering that were he to speak a word too much, he might put in jeopardy the annuity which had been promised him; and at last he left the room. Of Mr. Greenwood no one saw anything more that day, nor did Lord Hampstead encounter him again before he returned to London. Hampstead had arranged to stay at Trafford during the following day, and then to return to London, again using the night mail train. But on the next morning a new trouble fell upon him. He received his sister's letter, and learned that George Roden had been with her at Hendon Hall. He had certainly pledged himself that there should be no such meeting, and had foolishly renewed this pledge only yesterday. When he read the letter he was vexed, chiefly with himself. The arguments which she had used as to Roden's coming, and also those by which she had excused herself for receiving him, did seem to him to be reasonable. When the man was going on such a journey it was natural that he should wish to see the girl he loved; and natural that she should wish to see him. And he was well aware that neither of them had pledged themselves. It was he only who had given a pledge, and that as to the conduct of others who had refused to support him in it. Now his pledge had been broken, and he felt himself called upon to tell his father of what had occurred. "After all that I told you yesterday," he said, "George Roden and Fanny have met each other." Then he attempted to make the best excuse he could for this breach of the promise which he had made. "What's the good?" said the Marquis. "They can't marry each other. I wouldn't give her a shilling if she were to do such a thing without my sanction." Hampstead knew very well that, in spite of this, his father had made by his will ample provision for his sister, and that it was very improbable that any alteration in this respect would be made, let his sister's disobedience be what it might. But the Marquis seemed hardly to be so much affected as he had expected by these tidings. "Whatever you do," said the Marquis, "don't let her ladyship know it. She would be sure to come down to me and say it was all my fault; and then she would tell me what Mr. Greenwood thought about it." The poor man did not know how little likely it was that she would ever again throw Mr. Greenwood in his teeth. Lord Hampstead had not as yet even seen his stepmother, but had thought it no more than decent to send her word that he would wait upon her before he left the house. All domestic troubles he knew to be bad. For his stepmother's sake, and for that of his sister and little brothers, he would avoid as far as might be possible any open rupture. He therefore went to the Marchioness before he ate his dinner. "My father is much better," he said; but his stepmother only shook her head, so that there was before him the task of recommencing the conversation. "Dr. Spicer says so." "I am not sure that Mr. Spicer knows much about it." "He thinks so himself." "He never tells me what he thinks. He hardly tells me anything." "He is not strong enough for much talking." "He will talk to Mr. Roberts by the hour together. So I hear that I am to congratulate you." This she said in a tone which was clearly intended to signify both condemnation and ridicule. "I am not aware of it," said Hampstead with a smile. "I suppose it is true about the Quaker lady?" "I can hardly tell you, not knowing what you may have heard. There can be no room for congratulation, as the lady has not accepted the offer I have made her." The Marchioness laughed incredulously,--with a little affected laugh in which the incredulity was sincere.--"I can only tell you that it is so." "No doubt you will try again?" "No doubt." "Young ladies in such circumstances are not apt to persevere in their severity. Perhaps it may be supposed that she will give way at last." "I cannot take upon myself to answer that, Lady Kingsbury. The matter is one on which I am not particularly anxious to talk. Only as you asked me I thought it best just to tell you the facts." "I am sure I am ever so much obliged to you. The young lady's father is--" "The young lady's father is a clerk in a merchant's office in the City." "So I understand,--and a Quaker?" "And a Quaker." "And I believe he lives at Holloway." "Just so." "In the same street with that young man whom Fanny has--has chosen to pick up." "Marion Fay and her father live at No. 17, Paradise Row, Holloway; and Mrs. Roden and George Roden live at No. 11." "Exactly. We may understand, therefore, how you became acquainted with Miss Fay." "I don't think you can. But if you wish to know I will tell you that I first saw Miss Fay at Mrs. Roden's house." "I suppose so." Hampstead had begun this interview with perfect good humour; but there had gradually been growing upon him that tone of defiance which her little speeches to him had naturally produced. Scorn would always produce scorn in him, as would ridicule and satire produce the same in return. "I do not know why you should have supposed so, but such was the fact. Neither had George Roden or my sister anything to do with it. Miss Fay is a friend of Mrs. Roden, and Mrs. Roden introduced me to the young lady." "I am sure we are all very much obliged to her." "I am, at any rate,--or shall be if I succeed at last." "Poor fellow! It will be very piteous if you too are thwarted in love." "I'll say good-bye, my lady," said he, getting up to leave her. "You have told me nothing of Fanny." "I do not know that I have anything to tell." "Perhaps she also will be jilted." "I should hardly think so." "Because, as you tell me, she is not allowed to see him." There was a thorough disbelief expressed in this which annoyed him. It was as though she had expressed her opinion that the lovers were encouraged to meet daily in spite of the pledge which had been given. And then the pledge had been broken; and there would be a positive lie on his part if he were now to leave her with the idea that they had not met. "You must find it hard to keep them apart, as they are so near." "I have found it too hard, at any rate." "Oh, you have?" "They did meet yesterday." "Oh, they did. Directly your back was turned?" "He was going abroad, and he came; and she has written to tell me of it. I say nothing of myself, Lady Kingsbury; but I do not think you can understand how true she can be,--and he also." "That is your idea of truth." "That is my idea of truth, Lady Kingsbury; which, as I said before, I am afraid I cannot explain to you. I have never meant to deceive you; nor have they." "I thought a promise was a promise," she said. Then he left her, condescending to make no further reply. On that night he went back to London, with a sad feeling at his heart that his journey down to Trafford had done no good to any one. He had, however, escaped a danger of which he had known nothing. CHAPTER XVI. "I DO." Lord Hampstead did not reach his house till nearly six on the following morning, and, having been travelling two nights out of three, allowed himself the indulgence of having his breakfast in bed. While he was so engaged his sister came to him, very penitent for her fault, but ready to defend herself should he be too severe to her. "Of course I am very sorry because of what you had said. But I don't know how I am to help myself. It would have looked so very strange." "It was unfortunate--that's all." "Was it so very unfortunate, John?" "Of course I had to tell them down there." "Was papa angry?" "He only said that if you chose to make such a fool of yourself, he would do nothing for you--in the way of money." "George does not think of that in the least." "People must eat, you know." "Ah; that would make no difference either to him or to me. We must wait, that's all. I do not think it would make me unhappy to wait till I died, if he only were content to wait also. But was papa so very angry?" "He wasn't so very angry,--only angry. I was obliged to tell him; but I said as little to him as possible because he is ill. Somebody else made herself disagreeable." "Did you tell her?" "I was determined to tell her;--so that she should not turn round upon me afterwards and say that I had deceived her. I had made a promise to my father." "Oh, John, I am so sorry." "There is no use in crying after spilt milk. A promise to my father she would of course take as a promise to her, and it would have been flung in my face." "She will do so now." "Oh, yes;--but I can fight the battle better, having told her everything." "Was she disagreeable?" "Abominable! She mixed you up with Marion Fay, and really showed more readiness than I gave her credit for in what she said. Of course she got the better of me. She could call me a liar and a fool to my face, and I could not retaliate. But there's a row in the house which makes everything wretched there." "Another row?" "You are forgotten in this new row,--and so am I. George Roden and Marion Fay are nothing in comparison with poor Mr. Greenwood. He has been committing horrible offences, and is to be turned out. He swears he won't go, and my father is determined he shall. Mr. Roberts has been called in, and there is a question whether Harris shall not put him on gradually diminished rations till he be starved into surrender. He's to have £200 a year if he goes, but he says that it is not enough for him." "Would it be much?" "Considering that he likes to have everything of the very best I do not think it would. He would probably have to go to prison or else hang himself." "Won't it be rather hard upon him?" "I think it will. I don't know what it is that makes the governor so hard to him. I begged and prayed for another hundred a year as though he were the dearest friend I had in the world; but I couldn't turn the governor an inch. I don't think I ever disliked any one so much in the world as I do Mr. Greenwood." "Not Mr. Crocker?" she asked. "Poor Crocker! I love Crocker, in comparison. There is a delightful pachydermatousness about Crocker which is almost heroic. But I hate Mr. Greenwood, if it be in my nature to hate any one. It is not only that he insults me, but he looks at me as though he would take me by the throat and strangle me if he could. But still I will add the other hundred a year out of my own pocket, because I think he is being treated hardly. Only I must do it on the sly." "But Lady Kingsbury is still fond of him?" "I rather think not. I fancy he has made himself too free with her, and has offended her. However, there he is shut up all alone, and swearing that he won't stir out of the house till something better is done for him." There were two matters now on Lord Hampstead's mind to which he gave his attention, the latter of which, however, was much the more prominent in his thoughts. He was anxious to take his sister down to Gorse Hall, and there remain for the rest of the hunting season, making such short runs up to Holloway as he might from time to time find to be necessary. No man can have a string of hunters idle through the winter without feeling himself to be guilty of an unpardonable waste of property. A customer at an eating-house will sometimes be seen to devour the last fragments of what has been brought to him, because he does not like to abandon that for which he must pay. So it is with the man who hunts. It is not perhaps that he wants to hunt. There are other employments in life which would at the moment be more to his taste. It is his conscience which prompts him,--the feeling that he cannot forgive himself for intolerable extravagance if he does not use the articles with which he has provided himself. You can neglect your billiard-table, your books, or even your wine-cellar,--because they eat nothing. But your horses soon eat their heads off their own shoulders if you pass weeks without getting on their backs. Hampstead had endeavoured to mitigate for himself this feeling of improvidence by running up and down to Aylesbury; but the saving in this respect was not sufficient for his conscience, and he was therefore determined to balance the expenditure of the year by a regular performance of his duties at Gorse Hall. But the other matter was still more important to him. He must see Marion Fay before he went into Northamptonshire, and then he would learn how soon he might run up with the prospect of seeing her again. The distance of Gorse Hall and the duty of hunting would admit of certain visits to Holloway. "I think I shall go to Gorse Hall to-morrow," he said to his sister as soon as he had come down from his room. "All right; I shall be ready. Hendon Hall or Gorse Hall,--or any other Hall, will be the same to me now." Whereby she probably intended to signify that as George Roden was on his way to Italy all parts of England were indifferent to her. "But I am not quite certain," said he. "What makes the doubt?" "Holloway, you know, has not been altogether deserted. The sun no doubt has set in Paradise Row, but the moon remains." At this she could only laugh, while he prepared himself for his excursion to Holloway. He had received the Quaker's permission to push his suit with Marion, but he did not flatter himself that this would avail him much. He felt that there was a strength in Marion which, as it would have made her strong against her father had she given away her heart without his sanction, so would it be but little moved by any permission coming from him. And there was present to the lover's mind a feeling of fear which had been generated by the Quaker's words as to Marion's health. Till he had heard something of that story of the mother and her little ones, it had not occurred to him that the girl herself was wanting in any gift of physical well-being. She was beautiful in his eyes, and he had thought of nothing further. Now an idea had been put into his head which, though he could hardly realize it, was most painful to him. He had puzzled himself before. Her manner to him had been so soft, so tender, so almost loving, that he could not but hope, could hardly not think, that she loved him. That, loving him, she should persist in refusing him because of her condition of life, seemed to him to be unnatural. He had, at any rate, been confident that, were there nothing else, he could overcome that objection. Her heart, if it were really given to him, would not be able to support itself in its opposition to him upon such a ground of severance as that. He thought that he could talk her out of so absurd an argument. But in that other argument there might be something that she would cling to with persistency. But the Quaker himself had declared that there was nothing in it. "As far as I know," the Quaker had said, "she is as fit to become a man's wife as any other girl." He surely must have known had there been any real cause. Girls are so apt to take fancies into their heads, and then will sometimes become so obstinate in their fancies! In this way Hampstead discussed the matter with himself, and had been discussing it ever since he had walked up and down Broad Street with the Quaker. But if she pleaded her health, he had what her own father had said to use as an argument with which to convince her. If she spoke again of his rank, he thought that on that matter his love might be strong enough as an argument against her,--or perhaps her own. He found no trouble in making his way into her presence. She had heard of his visit to King's Court, and knew that he would come. She had three things which she had to tell him, and she would tell them all very plainly if all should be necessary. The first was that love must have nothing to do in this matter,--but only duty. The second, which she feared to be somewhat weak,--which she almost thought would not of itself have been strong enough,--was that objection as to her condition in life which she had urged to him before. She declared to herself that it would be strong enough both for him, and for her, if they would only guide themselves by prudence. But the third,--that should be a rock to her if it were necessary; a cruel rock on which she must be shipwrecked, but against which his bark should surely not be dashed to atoms. If he would not leave her in peace without it she would tell him that she was fit to be no man's wife. If it came to that, then she must confess her own love. She acknowledged to herself that it must be so. There could not be between them the tenderness necessary for the telling of such a tale without love, without acknowledged love. It would be better that it should not be so. If he would go and leave her to dream of him,--there might be a satisfaction even in that to sustain her during what was left to her of life. She would struggle that it should be so. But if his love were too strong, then must he know it all. She had learned from her father something of what had passed at that interview in the City, and was therefore ready to receive her lover when he came. "Marion," he said, "you expected me to come to you again?" "Certainly I did." "Of course I have come. I have had to go to my father, or I should have been here sooner. You know that I shall come again and again till you will say a word to me that shall comfort me." "I knew that you would come again, because you were with father in the City." "I went to ask his leave,--and I got it." "It was hardly necessary for you, my lord, to take that trouble." "But I thought it was. When a man wishes to take a girl away from her own home, and make her the mistress of his, it is customary that he shall ask for her father's permission." "It would have been so, had you looked higher,--as you should have done." "It was so in regard to any girl that I should wish to make my wife. Whatever respect a man can pay to any woman, that is due to my Marion." She looked at him, and with the glance of her eye went all the love of her heart. How could she say those words to him, full of reason and prudence and wisdom, if he spoke to her like this? "Answer me honestly. Do you not know that if you were the daughter of the proudest lord living in England you would not be held by me as deserving other usage than that which I think to be your privilege now?" "I only meant that father could not but feel that you were honouring him." "I will not speak of honour as between him and me or between me and you. With me and your father honesty was concerned. He has believed me, and has accepted me as his son-in-law. With us, Marion, with us two, all alone as we are here together, all in all to each other as I hope we are to be, only love can be brought in question. Marion, Marion!" Then he threw himself on his knees before her, and embraced her as she was sitting. "No, my lord; no; it must not be." But now he had both her hands in his, and was looking into her face. Now was the time to speak of duty,--and to speak with some strength, if what she might say was to have any avail. "It shall not be so, my lord." Then she did regain her hands, and struggled up from the sofa on to her feet. "I, too, believe in your honesty. I am sure of it, as I am of my own. But you do not understand me. Think of me as though I were your sister." "As my sister?" "What would you have your sister do if a man came to her then, whom she knew that she could never marry? Would you have her submit to his embrace because she knew him to be honest?" "Not unless she loved him." "It would have nothing to do with it, Lord Hampstead." "Nothing, Marion!" "Nothing, my lord. You will think that I am giving myself airs if I speak of my duty." "Your father has allowed me to come." "I owe him duty, no doubt. Had he bade me never to see you, I hope that that would have sufficed. But there are other duties than that,--a duty even higher than that." "What duty, Marion?" "That which I owe to you. If I had promised to be your wife--" "Do promise it." "Had I so promised, should I not then have been bound to think first of your happiness?" "You would have accomplished it, at any rate." "Though I cannot be your wife I do not owe it you the less to think of it,--seeing all that you are willing to do for me,--and I will think of it. I am grateful to you." "Do you love me?" "Let me speak, Lord Hampstead. It is not civil in you to interrupt me in that way. I am thoroughly grateful, and I will not show my gratitude by doing that which I know would ruin you." "Do you love me?" "Not if I loved you with all my heart,--" and she spread out her arms as though to assure herself how she did love him with all her very soul,--"would I for that be brought even to think of doing the thing that you ask me." "Marion!" "No,--no. We are utterly unfit for each other." She had made her first declaration as to duty, and now she was going on as to that second profession which she intended should be, if possible, the last. "You are as high as blood and wealth and great friends can make you. I am nothing. You have called me a lady." "If God ever made one, you are she." "He has made me better. He has made me a woman. But others would not call me a lady. I cannot talk as they do, sit as they do, act as they do,--even think as they do. I know myself, and I will not presume to make myself the wife of such a man as you." As she said this there came a flush across her face, and a fire in her eye, and, as though conquered by her own emotion, she sank again upon the sofa. "Do you love me, Marion?" "I do," she said, standing once more erect upon her feet. "There shall be no shadow of a lie between us. I do love you, Lord Hampstead. I will have nothing to make me blush in my own esteem when I think of you. How should it be other than that a girl such as I should love such a one as you when you ask me with words so sweet!" "Then, Marion, you shall be my own." "Oh, yes, I must now be yours,--while I am alive. You have so far conquered me." As he attempted to take her in his arms she retreated from him; but so gently that her very gentleness repressed him. "If never loving another is to be yours,--if to pray for you night and day as the dearest one of all, is to be yours,--if to remind myself every hour that all my thoughts are due to you, if to think of you so that I may console myself with knowing that one so high and so good has condescended to regard me,--if that is to be yours,--then I am yours; then shall I surely be yours while I live. But it must be only with my thoughts, only with my prayers, only with all my heart." "Marion, Marion!" Now again he was on his knees before her, but hardly touching her. "It is your fault, Lord Hampstead," she said, trying to smile. "All this is your doing, because you would not let a poor girl say simply what she had to say." "Nothing of it shall be true,--except that you love me. That is all that I can remember. That I will repeat to you daily till you have put your hand in mine, and call yourself my wife." "That I will never do," she exclaimed, once again standing. "As God hears me now I will never say it. It would be wrong,--and I will never say it." In thus protesting she put forth her little hands clenched fast, and then came again the flush across her brow, and her eyes for a moment seemed to wander, and then, failing in strength to carry her through it all, she fell back senseless on the sofa. Lord Hampstead, finding that he alone could do nothing to aid her, was forced to ring the bell, and to give her over to the care of the woman, who did not cease to pray him to depart. "I can't do nothing, my lord, while you stand over her that way." CHAPTER XVII. AT GORSE HALL. Hampstead, when he was turned out into Paradise Row, walked once or twice up the street, thinking what he might best do next, regardless of the eyes at No. 10 and No. 15;--knowing that No. 11 was absent, where alone he could have found assistance had the inhabitant been there. As far as he could remember he had never seen a woman faint before. The way in which she had fallen through from his arms on to the sofa when he had tried to sustain her, had been dreadful to him; and almost more dreadful the idea that the stout old woman with whom he had left her should be more powerful than he to help her. He walked once or twice up and down, thinking what he had best now do, while Clara Demijohn was lost in wonder as to what could have happened at No. 17. It was quite intelligible to her that the lover should come in the father's absence and be entertained,--for a whole afternoon if it might be so; though she was scandalized by the audacity of the girl who had required no screen of darkness under the protection of which her lover's presence might be hidden from the inquiries of neighbours. All that, however, would have been intelligible. There is so much honour in having a lord to court one that perhaps it is well to have him seen. But why was the lord walking up and down the street with that demented air? It was now four o'clock, and Hampstead had heard the Quaker say that he never left his office till five. It would take him nearly an hour to come down in an omnibus from the City. Nevertheless Hampstead could not go till he had spoken to Marion's father. There was the "Duchess of Edinburgh," and he could no doubt find shelter there. But to get through two hours at the "Duchess of Edinburgh" would, he thought, be beyond his powers. To consume the time with walking might be better. He started off, therefore, and tramped along the road till he came nearly to Finchley, and then back again. It was dark as he returned, and he fancied that he could wait about without being perceived. "There he is again," said Clara, who had in the mean time gone over to Mrs. Duffer. "What can it all mean?" "It's my belief he's quarrelled with her," said Mrs. Duffer. "Then he'd never wander about the place in that way. There's old Zachary just come round the corner. Now we shall see what he does." "Fainted, has she?" said Zachary, as they walked together up to the house. "I never knew my girl do that before. Some of them can faint just as they please; but that's not the way with Marion." Hampstead protested that there had been no affectation on this occasion; that Marion had been so ill as to frighten him, and that, though he had gone out of the house at the woman's bidding, he had found it impossible to leave the neighbourhood till he should have learnt something as to her condition. "Thou shalt hear all I can tell thee, my friend," said the Quaker, as they entered the house together. Hampstead was shown into the little parlour, while the Quaker went up to inquire after the state of his daughter. "No; thou canst not well see her," said he, returning, "as she has taken herself to her bed. That she should have been excited by what passed between you is no more than natural. I cannot tell thee now when thou mayst come again; but I will write thee word from my office to-morrow." Upon this Lord Hampstead would have promised to call himself at King's Court on the next day, had not the Quaker declared himself in favour of writing rather than of speaking. The post, he said, was very punctual; and on the next evening his lordship would certainly receive tidings as to Marion. "Of course I cannot say what we can do about Gorse Hall till I hear from Mr. Fay," said Hampstead to his sister when he reached home. "Everything must depend on Marion Fay." That his sister should have packed all her things in vain seemed to him to be nothing while Marion's health was in question; but when the Quaker's letter arrived the matter was at once settled. They would start for Gorse Hall on the following day, the Quaker's letter having been as follows;-- MY LORD,-- I trust I may be justified in telling thee that there is not much to ail my girl. She was up to-day, and about the house before I left her, and assured me with many protestations that I need not take any special steps for her comfort or recovery. Nor indeed could I see in her face anything which could cause me to do so. Of course I mentioned thy name to her, and it was natural that the colour should come and go over her cheeks as I did so. I think she partly told me what had passed between you two, but only in part. As to the future, when I spoke of it, she told me that there was no need of any arrangement, as everything had been said that needed speech. But I guess that such is not thy reading of the matter; and that after what has passed between thee and me I am bound to offer to thee an opportunity of seeing her again shouldst thou wish to do so. But this must not be at once. It will certainly be better for her and, may be, for thee also that she should rest awhile before she be again asked to see thee. I would suggest, therefore, that thou shouldst leave her to her own thoughts for some weeks to come. If thou will'st write to me and name a day some time early in March I will endeavour to bring her round so far as to see thee when thou comest. I am, my lord, Thy very faithful friend, ZACHARY FAY. It cannot be said that Lord Hampstead was by any means satisfied with the arrangement which had been made for him, but he was forced to acknowledge to himself that he could not do better than accede to it. He could of course write to the Quaker, and write also to Marion; but he could not well show himself in Paradise Row before the time fixed, unless unexpected circumstances should arise. He did send three loving words to Marion--"his own, own, dearest Marion," and sent them under cover to her father, to whom he wrote, saying that he would be guided by the Quaker's counsels. "I will write to you on the first of March," he said, "but I do trust that if in the mean time anything should happen,--if, for instance, Marion should be ill,--you will tell me at once as being one as much concerned in her health as you are yourself." He was nervous and ill-at-ease, but not thoroughly unhappy. She had told him how dear he was to her, and he would not have been a man had he not been gratified. And there had been no word of objection raised on any matter beyond that one absurd objection as to which he thought himself entitled to demand that his wishes should be allowed to prevail. She had been very determined; how absolutely determined he was not probably himself aware. She had, however, made him understand that her conviction was very strong. But this had been as to a point on which he did not doubt that he was right, and as to which her own father was altogether on his side. After hearing the strong protestation of her affection he could not think that she would be finally obdurate when the reasons for her obduracy were so utterly valueless. But still there were vague fears about her health. Why had she fainted and fallen through his arms? Whence had come that peculiar brightness of complexion which would have charmed him had it not frightened him? A dim dread of something that was not intelligible to him pervaded him, and robbed him of a portion of the triumph which had come to him from her avowal. * * * * * * As the days went on at Gorse Hall his triumph became stronger than his fears, and the time did not pass unpleasantly with him. Young Lord Hautboy came to hunt with him, bringing his sister Lady Amaldina, and after a few days Vivian found them. The conduct of Lady Frances in reference to George Roden was no doubt very much blamed, but the disgrace did not loom so large in the eyes of Lady Persiflage as in those of her sister the Marchioness. Amaldina was, therefore, suffered to amuse herself, even as the guest of her wicked friend;--even though the host were himself nearly equally wicked. It suited young Hautboy very well to have free stables for his horses, and occasionally an extra mount when his own two steeds were insufficient for the necessary amount of hunting to be performed. Vivian, who had the liberal allowance of a private secretary to a Cabinet Minister to fall back upon, had three horses of his own. So that among them they got a great deal of hunting,--in which Lady Amaldina would have taken a conspicuous part had not Lord Llwddythlw entertained strong opinions as to the expediency of ladies riding to hounds. "He is so absurdly strict, you know," she said to Lady Frances. "I think he is quite right," said the other. "I don't believe in girls trying to do all the things that men do." "But what is the difference in jumping just over a hedge or two? I call it downright tyranny. Would you do anything Mr. Roden told you?" "Anything on earth,--except jump over the hedges. But our temptations are not likely to be in that way." "I think it very hard because I almost never see Llwddythlw." "But you will when you are married." "I don't believe I shall;--unless I go and look at him from behind the grating in the House of Commons. You know we have settled upon August." "I had not heard it." "Oh yes. I nailed him at last. But then I had to get David. You don't know David?" "No special modern David." "Our David is not very modern. He is Lord David Powell, and my brother that is to be. I had to persuade him to do something instead of his brother, and I had to swear that we couldn't ever be married unless he would consent. I suppose Mr. Roden could get married any day he pleased." Nevertheless Lady Amaldina was better than nobody to make the hours pass when the men are away hunting. But at last there came a grand day, on which the man of business was to come out hunting himself. Lord Llwddythlw had come into the neighbourhood, and was determined to have a day's pleasure. Gorse Hall was full, and Hautboy, though his sister was very eager in beseeching him, refused to give way to his future magnificent brother-in-law. "Do him all the good in the world," said Hautboy, "to put up at the pot-house. He'll find out all about whiskey and beer and gin, and know exactly how many beds the landlady makes up." Lord Llwddythlw, therefore, slept at a neighbouring hotel, and no doubt did turn his spare moments to some profit. Lord Llwddythlw was a man who had always horses, though he very rarely hunted; who had guns, though he never fired them; and fishing-rods, though nobody knew where they were. He kept up a great establishment, regretting nothing in regard to it except the necessity of being sometimes present at the festivities for which it was used. On the present occasion he had been enticed into Northamptonshire no doubt with the purpose of laying some first bricks, or opening some completed institution, or eating some dinner,--on any one of which occasions he would be able to tell the neighbours something as to the constitution of their country. Then the presence of his lady-love seemed to make this a fitting occasion for, perhaps, the one day's sport of the year. He came to Gorse Hall to breakfast, and then rode to the meet along with the open carriage in which the two ladies were sitting. "Llwddythlw," said his lady-love, "I do hope you mean to ride." "Being on horseback, Amy, I shall have no other alternative." Lady Amaldina turned round to her friend, as though to ask whether she had ever seen such an absurd creature in her life. "You know what I mean by riding, Llwddythlw," she said. "I suppose I do. You want me to break my neck." "Oh, heavens! Indeed I don't." "Or, perhaps, only to see me in a ditch." "I can't have that pleasure," she said, "because you won't allow me to hunt." "I have taken upon myself no such liberty as even to ask you not to do so. I have only suggested that tumbling into ditches, however salutary it may be for middle-aged gentlemen like myself, is not a becoming amusement for young ladies." "Llwddythlw," said Hautboy, coming up to his future brother-in-law, "that's a tidy animal of yours." "I don't quite know what tidy means as applied to a horse, my boy; but if it's complimentary, I am much obliged to you." "It means that I should like to have the riding of him for the rest of the season." "But what shall I do for myself if you take my tidy horse?" "You'll be up in Parliament, or down at Quarter Sessions, or doing your duty somewhere like a Briton." "I hope I may do my duty not the less because I intend to keep the tidy horse myself. When I am quite sure that I shall not want him any more, then I'll let you know." There was the usual trotting about from covert to covert, and the usual absence of foxes. The misery of sportsmen on these days is sometimes so great that we wonder that any man, having experienced the bitterness of hunting disappointment, should ever go out again. On such occasions the huntsman is declared among private friends to be of no use whatever. The master is an absolute muff. All honour as to preserving has been banished from the country. The gamekeepers destroy the foxes. The owners of coverts encourage them. "Things have come to such a pass," says Walker to Watson, "that I mean to give it up. There's no good keeping horses for this sort of thing." All this is very sad, and the only consolation comes from the evident delight of those who take pleasure in trotting about without having to incur the labour and peril of riding to hounds. At two o'clock on this day the ladies went home, having been driven about as long as the coachmen had thought it good for their horses. The men of course went on, knowing that they could not in honour liberate themselves from the toil of the day till the last covert shall have been drawn at half-past three o'clock. It is certainly true as to hunting that there are so many hours in which the spirit is vexed by a sense of failure, that the joy when it does come should be very great to compensate the evils endured. It is not simply that foxes will not dwell in every spinney, or break as soon as found, or always run when they do break. These are the minor pangs. But when the fox is found, and will break, and does run, when the scent suffices, and the hounds do their duty, when the best country which the Shires afford is open to you, when your best horse is under you, when your nerves are even somewhat above the usual mark,--even then there is so much of failure! You are on the wrong side of the wood, and getting a bad start are never with them for a yard; or your horse, good as he is, won't have that bit of water; or you lose your stirrup-leather, or your way; or you don't see the hounds turn, and you go astray with others as blind as yourself; or, perhaps, when there comes the run of the season, on that very day you have taken a liberty with your chosen employment, and have lain in bed. Look back upon your hunting lives, brother sportsmen, and think how few and how far between the perfect days have been. In spite of all that was gone this was one of those perfect days to those who had the pleasure afterwards of remembering it. "Taking it all in all, I think that Lord Llwddythlw had the best of it from first to last," said Vivian, when they were again talking of it in the drawing-room after they had come in from their wine. "To think that you should be such a hero!" said Lady Amaldina, much gratified. "I didn't believe you would take so much trouble about such a thing." "It was what Hautboy called the tidiness of the horse." "By George, yes; I wish you'd lend him to me. I got my brute in between two rails, and it took me half-an-hour to smash a way through. I never saw anything of it after that." Poor Hautboy almost cried as he gave this account of his own misfortune. "You were the only fellow I saw try them after Crasher," said Vivian. "Crasher came on his head, and I should think he must be there still. I don't know where Hampstead got through." "I never know where I've been," said Hampstead, who had, in truth, led the way over the double rails which had so confounded Crasher and had so perplexed Hautboy. But when a man is too forward to be seen, he is always supposed to be somewhere behind. Then there was an opinion expressed by Walker that Tolleyboy, the huntsman, had on that special occasion stuck very well to his hounds, to which Watson gave his cordial assent. Walker and Watson had both been asked to dinner, and during the day had been heard to express to each other all that adverse criticism as to the affairs of the hunt in general which appeared a few lines back. Walker and Watson were very good fellows, popular in the hunt, and of all men the most unlikely to give it up. When that run was talked about afterwards, as it often was, it was always admitted that Lord Llwddythlw had been the hero of the day. But no one ever heard him talk of it. Such a trifle was altogether beneath his notice. CHAPTER XVIII. POOR WALKER. That famous run took place towards the end of February, at which time Hampstead was counting all the hours till he should again be allowed to show himself in Paradise Row. He had in the mean time written one little letter to the Quaker's daughter;-- DEAREST MARION,--I only write because I cannot keep myself quiet without telling you how well I love you. Pray do not believe that because I am away I think of you less. I am to see you, I hope, on Monday, the 2nd of March. If you would write me but one word to say that you will be glad to see me! Always your own, H. She showed this to her father, and the sly old Quaker told her that it would not be courteous in her not to send some word of reply. As the young lord, he said, had been permitted by him, her father, to pay his addresses to her, so much was due to him. Why should his girl lose this grand match? Why should his daughter not become a happy and a glorious wife, seeing that her beauty and her grace had entirely won this young lord's heart? "MY LORD," she wrote back to him,--"I shall be happy to see you when you come, whatever day may suit you. But, alas! I can only say what I have said.--Yet I am thine, MARION." She had intended not to be tender, and yet she had thought herself bound to tell him that all that she had said before was true. It was after this that Lord Llwddythlw distinguished himself, so much so that Walker and Watson did nothing but talk about him all the next day. "It's those quiet fellows that make the best finish after all!" said Walker, who had managed to get altogether to the bottom of his horse during the run, and had hardly seen the end of it quite as a man wishes to see it. The day but one after this, the last Friday in February, was to be the last of Hampstead's hunting, at any rate until after his proposed visit to Holloway. He, and Lady Frances with him, intended to return to London on the next day, and then, as far as he was concerned, the future loomed before him as a great doubt. Had Marion been the highest lady in the land, and had he from his position and rank been hardly entitled to ask for her love, he could not have been more anxious, more thoughtful, or occasionally more down-hearted. But this latter feeling would give way to joy when he remembered the words with which she had declared her love. No assurance could have been more perfect, or more devoted. She had coyed him nothing as far as words are concerned, and he never for a moment doubted but that her full words had come from a full heart. "But alas! I can only say what I have said." That of course had been intended to remove all hope. But if she loved him as she said she did, would he not be able to teach her that everything should be made to give way to love? It was thus that his mind was filled, as day after day he prepared himself for his hunting, and day after day did his best in keeping to the hounds. Then came that last day in February as to which all those around him expressed themselves to be full of hope. Gimberley Green was certainly the most popular meet in the country, and at Gimberley Green the hounds were to meet on this occasion. It was known that men were coming from the Pytchley and the Cottesmore, so that everybody was supposed to be anxious to do his best. Hautboy was very much on the alert, and had succeeded in borrowing for the occasion Hampstead's best horse. Even Vivian, who was not given to much outward enthusiasm, had had consultations with his groom as to which of two he had better ride first. Sometimes there does come a day on which rivalry seems to be especially keen, when a sense of striving to excel and going ahead of others seems to instigate minds which are not always ambitious. Watson and Walker were on this occasion very much exercised, and had in the sweet confidences of close friendship agreed with themselves that certain heroes who were coming from one of the neighbouring hunts should not be allowed to carry off the honours of the day. On this occasion they both breakfasted at Gorse Hall, which was not uncommon with them, as the hotel,--or pot-house, as Hautboy called it,--was hardly more than a hundred yards distant. Walker was peculiarly exuberant, and had not been long in the house before he confided to Hautboy in a whisper their joint intention that "those fellows" were not to be allowed to have it all their own way. "Suppose you don't find after all, Mr. Walker," said Lady Amaldina, as the gentlemen got up from breakfast, and loaded themselves with sandwiches, cigar-cases, and sherry-flasks. "I won't believe anything so horrible," said Walker. "I should cut the concern," said Watson, "and take to stagging in Surrey." This was supposed to be the bitterest piece of satire that could be uttered in regard to the halcyon country in which their operations were carried on. "Tolleyboy will see to that," said Walker. "We haven't had a blank yet, and I don't think he'll disgrace himself on such a day as this." Then they all started, in great glee, on their hacks, their hunters having been already sent on to Gimberley Green. The main part of the story of that day's sport, as far as we're concerned with it, got itself told so early in the day that readers need not be kept long waiting for the details. Tolleyboy soon relieved these imperious riders from all dangers as to a blank. At the first covert drawn a fox was found immediately, and without any of those delays, so perplexing to some and so comforting to others, made away for some distant home of his own. It is, perhaps, on such occasions as these that riders are subjected to the worst perils of the hunting field. There comes a sudden rush, when men have not cooled themselves down by the process of riding here and there and going through the usual preliminary prefaces to a run. They are collected in crowds, and the horses are more impatient even than their riders. No one on that occasion could have been more impatient than Walker,--unless it was the steed upon which Walker was mounted. There was a crowd of men standing in a lane at the corner of the covert,--of men who had only that moment reached the spot,--when at about thirty yards from them a fox crossed the lane, and two or three leading hounds close at his brush. One or two of the strangers from the enemy's country occupied a position close to, or rather in the very entrance of, a little hunting gate which led out of the lane into the field opposite. Between the lane and the field there was a fence which was not "rideable!" As is the custom with lanes, the roadway had been so cut down that there was a bank altogether precipitous about three feet high, and on that a hedge of trees and stakes and roots which had also been cut almost into the consistency of a wall. The gate was the only place,--into which these enemies had thrust themselves, and in the possession of which they did not choose to hurry themselves, asserting as they kept their places that it would be well to give the fox a minute. The assertion in the interests of hunting might have been true. A sportsman who could at such a moment have kept his blood perfectly cool, might have remembered his duties well enough to have abstained from pressing into the field in order that the fox might have his fair chance. Hampstead, however, who was next to the enemies, was not that cool hero, and bade the strangers move on, not failing to thrust his horse against their horses. Next to him, and a little to the left, was the unfortunate Walker. To his patriotic spirit it was intolerable that any stranger should be in that field before one of their own hunt. What he himself attempted, what he wished to do, or whether any clear intention was formed in his mind, no one ever knew. But to the astonishment of all who saw it the horse got himself half-turned round towards the fence, and attempted to take it in a stand. The eager animal did get himself up amidst the thick wood on the top of the bank, and then fell headlong over, having entangled his feet among the boughs. Had his rider sat loosely he would probably have got clear of his horse. But as it was they came down together, and unfortunately the horse was uppermost. Just as it happened Lord Hampstead made his way through the gate, and was the first who dismounted to give assistance to his friend. In two or three minutes there was a crowd round, with a doctor in the midst of it, and a rumour was going about that the man had been killed. In the mean time the enemies were riding well to the hounds, with Tolleyboy but a few yards behind them, Tolleyboy having judiciously remembered a spot at which he could make his way out of the covert into field without either passing through the gate or over the fence. The reader may as well know at once that Walker was not killed. He was not killed, though he was so crushed and mauled with broken ribs and collar-bone, so knocked out of breath and stunned and mangled and squeezed, so pummelled and pounded and generally misused, that he did not come to himself for many hours, and could never after remember anything of that day's performances after eating his breakfast at Gorse Hall. It was a week before tidings went through the Shires that he was likely to live at all, and even then it was asserted that he had been so altogether smashed that he would never again use any of his limbs. On the morning after the hunt his widowed mother and only sister were down with him at the hotel, and there they remained till they were able to carry him away to his own house. "Won't I?" was almost the first intelligible word he said when his mother suggested to him, her only son, that now at least he would promise to abandon that desperate amusement, and would never go hunting any more. It may be said in praise of British surgery generally that Walker was out again on the first of the following November. But Walker with his misfortunes and his heroism and his recovery would have been nothing to us had it been known from the first to all the field that Walker had been the victim. The accident happened between eleven and twelve,--probably not much before twelve. But the tidings of it were sent up by telegraph from some neighbouring station to London in time to be inserted in one of the afternoon newspapers of that day; and the tidings as sent informed the public that Lord Hampstead while hunting that morning had fallen with his horse at the corner of Gimberly Green, that the animal had fallen on him,--and that he had been crushed to death. Had the false information been given in regard to Walker it might probably have excited so little attention that the world would have known nothing about it till it learned that the poor fellow had not been killed. But, having been given as to a young nobleman, everybody had heard of it before dinner-time that evening. Lord Persiflage knew it in the House of Lords, and Lord Llwddythlw had heard it in the House of Commons. There was not a club which had not declared poor Hampstead to be an excellent fellow, although he was a little mad. The Montressors had already congratulated themselves on the good fortune of little Lord Frederic; and the speedy death of the Marquis was prophesied, as men and women were quite sure that he would not be able in his present condition to bear the loss of his eldest son. The news was telegraphed down to Trafford Park by the family lawyer,--with an intimation, however, that, as the accident had been so recent, no absolute credence should yet be given as to its fatal result. "Bad fall probably," said the lawyer in his telegram, "but I don't believe the rest. Will send again when I hear the truth." At nine o'clock that evening the truth was known in London, and before midnight the poor Marquis had been relieved from his terrible affliction. But for three hours it had been supposed at Trafford Park that Lord Frederic had become the heir to his father's title and his father's property. Close inquiry was afterwards made as to the person by whom this false intelligence had been sent to the newspaper, but nothing certain was ever asserted respecting it. That a general rumour had prevailed for a time among many who were out that Lord Hampstead had been the victim, was found to have been the case. He had been congratulated by scores of men who had heard that he had fallen. When Tolleyboy was breaking up the fox, and wondering why so few men had ridden through the hunt with him, he was told that Lord Hampstead had been killed, and had dropped his bloody knife out of his hands. But no one would own as to having sent the telegram. Suspicion attached itself to an attorney from Kettering who had been seen in the early part of the day, but it could not be traced home to him. Official inquiry was made; but as it was not known who sent the message, or to what address, or from what post town, or even the wording of the message, official information was not forthcoming. It is probable that Sir Boreas at the Post Office did not think it proper to tell everybody all that he knew. It was admitted that a great injury had been done to the poor Marquis, but it was argued on the other side that the injury had been quickly removed. There had, however, been three or four hours at Trafford Park, during which feelings had been excited which afterwards gave rise to bitter disappointment. The message had come to Mr. Greenwood, of whose estrangement from the family the London solicitor had not been as yet made aware. He had been forced to send the tidings into the sick man's room by Harris, the butler, but he had himself carried it up to the Marchioness. "I am obliged to come," he said, as though apologizing when she looked at him with angry eyes because of his intrusion. "There has been an accident." He was standing, as he always stood, with his hands hanging down by his side. But there was a painful look in his eyes more than she had usually read there. "What accident--what accident, Mr. Greenwood? Why do you not tell me?" Her heart ran away at once to the little beds in which her darlings were already lying in the next room. "It is a telegram from London." From London--a telegram! Then her boys were safe. "Why do you not tell me instead of standing there?" "Lord Hampstead--" "Lord Hampstead! What has he done? Is he married?" "He will never be married." Then she shook in every limb, and clenched her hands, and stood with open mouth, not daring to question him. "He has had a fall, Lady Kingsbury." "A fall!" "The horse has crushed him." "Crushed him!" "I used to say it would be so, you know. And now it has come to pass." "Is he--?" "Dead? Yes, Lady Kingsbury, he is--dead." Then he gave her the telegram to read. She struggled to read it, but the words were too vague; or her eyes too dim. "Harris has gone in with the tidings. I had better read the telegram, I suppose, but I thought you'd like to see it. I told you how it would be, Lady Kingsbury; and now it has come to pass." He stood standing a minute or two longer, but as she sat hiding her face, and unable to speak, he left the room without absolutely asking her to thank him for his news. As soon as he was gone she crept slowly into the room in which her three boys were sleeping. A door from her own chamber opened into it, and then another into that in which one of the nurses slept. She leaned over them and kissed them all; but she knelt at that on which Lord Frederic lay, and woke him with her warm embraces. "Oh, mamma, don't," said the boy. Then he shook himself, and sat up in his bed. "Mamma, when is Jack coming?" he said. Let her train them as she would, they would always ask for Jack. "Go to sleep, my darling, my darling, my darling!" she said, kissing him again and again. "Trafford," she said, whispering to herself, as she went back to her own room, trying the sound of the title he would have to use. It had been all arranged in her own mind how it was to be, if such a thing should happen. "Go down," she said to her maid soon afterwards, "and ask Mrs. Crawley whether his Lordship would wish to see me." Mrs. Crawley was the nurse. But the maid brought back word that "My Lord" did not wish to see "My Lady." For three hours he lay stupefied in his sorrow; and for three hours she sat alone, almost in the dark. We may doubt whether it was all triumph. Her darling had got what she believed to be his due; but the memory that she had longed for it,--almost prayed for it,--must have dulled her joy. There was no such regret with Mr. Greenwood. It seemed to him that Fortune, Fate, Providence, or what not, had only done its duty. He believed that he had in truth foreseen and foretold the death of the pernicious young man. But would the young man's death be now of any service to him? Was it not too late? Had they not all quarrelled with him? Nevertheless he had been avenged. So it was at Trafford Park for three hours. Then there came a postboy galloping on horseback, and the truth was known. Lady Kingsbury went again to her children, but this time she did not kiss them. A gleam of glory had come there and had passed away;--but yet there was something of relief. Why had he allowed himself to be so cowed on that morning? That was Mr. Greenwood's thought. The poor Marquis fell into a slumber almost immediately, and on the next morning had almost forgotten that the first telegram had come. CHAPTER XIX. FALSE TIDINGS. But there was another household which the false tidings of Lord Hampstead's death reached that same night. The feelings excited at Trafford had been very keen,--parental agony, maternal hope, disappointment, and revenge; but in that other household there was suffering quite as great. Mr. Fay himself did not devote much time during the day either to the morning or the evening newspapers. Had he been alone at Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird's he would have heard nothing of the false tidings. But sitting in his inner room, Mr. Pogson read the third edition of the _Evening Advertiser_, and then saw the statement, given with many details. "We," said the statement, "have sent over to the office of our contemporary, and have corroborated the facts." Then the story was repeated. Pushing his way through a gate at Gimberley Green, Lord Hampstead's horse had tumbled down, and all the field had ridden over him. He had been picked up dead, and his body had been carried home to Gorse Hall. Now Lord Hampstead's name had become familiar in King's Court. Tribbledale had told how the young lord had become enamoured of Zachary Fay's daughter, and was ready to marry her at a moment's notice. The tale had been repeated to old Littlebird by young Littlebird, and at last even to Mr. Pogson himself. There had been, of course, much doubt in King's Court as to the very improbable story. But some inquiries had been made, and there was now a general belief in its truth. When Mr. Pogson read the account of the sad tragedy he paused a moment to think what he would do, then opened his door and called for Zachary Fay. They who had known the Quaker long always called him Zachary, or Friend Zachary, or Zachary Fay. "My friend," said Mr. Pogson, "have you read this yet?" and he handed him the paper. "I never have much time for the newspaper till I get home at night," said the clerk, taking the sheet that was offered him. "You had better read it, perhaps, as I have heard your name mentioned, I know not how properly, with that of the young lord." Then the Quaker, bringing his spectacles down from his forehead over his eyes, slowly read the paragraph. As he did so Mr. Pogson looked at him carefully. But the Quaker showed very little emotion by his face. "Does it concern you, Zachary?" "I know the young man, Mr. Pogson. Though he be much out of my own rank, circumstances have brought him to my notice. I shall be grieved if this be true. With thy permission, Mr. Pogson, I will lock up my desk and return home at once." To this Mr. Pogson of course assented, recommending the Quaker to put the newspaper into his pocket. Zachary Fay, as he walked to the spot where he was wont to find the omnibus, considered much as to what he might best do when he reached home. Should he tell the sad tidings to his girl, or should he leave her to hear it when further time should have confirmed the truth. To Zachary himself it seemed too probable that it should be true. Hunting to him, in his absolute ignorance of what hunting meant, seemed to be an occupation so full of danger that the wonder was that the hunting world had not already been exterminated. And then there was present to him a feeling, as there is to so many of us, that the grand thing which Fortune seemed to offer him was too good to be true. It could hardly be that he should live to see his daughter the mother of a future British peer! He had tried to school himself not to wish it, telling himself that such wishes were vain, and such longings wicked; he had said much to himself as to the dangers of rank and titles and wealth for those who were not born to them. He had said something also of that family tragedy which had robbed his own life of most of its joys, and which seemed to have laid so heavy a burden on his girl's spirit. Going backwards and forwards morning and evening to his work, he had endeavoured to make his own heart acknowledge that the marriage was not desirable; but he had failed;--and had endeavoured to reconcile the failure to his conscience by telling himself falsely that he as a father had been anxious only for the welfare of his child. Now he felt the blow terribly on her account, feeling sure that his girl's heart had been given to the young man; but he felt it also on his own. It might be, nevertheless, that the report would prove untrue. Had the matter been one in which he was not himself so deeply interested, he would certainly have believed it to be untrue, he being a man by his nature not prone to easy belief. It would, however, be wiser, he said to himself as he left the omnibus at the "Duchess of Edinburgh," to say nothing as yet to Marion. Then he put the paper carefully into his breast coat pocket, and considered how he might best hide his feelings as to the sad news. But all this was in vain. The story had already found its way down to Paradise Row. Mrs. Demijohn was as greedy of news as her neighbours, and would generally send round the corner for a halfpenny evening journal. On this occasion she did so, and within two minutes of the time in which the paper had been put into her hands exclaimed to her niece almost with ecstasy, "Clara, what do you think? That young lord who comes here to see Marion Fay has gone and got himself killed out hunting." "Lord Hampstead!" shouted Clara. "Got himself killed! Laws, aunt, I can't believe it!" In her tone, also, there was something almost of exultation. The glory that had been supposed to be awaiting Marion Fay was almost too much for the endurance of any neighbour. Since it had become an ascertained fact that Lord Hampstead had admired the girl, Marion's popularity in the Row had certainly decreased. Mrs. Duffer believed her no longer to be handsome; Clara had always thought her to be pert; Mrs. Demijohn had expressed her opinion that the man was an idiot; and the landlady at the "Duchess of Edinburgh" had wittily asserted that "young marquises were not to be caught with chaff." There was no doubt a sense of relief in Clara Demijohn's mind when she heard that this special young marquis had been trampled to death in the hunting field, and carried home a corpse. "I must go and tell the poor girl," said Clara, immediately. "Leave it alone," said the old woman. "There will be plenty to tell her, let alone you." But such occasions occur so rarely that it does not do not to take advantage of them. In ordinary life events are so unfrequent, and when they do arrive they give such a flavour of salt to hours which are generally tedious, that sudden misfortunes come as godsends,--almost even when they happen to ourselves. Even a funeral gives a tasteful break to the monotony of our usual occupations, and small-pox in the next street is a gratifying excitement. Clara soon got possession of the newspaper, and with it in her hand ran across the street to No. 17. Miss Fay was at Home, and in a minute or two came down to Miss Demijohn in the parlour. It was only during the minute or two that Clara began to think how she should break the tidings to her friend, or in any way to realize the fact that the "tidings" would require breaking. She had rushed across the street with the important paper in her hand, proud of the fact that she had something great to tell. But during that minute or two it did occur to her that a choice of words was needed for such an occasion. "Oh, Miss Fay," she said, "have you heard?" "Heard what?" asked Marion. "I do not know how to tell you, it is so terrible! I have only just seen it in the newspaper, and have thought it best to run over and let you know." "Has anything happened to my father?" asked the girl. "It isn't your father. This is almost more dreadful, because he is so young." Then that bright pink hue spread itself over Marion's face; but she stood speechless with her features almost hardened by the resolution which she had already formed within her not to betray the feelings of her heart before this other girl. The news, let it be what it might, must be of him! There was no one else "so young," of whom it was probable that this young woman would speak to her after this fashion. She stood silent, motionless, conveying nothing of her feelings by her face,--unless one might have read something from the deep flush of her complexion. "I don't know how to say it," said Clara Demijohn. "There; you had better take the paper and read for yourself. It's in the last column but one near the bottom. 'Fatal Accident in the Field!' You'll see it." Marion took the paper, and read the words through without faltering or moving a limb. Why would not the cruel young woman go and leave her to her sorrow? Why did she stand there looking at her, as though desirous to probe to the bottom the sad secret of her bosom? She kept her eyes still fixed upon the paper, not knowing where else to turn them,--for she would not look into her tormentor's face for pity. "Ain't it sad?" said Clara Demijohn. Then there came a deep sigh. "Sad," she said, repeating the word; "sad! Yes, it's sad. I think, if you don't mind, I'll ask you to leave me now. Oh, yes; there's the newspaper." "Perhaps you'd like to keep it for your father." Here Marion shook her head. "Then I'll take it back to aunt. She's hardly looked at it yet. When she came to the paragraph, of course, she read it out; and I wouldn't let her have any peace till she gave it me to bring over." "I wish you'd leave me," said Marion Fay. Then with a look of mingled surprise and anger she left the room, and returned across the street to No. 10. "She doesn't seem to me to care a straw about it," said the niece to her aunt; "but she got up just as highty tighty as usual and asked me to go away." When the Quaker came to the door, and opened it with his latch-key, Marion was in the passage ready to receive him. Till she had heard the sound of the lock she had not moved from the room, hardly from the position, in which the other girl had left her. She had sunk into a chair which had been ready for her, and there she had remained thinking over it. "Father," she said, laying her hand upon his arm as she went to meet him, and looking up into his face;--"father?" "My child!" "Have you heard any tidings in the City?" "Have you heard any, Marion?" "Is it true then?" she said, seizing both his arms as though to support her. "Who knows? Who can say that it be true till further tidings shall come? Come in, Marion. It is not well that we should discuss it here." "Is it true? Oh, father;--oh, father; it will kill me." "Nay, Marion, not that. After all, the lad was little more than a stranger to thee." "A stranger?" "How many weeks is it since first thou saw'st him? And how often? But two or three times. I am sorry for him;--if it be true; if it be true! I liked him well." "But I have loved him." "Nay, Marion, nay; thou shouldst moderate thyself." "I will not moderate myself." Then she disengaged herself from his arm. "I loved him,--with all my heart, and all my strength; nay, with my whole soul. If it be so as that paper says, then I must die too. Oh, father, is it true, think you?" He paused a while before he answered, examining himself what it might be best that he should say as to her welfare. As for himself, he hardly knew what he believed. These papers were always in search of paragraphs, and would put in the false and true alike,--the false perhaps the sooner, so as to please the taste of their readers. But if it were true, then how bad would it be to give her false hopes! "There need be no ground to despair," he said, "till we shall hear again in the morning." "I know he is dead." "Not so, Marion. Thou canst know nothing. If thou wilt bear thyself like a strong-hearted girl, as thou art, I will do this for thee. I will go across to the young lord's house at Hendon at once, and inquire there as to his safety. They will surely know if aught of ill has happened to their master." So it was done. The poor old man, after his long day's labour, without waiting for his evening meal, taking only a crust with him in his pocket, got into a cab on that cold November evening, and had himself driven by suburban streets and lanes to Hendon Hall. Here the servants were much surprised and startled by the inquiries made. They had heard nothing. Lord Hampstead and his sister were expected home on the following day. Dinner was to be prepared for them, and fires had already been lighted in the rooms. "Dead!" "Killed out hunting!" "Trodden to death in the field!" Not a word of it had reached Hendon Hall. Nevertheless the housekeeper, when the paragraph was shown to her, believed every word of it. And the servants believed it. Thus the poor Quaker returned home with but very little comfort. Marion's condition during that night was very sad, though she struggled to bear up against her sorrow in compliance with her father's instructions. There was almost nothing said as she sat by him while he ate his supper. On the next morning, too, she rose to give him his breakfast, having fallen asleep through weariness a hundred times during the night, to wake again within a minute or two to the full sense of her sorrow. "Shall I know soon?" she said as he left the house. "Surely some one will know," he said; "and I will send thee word." But as he left the house the real facts had already been made known at the "Duchess of Edinburgh." One of the morning papers had a full, circumstantial, and fairly true account of the whole matter. "It was not his lordship at all," said the good-natured landlady, coming out to him as he passed the door. "Not Lord Hampstead?" "Not at all." "He was not killed?" "It wasn't him as was hurt, Mr. Fay. It was another of them young men--one Mr. Walker; only son of Watson, Walker, and Warren. And whether he be dead or alive nobody knows; but they do say there wasn't a whole bone left in his body. It's all here, and I was a-going to bring it you. I suppose Miss Fay did take it badly?" "I knew the young man," said the Quaker, hurrying back to his own house with the paper,--anxious if possible not to declare to the neighbourhood that the young lord was in truth a suitor for his daughter's hand. "And I thank thee, Mrs. Grimley, for thy care. The suddenness of it all frightened my poor girl." "That'll comfort her up," said Mrs. Grimley cheerily. "From all we hear, Mr. Fay, she do have reason to be anxious for this young lord. I hope he'll be spared to her, Mr. Fay, and show himself a true man." Then the Quaker returned with his news,--which was accepted by him and by them all as trustworthy. "Now my girl will be happy again?" "Yes, father." "But my child has told the truth to her old father at last." "Had I told you any untruth?" "No, indeed, Marion." "I said that I am not fit to be his wife, and I am not. Nothing is changed in all that. But when I heard that he was--. But, father, we will not talk of it now. How good you have been to me, I shall never forget,--and how tender!" "Who should be soft-hearted if not a father?" "They are not all like you. But you have been always good and gentle to your girl. How good and how gentle we cannot always see;--can we? But I have seen it now, father." As he went into the City, about an hour after his proper time, he allowed his heart to rejoice at the future prospects of his girl. He did now believe that there would be a marriage between her and her noble lover. She had declared her love to him,--to him, her father, and after that she would surely do as they would have her. Something had reached even his ears of the coyness of girls, and it was not displeasing to him that his girl had not been at once ready to give herself with her easy promise to her lover. How strong she had looked, even in the midst of her sufferings, on the previous evening! That she should be weaker this morning, less able to restrain her tears, more prone to tremble as he spoke to her, was but natural. The shock of the grief will often come after the sorrow is over. He knew that, and told himself that there need be nothing,--need not at least be much,--to fear. But it was not so with Marion as she lay all the morning convulsed almost with the violence of her emotions. Her own weakness was palpable to herself, as she struggled to regain her breath, struggled to repress her sobs, struggled to move about the house, and be as might be any other girl. "Better just lie thee down till thy father return, and leave me to bustle through the work," said the old Quaker woman who had lived with them through all their troubles. Then Marion yielded, and laid herself on the bed till the hour had come in which her father might be expected. CHAPTER XX. NEVER, NEVER, TO COME AGAIN. The trouble to Hampstead occasioned by the accident was considerable, as was also for the first twenty-four hours his anxiety and that of his sister as to the young man's fate. He got back to Gorse Hall early in the day, as there was no more hunting after the killing of that first fox. There had been a consultation as to the young man, and it had been held to be best to have him taken to the inn at which he had been living, as there would be room there for any of his friends who might come to look after him. But during the whole of that day inquiries were made at Gorse Hall after Lord Hampstead himself, so general had been the belief that he was the victim. From all the towns around, from Peterborough, Oundle, Stilton, and Thrapstone, there came mounted messengers, with expressions of hope and condolence as to the young lord's broken bones. And then the condition of their poor neighbour was so critical that they found it to be impossible to leave Gorse Hall on the next day, as they had intended. He had become intimate with them, and had breakfasted at Gorse Hall on that very morning. In one way Hampstead felt that he was responsible, as, had he not been in the way, poor Walker's horse would have been next to the gate, and would not have attempted the impossible jump. They were compelled to put off the journey till the Monday. "Will go by the 9.30 train," said Hampstead in his telegram, who, in spite of poor Walker's mangled body, was still determined to see Marion on that day. On the Saturday morning it became known to him and his sister that the false report had been in the London newspapers, and then they had found themselves compelled to send telegrams to every one who knew them, to the Marquis, and to the lawyer in London, to Mr. Roberts, and to the housekeeper at Hendon Hall. Telegrams were also sent by Lady Amaldina to Lady Persiflage, and especially to Lord Llwddythlw. Vivian sent others to the Civil Service generally. Hautboy was very eager to let everybody know the truth at the Pandemonium. Never before had so many telegrams been sent from the little office at Gimberley. But there was one for which Hampstead demanded priority, writing it himself, and himself giving it into the hands of the despatching young lady, the daughter of the Gimberley grocer, who no doubt understood the occasion perfectly. To Marion Fay, 17, Paradise Row, Holloway. It was not I who was hurt. Shall be at No. 17 by three on Monday. "I wonder whether they heard it down at Trafford," said Lady Amaldina to Lady Frances. On this subject they were informed before the day was over, as a long message came from Mr. Roberts in compliance with the instructions from the Marquis. "Because if they did what a terrible disappointment my aunt will have to bear." "Do not say anything so horrible," said Lady Frances. "I always look upon Aunt Clara as though she were not quite in her right senses about her own children. She thinks a great injury is done her because her son is not the heir. Now for a moment she will have believed that it was so." This, however, was a view of the matter which Lady Frances found herself unable to discuss. "He's going to get well after all," said Hautboy that evening, just before dinner. He had been running over to the inn every hour to ask after the condition of poor Walker. At first the tidings had been gloomy enough. The doctor had only been able to say that he needn't die because of his broken bones. Then late in the afternoon there arrived a surgeon from London who gave something of a stronger hope. The young man's consciousness had come back to him, and he had expressed an appreciation for brandy and water. It was this fact which had seemed so promising to young Lord Hautboy. On the Saturday there came Mrs. Walker and Miss Walker, and before the Sunday evening it was told how the patient had signified his intention of hunting again on the first possible opportunity. "I always knew he was a brick," said Hautboy, as he repeated the story, "because he always would ride at everything." "I don't think he'll ever ride again at the fence just out of Gimberley Wood," said Lord Hampstead. They were all able to start on the Monday morning without serious concern, as the accounts from the injured man's bed-room were still satisfactory. That he had broken three ribs, a collar-bone, and an arm seemed to be accounted as nothing. Nor was there much made of the scalp wound on his head, which had come from a kick the horse gave him in the struggle. As his brains were still there, that did not much matter. His cheek had been cut open by a stake on which he fell, but the scar, it was thought, would only add to his glories. It was the pressure of the horse which had fallen across his body which the doctors feared. But Hautboy very rightly argued that there couldn't be much danger, seeing that he had recovered his taste for brandy and water. "If it wasn't for that," said Hautboy, "I don't think I'd have gone away and left him." Lord Hampstead found, when he reached home on the Monday morning, that his troubles were not yet over. The housekeeper came out and wept, almost with her arms round his neck. The groom, and the footman, and the gardener, even the cowboy himself, flocked about him, telling stories of the terrible condition in which they had been left after the coming of the Quaker on the Friday evening. "I didn't never think I'd ever see my lord again," said the cook solemnly. "I didn't a'most hope it," said the housemaid, "after hearing the Quaker gentleman read it all out of the newspaper." Lord Hampstead shook hands with them all, and laughed at the misfortune of the false telegram, and endeavoured to be well pleased with everything, but it occurred to him to think what must have been the condition of Mr. Fay's house that night, when he had come across from Holloway through the darkness and rain to find out for his girl what might be the truth or falsehood of the report which had reached him. At 3.0 punctually he was in Paradise Row. Perhaps it was not unnatural that even then his advent should create emotion. As he turned down from the main road the very potboy from "The Duchess" rushed up to him, and congratulated him on his escape. "I have had nothing to escape," said Lord Hampstead trying to pass on. But Mrs. Grimley saw him, and came out to him. "Oh, my lord, we are so thankful;--indeed, we are." "You are very good, ma'am," said the lord. "And now, Lord 'Ampstead, mind and be true to that dear young lady who was well-nigh heart-broke when she heard as it were you who was smashed up." He was hurrying on finding it impossible to make any reply to this, when Miss Demijohn, seeing that Mrs. Grimley had been bold enough to address the noble visitor to their humble street, remembering how much she had personally done in the matter, having her mind full of the important fact that she had been the first to give information on the subject to the Row generally, thinking that no such appropriate occasion as this would ever again occur for making personal acquaintance with the lord, rushed out from her own house, and seized the young man's hand before he was able to defend himself. "My lord," she said, "my lord, we were all so depressed when we heard of it." "Were you, indeed?" "All the Row was depressed, my lord. But I was the first who knew it. It was I who communicated the sad tidings to Miss Fay. It was, indeed, my lord. I saw it in the _Evening Tell-Tale_, and went across with the paper at once." "That was very good of you." "Thank'ee, my lord. And, therefore, seeing you and knowing you,--for we all know you now in Paradise Row--" "Do you now?" "Every one of us, my lord. Therefore I thought I'd just make bold to come out and introduce myself. Here's Mrs. Duffer. I hope you'll let me introduce you to Mrs. Duffer of No. 15. Mrs. Duffer, Lord Hampstead. And oh, my lord, it will be such an honour to the Row if anything of that kind should happen." Lord Hampstead, having with his best grace gone through the ceremony of shaking hands with Mrs. Duffer, who had come up to him and Clara just at the step of the Quaker's house, was at last allowed to knock at the door. Miss Fay would be with him in a minute, said the old woman as she showed him into the sitting-room up-stairs. Marion, as soon as she heard the knock, ran for a moment to her own bed-room. Was it not much to her that he was with her again, not only alive, but uninjured, that she should again hear his voice, and see the light of his countenance, and become aware once more of a certain almost heavenly glory which seemed to surround her when she was in his presence? She was aware that on such occasions she felt herself to be lifted out of her ordinary prosaic life, and to be for a time floating, as it were, in some upper air; among the clouds, indeed;--alas, yes; but among clouds which were silver-lined; in a heaven which could never be her own, but in which she could dwell, though it were but for an hour or two, in ecstasy,--if only he would allow her to do so without troubling her with further prayer. Then there came across her a thought that if only she could so begin this interview with him that it might seem to be an occasion of special joy,--as though it were a thanksgiving because he had come back to her safe,--she might, at any rate for this day, avoid words from him which might drive her again to refuse his great request. He already knew that she loved him, must know of what value to her must be his life, must understand how this had come at first a terrible, crushing, killing sorrow, and then a relief which by the excess of its joy must have been almost too much for her. Could she not let all that be a thing acknowledged between them, which might be spoken of as between dearest friends, without any allusion for the present to that request which could never be granted? But he, as he waited there a minute or two, was minded to make quite another use of the interview. He was burning to take her in his arms as his own, to press his lips to hers and know that she returned his caress, to have the one word spoken which would alone suffice to satisfy the dominating spirit of the man within him. Had she acceded to his request, then his demand would have been that she should at once become his wife, and he would not have rested at peace till he had reduced her months to weeks. He desired to have it all his own way. He had drawn her into his presence as soon almost as he had seen her. He had forced upon her his love. He had driven her to give him her heart, and to acknowledge that it was so. Of course he must go on with his triumph over her. She must be his altogether, from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet,--and that without delay. His hunting and his yacht, his politics and his friendships, were nothing to him without Marion Fay. When she came into the room, his heart was in sympathy with her, but by no means his mind. "My lord," she said, letting her hand lie willingly between the pressure of his two, "you may guess what we suffered when we heard the report, and how we felt when we learnt the truth." "You got my telegram? I sent it as soon as I began to understand how foolish the people had been." "Oh yes, my lord. It was so good of you!" "Marion, will you do something for me?" "What shall I do, my lord?" "Don't call me, 'my lord.'" "But it is proper." "It is most improper, and abominable, and unnatural." "Lord Hampstead!" "I hate it. You and I can understand each other, at any rate." "I hope so." "I hate it from everybody. I can't tell the servants not to do it. They wouldn't understand me. But from you! It seems always as though you were laughing at me." "Laugh at you!" "You may if you like it. What is it you may not do with me? If it were really a joke, if you were quizzing, I shouldn't mind it." He held her hand the whole time, and she did not attempt to withdraw it. What did her hand signify? If she could only so manage with him on that day that he should be satisfied to be happy, and not trouble her with any request. "Marion," he said, drawing her towards him. "Sit down, my lord. Well. I won't. You shan't be called my lord to-day, because I am so happy to see you;--because you have had so great an escape." "But I didn't have any escape." If only she could keep him in this way! If he would only talk to her about anything but his passion! "It seemed to me so, of course. Father was broken-hearted about it. He was as bad as I. Think of father going down without his tea to Hendon Hall, and driving the poor people there all out of their wits." "Everybody was out of his wits." "I was," she said, bobbing her head at him. She was just so far from him, she thought, as to be safe from any impetuous movement. "And Hannah was nearly as bad." Hannah was the old woman. "You may imagine we had a wretched night of it." "And all about nothing," said he, falling into her mood in the moment. "But think of poor Walker." "Yes, indeed! I suppose he has friends, too, who loved him, as--as some people love you. But he is not going to die?" "I hope not. Who is that young woman opposite who rushed out to me in the street? She says she brought you the news first." "Miss Demijohn." "Is she a friend of yours?" "No," said Marion, blushing as she spoke the word very firmly. "I am rather glad of that, because I didn't fall in love with her. She introduced me to ever so many of the neighbours. The landlady of the public-house was one, I think." "I am afraid they have offended you among them." "Not in the least. I never take offence except when I think people mean it. But now, Marion, say one word to me." "I have said many words. Have I not said nice words?" "Every word out of your mouth is like music to me. But there is one word which I am dying to hear." "What word?" she said. She knew that she should not have asked the question, but it was so necessary for her to put off the evil if it were only for a moment. "It is whatever word you may choose to use when you speak to me as my wife. My mother used to call me John; the children call me Jack; my friends call me Hampstead. Invent something sweet for yourself. I always call you Marion because I love the sound so dearly." "Every one calls me Marion." "No! I never did so till I had told myself that, if possible, you should be my own. Do you remember when you poked the fire for me at Hendon Hall?" "I do;--I do. It was wrong of me; was it not;--when I hardly knew you?" "It was beyond measure good of you; but I did not dare to call you Marion then, though I knew your name as well as I do now, Marion! I have it here, written all round my heart." What could she say to a man who spoke to her after this fashion? It was as though an angel from heaven were courting her! If only she could have gone on listening so that nothing further should come of it! "Find some name for me, and tell me that it shall be written round your heart." "Indeed it is. You know it is, Lord Hampstead." "But what name?" "Your friend;--your friend of friends." "It will not do. It is cold." "Then it is untrue to her from whom it comes. Do you think that my friendship is cold for you?" She had turned towards him, and was sitting before him with her face looking into his, with her hands clasped as though in assurance of her truth;--when suddenly he had her in his arms and had pressed his lips to hers. In a moment she was standing in the middle of the room. Though he was strong, her strength was sufficient for her. "My lord!" she exclaimed. "Ah, you are angry with me?" "My lord, my lord,--I did not think you would treat me like that." "But, Marion; do you not love me?" "Have I not told you that I do? Have I not been true and honest to you? Do you not know it all?" But in truth he did not know it all. "And now I must bid you never, never to come again." "But I shall come. I will come. I will come always. You will not cease to love me?" "No;--not that--I cannot do that. But you must not come. You have done that which makes me ashamed of myself." At that moment the door was opened, and Mrs. Roden came into the room. CHAPTER XXI. DI CRINOLA. The reader must submit to have himself carried back some weeks,--to those days early in January, when Mrs. Roden called upon her son to accompany her to Italy. Indeed, he must be carried back a long way beyond that; but the time during which he need be so detained shall be short. A few pages will suffice to tell so much of the early life of this lady as will be necessary to account for her residence in Paradise Row. Mary Roden, the lady whom we have known as Mrs. Roden, was left an orphan at the age of fifteen, her mother having died when she was little more than an infant. Her father was an Irish clergyman with no means of his own but what he secured from a small living; but his wife had inherited money amounting to about eight thousand pounds, and this had descended to Mary when her father died. The girl was then taken in charge by a cousin of her own, a lady ten years her senior who had lately married, and whom we have since met as Mrs. Vincent, living at Wimbledon. Mr. Vincent had been well connected and well-to-do in the world, and till he died the household in which Mary Roden had been brought up had been luxurious as well as comfortable. Nor did Mr. Vincent die till after his wife's cousin had found a husband for herself. Soon afterwards he was gathered to his fathers, leaving to his widow a comfortable, but not more than a comfortable, income. The year before his death he and his wife had gone into Italy, rather on account of his health than for pleasure, and had then settled themselves at Verona for a winter,--a winter which eventually stretched itself into nearly a year, at the close of which Mr. Vincent died. But before that event took place Mary Roden had become a wife. At Verona, at first at the house of her own cousin,--which was of course her own home,--and afterwards in the society of the place to which the Vincents had been made welcome,--Mary met a young man who was known to all the world as the Duca di Crinola. No young man more beautiful to look at, more charming in manners, more ready in conversation, was then known in those parts of Italy than this young nobleman. In addition to these good gifts, he was supposed to have in his veins the very best blood in all Europe. It was declared on his behalf that he was related to the Bourbons and to the Hapsburgh family. Indeed there was very little of the best blood which Europe had produced in the last dozen centuries of which some small proportion was not running in his veins. He was too the eldest son of his father, who, though he possessed the most magnificent palace in Verona, had another equally magnificent in Venice, in which it suited him to live with his Duchessa. As the old nobleman did not come often to Verona, and as the young nobleman never went to Venice, the father and son did not see much of each other, an arrangement which was supposed to have its own comforts, as the young man was not disturbed in the possession of his hotel, and as the old man was reported in Verona generally to be arbitrary, hot-tempered, and tyrannical. It was therefore said of the young Duke by his friends that he was nearly as well off as though he had no father at all. But there were other things in the history of the young Duke which, as they became known to the Vincents, did not seem to be altogether so charming. Though of all the palaces in Verona that in which he lived was by far the most beautiful to look at from the outside, it was not supposed to be furnished in a manner conformable to its external appearance. It was, indeed, declared that the rooms were for the most part bare; and the young Duke never gave the lie to these assertions by throwing them open to his friends. It was said of him also that his income was so small and so precarious that it amounted almost to nothing, that the cross old Duke at Venice never allowed him a shilling, and that he had done everything in his power to destroy the hopes of a future inheritance. Nevertheless, he was beautiful to look at in regard to his outward attire, and could hardly have been better dressed had he been able to pay his tailor and shirt-maker quarterly. And he was a man of great accomplishments, who could talk various languages, who could paint, and model, and write sonnets, and dance to perfection. And he could talk of virtue, and in some sort seem to believe in it,--though he would sometimes confess of himself that Nature had not endowed him with the strength necessary for the performance of all the good things which he so thoroughly appreciated. Such as he was he entirely gained the affection of Mary Roden. It is unnecessary here to tell the efforts that were made by Mrs. Vincent to prevent the marriage. Had she been less austere she might, perhaps, have prevailed with the girl. But as she began by pointing out to her cousin the horror of giving herself, who had been born and bred a Protestant, to a Roman Catholic,--and also of bestowing her English money upon an Italian,--all that she said was without effect. The state of Mr. Vincent's health made it impossible for them to move, or Mary might perhaps have been carried back to England. When she was told that the man was poor, she declared that there was so much the more reason why her money should be given to relieve the wants of the man she loved. It ended in their being married, and all that Mr. Vincent was able to accomplish was to see that the marriage ceremony should be performed after the fashion both of the Church of England and of the Church of Rome. Mary at the time was more than twenty-one, and was thus able, with all the romance of girlhood, to pour her eight thousand pounds into the open hands of her thrice-noble and thrice-beautiful lover. The Duchino with his young Duchessina went their way rejoicing, and left poor Mr. Vincent to die at Verona. Twelve months afterwards the widow had settled herself at the house at Wimbledon, from which she had in latter years paid her weekly visits to Paradise Row, and tidings had come from the young wife which were not altogether satisfactory. The news, indeed, which declared that a young little Duke had been born to her was accompanied by expressions of joy which the other surrounding incidents of her life were not permitted at the moment altogether to embitter. Her baby, her well-born beautiful baby, was for a few months allowed to be a joy to her, even though things were otherwise very sorrowful. But things were very sorrowful. The old Duke and the old Duchess would not acknowledge her. Then she learned that the quarrel between the father and son had been carried to such a pitch that no hope of reconciliation remained. Whatever was left of family property was gone as far as any inheritance on the part of the elder son was concerned. He had himself assisted in making over to a second brother all right that he possessed in the property belonging to the family. Then tidings of horror accumulated itself upon her and her baby. Then came tidings that her husband had been already married when he first met her,--which tidings did not reach her till he had left her alone, somewhere up among the Lakes, for an intended absence of three days. After that day she never saw him again. The next she heard of him was from Italy, from whence he wrote to her to tell her that she was an angel, and that he, devil as he was, was not fit to appear in her presence. Other things had occurred during the fifteen months in which they had lived together to make her believe at any rate the truth of this last statement. It was not that she ceased to love him, but that she knew that he was not fit to be loved. When a woman is bad a man can generally get quit of her from his heartstrings;--but a woman has no such remedy. She can continue to love the dishonoured one without dishonour to herself,--and does so. Among other misfortunes was the loss of all her money. There she was, in the little villa on the side of the lake, with no income,--and with statements floating about her that she had not, and never had had, a husband. It might well be that after that she should caution Marion Fay as to the imprudence of an exalted marriage. But there came to her assistance, if not friendship and love, in the midst of her misfortunes. Her brother-in-law,--if she had a husband or a brother-in-law,--came to her from the old Duke with terms of surrender; and there came also a man of business, a lawyer, from Venice, to make good the terms if they should be accepted. Though money was very scarce with the family, or the power of raising money, still such was the feeling of the old nobleman in her misfortunes that the entire sum which had been given up to his eldest son should be restored to trustees for her use and for the benefit of her baby, on condition that she should leave Italy, and consent to drop the title of the Di Crinola family. As to that question of a former marriage, the old lawyer declared that he was unable to give any certain information. The reprobate had no doubt gone through some form of a ceremony with a girl of low birth at Venice. It very probably was not a marriage. The young Duchino, the brother, declared his belief that there had been no such marriage. But she, should she cling to the name, could not make her title good to it without obtaining proofs which they had not been able to find. No doubt she could call herself Duchess. Had she means at command she might probably cause herself to be received as such. But no property would thus be affected,--nor would it rob him, the younger son, of his right to call himself also by the title. The offer made to her was not ungenerous. The family owed her nothing, but were willing to sacrifice nearly half of all they had with the object of restoring to her the money of which the profligate had robbed her,--which he had been enabled to take from her by her own folly and credulity. In this terrible emergency of her life, Mrs. Vincent sent over to her a solicitor from London, between whom and the Italian man of business a bargain was struck. The young wife undertook to drop her husband's name, and to drop it also on behalf of her boy. Then the eight thousand pounds was repaid, and Mrs. Roden, as she afterwards called herself, went back to Wimbledon and to England with her baby. So far the life of George Roden's mother had been most unfortunate. After that, for a period of sixteen years time went with her, if not altogether happily, at least quietly and comfortably. Then there came a subject of disruption. George Roden took upon himself to have opinions of his own; and would not hold his peace in the presence of Mrs. Vincent, to whom those opinions were most unacceptable. And they were the more unacceptable because the mother's tone of mind had always taken something of the bent which appeared so strongly afterwards in her son. George at any rate could not be induced to be silent; nor,--which was worse,--could he after reaching his twentieth year be made to go to church with that regularity which was necessary for the elder lady's peace of mind. He at this time had achieved for himself a place in the office ruled over by our friend Sir Boreas, and had in this way become so much of a man as to be entitled to judge for himself. In this way there had been no quarrel between Mrs. Vincent and Mrs. Roden, but there had come a condition of things in which it had been thought expedient that they should live apart. Mrs. Roden had therefore taken for herself a house in Paradise Row, and those weekly inter-visitings had been commenced between her and her cousin. Such had been the story of Mrs. Roden's life, till tidings were received in England that her husband was dead. The information had been sent to Mrs. Vincent by the younger son of the late old Duke, who was now a nobleman well known in the political life of his own country. He had stated that, to the best of his belief, his brother's first union had not been a legal marriage. He thought it right, he had said, to make this statement, and to say that as far as he was concerned he was willing to withdraw that compact upon which his father had insisted. If his sister-in-law wished to call herself by the name and title of Di Crinola, she might do so. Or if the young man of whom he spoke as his nephew wished to be known as Duca di Crinola he would raise no objection. But it must be remembered that he had nothing to offer to his relative but the barren tender of the name. He himself had succeeded to but very little, and that which he possessed had not been taken from his brother. Then there were sundry meetings between Mrs. Vincent and Mrs. Roden, at which it was decided that Mrs. Roden should go to Italy with her son. Her brother-in-law had been courteous to her, and had offered to receive her if she would come. Should she wish to use the name of Di Crinola, he had promised that she should be called by it in his house; so that the world around might know that she was recognized by him and his wife and children. She determined that she would at any rate make the journey, and that she would take her son with her. George Roden had hitherto learnt nothing of his father or his family. In the many consultations held between his mother and Mrs. Vincent it had been decided that it would be better to keep him in the dark. Why fill his young imagination with the glory of a great title in order that he might learn at last, as might too probably be the case, that he had no right to the name,--no right to consider himself even to be his father's son? She, by her folly,--so she herself acknowledged,--had done all that was possible to annihilate herself as a woman. There was no name which she could give to her son as certainly as her own. This, which had been hers before she had been allured into a mock marriage, would at any rate not be disputed. And thus he had been kept in ignorance of his mother's story. Of course he had asked. It was no more than natural that he should ask. But when told that it was for his mother's comfort that he should ask no more, he had assented with that reticence which was peculiar to him. Then chance had thrown him into friendship with the young English nobleman, and the love of Lady Frances Trafford had followed. His mother, when he consented to accompany her, had almost promised him that all mysteries should be cleared up between them before their return. In the train, before they reached Paris, a question was asked and an answer given which served to tell much of the truth. As they came down to breakfast that morning, early in the dark January morning, he observed that his mother was dressed in deep mourning. It had always been her custom to wear black raiment. He could not remember that he had ever seen on her a coloured dress, or even a bright ribbon. And she was not now dressed quite as is a widow immediately on the death of her husband. It was now a quarter of a century since she had seen the man who had so ill-used her. According to the account which she had received, it was twelve months at least since he had died in one of the Grecian islands. The full weeds of a mourning widow would ill have befitted her condition of mind, or her immediate purpose. But yet there was a speciality of blackness in her garments which told him that she had dressed herself with a purpose as of mourning. "Mother," he said to her in the train, "you are in mourning,--as for a friend?" Then when she paused he asked again, "May I not be told for whom it is done? Am I not right in saying that it is so?" "It is so, George." "For whom then?" They two were alone in the carriage, and why should his question not be answered now? But it had come to pass that there was a horror to her in mentioning the name of his father to him. "George," she said, "it is more than twenty-five years since I saw your father." "Is he dead--only now?" "It is only now,--only the other day,--that I have heard of his death." "Why should not I also be in black?" "I had not thought of it. But you never saw him since he had you in his arms as a baby. You cannot mourn for him in heart." "Do you?" "It is hard to say for what we mourn sometimes. Of course I loved him once. There is still present to me a memory of what I loved,--of the man who won my heart by such gifts as belonged to him; and for that I mourn. He was beautiful and clever, and he charmed me. It is hard to say sometimes for what we mourn." "Was he a foreigner, mother?" "Yes, George. He was an Italian. You shall know it all soon now. But do not you mourn. To you no memories are left. Were it not for the necessity of the present moment, no idea of a father should ever be presented to you." She vouchsafed to tell him no more at that moment, and he pressed her with no further questions. END OF VOL. II. Bungay: Printed by Clay and Taylor. * * * * * * MARION FAY. A Novel. by ANTHONY TROLLOPE, Author of "Framley Parsonage," "Orley Farm," "The Way We Live Now," etc., etc. In Three Volumes. VOL. III. London: Chapman & Hall, Limited, 11, Henrietta St. 1882 [All Rights reserved.] Bungay: Clay and Taylor, Printers. CONTENTS OF VOLUME III. I. "I WILL COME BACK AS I WENT." II. TRUE TIDINGS. III. ALL THE WORLD KNOWS IT. IV. "IT SHALL BE DONE." V. MARION WILL CERTAINLY HAVE HER WAY. VI. "BUT HE IS;--HE IS." VII. THE GREAT QUESTION. VIII. "I CANNOT COMPEL HER." IX. IN PARK LANE. X. AFTER ALL HE ISN'T. XI. "OF COURSE THERE WAS A BITTERNESS." XII. LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MRS. RODEN. XIII. LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MARION. XIV. CROCKER'S DISTRESS. XV. "DISMISSAL. B. B." XVI. PEGWELL BAY. XVII. LADY AMALDINA'S WEDDING. XVIII. CROCKER'S TALE. XIX. "MY MARION." XX. MR. GREENWOOD'S LAST BATTLE. XXI. THE REGISTRAR OF STATE RECORDS. MARION FAY. CHAPTER I. "I WILL COME BACK AS I WENT." While Lord Hampstead's party were at Gorse Hall, some weeks before poor Walker's accident, there came a letter from George Roden to Lady Frances, and she, when she reached Hendon Hall, found a second. Both these letters, or parts of them, shall be here given, as they will tell all that need be added to what is already known of the story of the man, and will explain to the reader the cause and manner of action which he adopted. Rome, January 30th, 18--. DEAREST FANNY,-- I wonder whether it will seem as odd to you to receive a letter from me written at Rome as it is to me to write it. Our letters hitherto have been very few in number, and have only declared that in spite of obstacles we shall always love each other. I have never before had anything in truth to tell you; but now I have so much that I do not know how to begin or how to go on with it. But it must be written, as there is much that will interest you as my dearest friend, and much also that will concern yourself should you ever become my wife. It may be that a point will arise as to which you and your friends,--your father, for instance, and your brother,--will feel yourselves entitled to have a voice in deciding. It may be quite possible that your judgment, or, at any rate, that of your friends, may differ from my own. Should it be so I cannot say that I shall be prepared to yield; but I will, at any rate, enable you to submit the case to them with all fairness. I have told you more than once how little I have known of my own family,--that I have known indeed nothing. My mother has seemed to me to be perversely determined not to tell me all that which I will acknowledge I have thought that I ought to know. But with equal perversity I have refrained from asking questions on a subject of which I think I should have been told everything without questioning. And I am a man not curious by nature as to the past. I am more anxious as to what I may do myself than as to what others of my family may have done before me. When, however, my mother asked me to go with her to Italy, it was manifest that her journey had reference to her former life. I knew from circumstances which could not be hidden from me,--from her knowledge, for instance, of Italian, and from some relics which remained to her of her former life,--that she had lived for some period in this country. As my place of birth had never been mentioned to me, I could not but guess that I had been born in Italy, and when I found that I was going there I felt certain that I must learn some portion of the story of which I had been kept in ignorance. Now I have learnt it all as far as my poor mother knows it herself; and as it will concern you to know it too, I must endeavour to explain to you all the details. Dearest Fanny, I do trust that when you have heard them you will think neither worse of me on that account,--nor better. It is as to the latter that I am really in fear. I wish to believe that no chance attribute could make me stand higher in your esteem than I have come to stand already by my own personal character. Then he told her,--not, perhaps, quite so fully as the reader has heard it told in the last chapter,--the story of his mother's marriage and of his own birth. Before they had reached Rome, where the Duca di Crinola at present lived, and where he was at present a member of the Italian Cabinet, the mother had told her son all that she knew, having throughout the telling of the story unconsciously manifested to him her own desire to remain in obscurity, and to bear the name which had been hers for five-and-twenty years; but at the same time so to manage that he should return to England bearing the title to which by his birth she believed him to be entitled. When in discussing this he explained to her that it would be still necessary for him to earn his bread as a clerk in the Post Office in spite of his high-sounding nobility, and explained to her the absurdity of his sitting in Mr. Jerningham's room at the desk with young Crocker, and calling himself at the same time the Duca di Crinola, she in her arguments exhibited a weakness which he had hardly expected from her. She spoke vaguely, but with an assurance of personal hope, of Lady Frances, of Lord Hampstead, of the Marquis of Kingsbury, and of Lord Persiflage,--as though by the means of these noble personages the Duca di Crinola might be able to live in idleness. Of all this Roden could say nothing in this first letter to Lady Frances. But it was to this that he alluded when he hoped that she would not think better of him because of the news which he sent her. "At present," he wrote, continuing his letter after the telling of the story, we are staying with my uncle, as I presume I am entitled to call him. He is very gracious, as also are his wife and the young ladies who are my cousins; but I think that he is as anxious as I am that there should be no acknowledged branch of the family senior to his own. He is Duca di Crinola to all Italy, and will remain so whether I assume the title or not. Were I to take the name, and to remain in Italy,--which is altogether impossible,--I should be nobody. He who has made for himself a great position, and apparently has ample means, would not in truth be affected. But I am sure that he would not wish it. He is actuated by a sense of honesty, but he certainly has no desire to be incommoded by relatives who would, as regards the family, claim to be superior to himself. My dearest mother wishes to behave well to him, wishes to sacrifice herself; but is, I fear, above all things, anxious to procure for her son the name and title which his father bore. As for myself, you will, I think, already have perceived that it is my desire to remain as I was when last I saw you, and to be as ever Yours, most affectionately, GEORGE RODEN. Lady Frances was, as may be imagined, much startled at the receipt of this letter;--startled, and also pleased. Though she had always declared to herself that she was in every respect satisfied with her lover from the Post Office, though she had been sure that she had never wanted him to be other than he was, still, when she heard of that fine-sounding name, there did for a moment come upon her an idea that, for his sake, it might be well that he should have the possession of all that his birth had done for him. But when she came to understand the meaning of his words, as she did on the second or third reading of his letter,--when she discovered what he meant by saying that he hoped she would not think better of him by reason of what he was telling her, when she understood the purport of the manner in which he signed his name, she resolved that in every respect she would think as he thought and act as he wished her to act. Whatever might be the name which he might be pleased to give her, with that would she be contented, nor would she be led by any one belonging to her to ask him to change his purpose. For two days she kept the letter by her unanswered, and without speaking of it to anybody. Then she showed it to her brother, exacting from him a promise that he should not speak of it to any one without her permission. "It is George's secret," she said, "and I am sure you will see that I have no right to disclose it. I tell you because he would do so if he were here." Her brother was willing enough to make the promise, which would of course be in force only till he and Roden should see each other; but he could not be brought to agree with his sister as to his friend's view of the position. "He may have what fancies he pleases about titles," he said, "as may I; but I do not think that he would be justified in repudiating his father's name. I feel it a burden and an absurdity to be born to be an earl and a marquis, but I have to put up with it; and, though my reason and political feeling on the matter tell me that it is a burden and an absurdity, yet the burden is easily borne, and the absurdity does not annoy me much. There is a gratification in being honoured by those around you, though your conscience may be twinged that you yourself have done nothing to deserve it. It will be so with him if he takes his position here as an Italian nobleman." "But he would still have to be a clerk in the Post Office." "Probably not." "But how would he live?" asked Lady Frances. "The governor, you would find, would look upon him in a much more favourable light than he does at present." "That would be most unreasonable." "Not at all. It is not unreasonable that a Marquis of Kingsbury should be unwilling to give his daughter to George Roden, a clerk in the Post Office,--but that he should be willing to give her to a Duca di Crinola." "What has that to do with earning money?" "The Governor would probably find an income in one case, and not in the other. I do not quite say that it ought to be so, but it is not unreasonable that it should be so." Then Lady Frances said a great deal as to that pride in her lover which would not allow him to accept such a position as that which was now suggested. There was a long discussion on the subject. Her brother explained to her how common it was for noblemen of high birth to live on means provided by their wives' fortunes, and how uncommon it was that men born to high titles should consent to serve as clerks in a public office. But his common sense had no effect upon his sister, who ended the conversation by exacting from him a renewed assurance of secrecy. "I won't say a word till he comes," said Hampstead; "but you may be sure that a story like that will be all over London before he does come." Lady Frances of course answered her lover's letter; but of what she said it is only necessary that the reader should know that she promised that in all things she would be entirely guided by his wishes. Then came his second letter to her, dated on the day on which poor Walker had nearly been crushed to death. "I am so glad that you agree with me," he wrote. Since my last letter to you everything here has been decided as far as I can decide it,--or, indeed, as far as any of us can do so. There can, I think, be no doubt as to the legality of my mother's marriage. My uncle is of the same opinion, and points out to me that were I to claim my father's name no one would attempt to dispute it. He alone could do so,--or rather would be the person to do so if it were done. He would make no such attempt, and would himself present me to the King here as the Duca di Crinola if I chose to remain and to accept the position. But I certainly will not do so. I should in the first place be obliged to give up my nationality. I could not live in England bearing an Italian title, except as an Italian. I do not know that as an Italian I should be forced to give up my place in the Post Office. Foreigners, I believe, are employed in the Civil Service. But there would be an absurdity in it which to me would be specially annoying. I could not live under such a weight of ridicule. Nor could I live in any position in which some meagre income might be found for me because of my nobility. No such income would be forthcoming here. I can imagine that your father might make a provision for a poor son-in-law with a grand title. He ought not to do so, according to my ideas, but it might be possible that he should find himself persuaded to such weakness. But I could not accept it. I should not be above taking money with my wife, if it happened to come in my way, provided that I were earning an income myself to the best of my ability. For her sake I should do what might be best for her. But not even for your sake,--if you wished it, as I know you do not,--could I consent to hang about the world in idleness as an Italian duke without a shilling of my own. Therefore, my darling, I purpose to come back as I went, Your own, GEORGE RODEN. Clerk in the Post Office, and entitled to consider myself as being on "H.M.S." when at work from ten till four. This letter reached Lady Frances at Hendon Hall on the return of herself and her brother from Gorse Hall. But before that time the prophecy uttered by Lord Hampstead as to the story being all over London had already been in part fulfilled. Vivian during their hunting weeks at Gorse Hall had been running continually up and down from London, where his work as private secretary to the Secretary of State had been, of course, most constant and important. He had, nevertheless, managed to have three days a week in Northamptonshire, explaining to his friends in London that he did it by sitting up all night in the country, to his friends in the country that he sat up all night in town. There are some achievements which are never done in the presence of those who hear of them. Catching salmon is one, and working all night is another. Vivian, however, managed to do what was required of him, and to enjoy his hunting at the same time. On his arrival at Gorse Hall the day before the famous accident he had a budget of news of which he was very full, but of which he at first spoke only to Hampstead. He could not, at any rate, speak of it in the presence of Lady Frances. "You have heard this, haven't you, about George Roden?" he asked, as soon as he could get Lord Hampstead to himself. "Heard what about George Roden?" asked the other, who, of course, had heard it all. "The Italian title." "What about an Italian title?" "But have you heard it?" "I have heard something. What have you heard?" "George Roden is in Italy." "Unless he has left it. He has been there, no doubt." "And his mother." Hampstead nodded his head. "I suppose you do know all about it?" "I want to know what you know. What I have heard has come to me as a secret. Your story can probably be divulged." "I don't know that. We are apt to be pretty close as to what we hear at the Foreign Office. But this didn't come as specially private. I've had a letter from Muscati, a very good fellow in the Foreign Office there, who had in some way heard your name as connected with Roden." "That is very likely." "And your sister's," said Vivian in a whisper. "That is likely too. Men talk about anything now-a-days." "Lord Persiflage has heard direct from Italy. He is interested, of course, as being brother-in-law to Lady Kingsbury." "But what have they heard?" "It seems that Roden isn't an Englishman at all." "That will be as he likes, I take it. He has lived here as an Englishman for five-and-twenty years." "But of course he'll prefer to be an Italian," said Vivian. "It turns out that he is heir to one of the oldest titles in Italy. You have heard of the Ducas di Crinola?" "I have heard of them now." "One of them is Minister of Education in the present Cabinet, and is likely to be the Premier. But he isn't the head of the family, and he isn't really the Duca di Crinola. He is called so, of course. But he isn't the head of the family. George Roden is the real Duca di Crinola. I thought there must be something special about the man when your sister took such a fancy to him." "I always thought there was something special about him," said Hampstead; "otherwise I should hardly have liked him so well." "So did I. He always seemed to be,--to me,--just one of ourselves, you know. A fellow doesn't come out like that unless he's somebody. You Radicals may say what you please, but silk purses don't get made out of sow's ears. Nobody stands up for blood less than I do; but, by George, it always shows itself. You wouldn't think Crocker was heir to a dukedom." "Upon my word, I don't know. I have a great respect for Crocker." "And now what's to be done?" asked Vivian. "How done?" "About Di Crinola? Lord Persiflage says that he can't remain in the Post Office." "Why not?" "I'm afraid he doesn't come in for much?" "Not a shilling." "Lord Persiflage thinks that something should be done for him. But it is so hard. It should be done in Italy, you know. I should think that they might make him extra Secretary of Legation, so as to leave him here. But then they have such a small salary!" As the story of George Roden's birth was thus known to all the Foreign Office, it was probable that Hampstead's prophecy would be altogether fulfilled. CHAPTER II. TRUE TIDINGS. The Foreign Office, from top to bottom, was very much moved on the occasion,--and not without cause. The title of Di Crinola was quite historic, and had existed for centuries. No Duca di Crinola,--at any rate, no respectable Duca di Crinola,--could be in England even as a temporary visitant without being considered as entitled to some consideration from the Foreign Office. The existing duke of that name, who had lately been best known, was at present a member of the Italian Ministry. Had he come he would have been entitled to great consideration. But he, as now appeared, was not the real Duca di Crinola. The real duke was an Englishman,--or an Anglicized Italian, or an Italianized Englishman. No one in the Foreign Office, not even the most ancient pundit there, quite knew what he was. It was clear that the Foreign Office must take some notice of the young nobleman. But in all this was not contained more than half of the real reasons for peculiar consideration. This Anglicized Italian Duca was known to be engaged to the daughter of an English Marquis, to a lady who, if not niece, was next door to being niece to the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs himself! Many years must have passed since an individual had sprung into notice so interesting in many different ways to all the body of the Foreign Office! And this personage was a clerk in the Post Office! There had no doubt been a feeling in the Foreign Office, if not of actual disgrace, at any rate of mingled shame and regret, that a niece of their Secretary of State should have engaged herself to one so low. Had he been in the Foreign Office himself something might have been made of him;--but a Clerk in the Post Office! The thing had been whispered about and talked over, till there had come up an idea that Lady Frances should be sent away on some compulsory foreign mission, so as to be out of the pernicious young man's reach. But now it turned out suddenly that the young man was the Duca di Crinola, and it was evident to all of them that Lady Frances Trafford was justified in her choice. But what was to be done with the Duca? Rumours reached the Foreign Office that the infatuated young nobleman intended to adhere to his most unaristocratic position. The absurdity of a clerk of the third class in one of the branches of the Post Office, with a salary of a hundred and seventy a year, and sitting in the same room with Crockers and Bobbins while he would have to be called by everybody the Duca di Crinola, was apparent to the mind of the lowest Foreign Office official. It couldn't be so, they said to each other. Something must be done. If Government pay were necessary to him, could he not be transformed by a leap into the Elysium of their own department, where he might serve with some especial name invented for the occasion? Then there arose questions which no man could answer. Were he to be introduced into this new-fangled office proposed for him, would he come in as an Englishman or an Italian; and if as an Englishman, was it in accordance with received rules of etiquette that he should be called Duca di Crinola? Would it be possible in so special a case to get special permission from the Crown; or if not, could he be appointed to the Foreign Office as a foreigner? The special permission, though it was surrounded by so many difficulties, yet seemed to be easier and less monstrous than this latter suggestion. They understood that though he could not well be dismissed from the office which he already held, it might be difficult to appoint a foreign nobleman to the performance of duties which certainly required more than ordinary British tendencies. In this way the mind of the Foreign Office was moved, and the coming of the young duke was awaited with considerable anxiety. The news went beyond the Foreign Office. Whether it was that the Secretary of State himself told the story to the ladies of his household, or that it reached them through private secretaries, it was certainly the case that Lady Persiflage was enabled to write a very interesting letter to her sister, and that Lady Amaldina took the occasion of congratulating her cousin and of informing her lover. Lady Kingsbury, when she received the news, was still engaged in pointing out to her husband the iniquity of his elder children in having admitted the visit of Mr. Roden to Hendon Hall. This, she persisted in saying, had been done in direct opposition to most solemn promises made by all the parties concerned. The Marquis at the time had recovered somewhat of his strength, in consequence, as was said among the household, of the removal of Mr. Greenwood into Shrewsbury. And the Marchioness took advantage of this improved condition on the part of her husband to make him sensible of the abominable iniquity of which the young persons had been guilty. The visit had occurred two months since, but the iniquity to Lady Kingsbury's thinking still demanded express condemnation and, if possible, punishment. "A direct and premeditated falsehood on the part of them all!" said Lady Kingsbury, standing over her husband, who was recumbent on the sofa in his own room. "No; it wasn't," said the Marquis, who found it easier to deny the whole charge than to attempt in his weakness to divide the guilt. "My dear! When she was allowed to go to Hendon Hall, was it not done on a sacred pledge that she should not see that horrid man? Did not Hampstead repeat the promise to my own ears?" "How could he help his coming? I wish you wouldn't trouble me about it any more." "Then I suppose that she is to have your leave to marry the man whenever she chooses!" Then he roused himself with whatever strength he possessed, and begged her to leave him. With much indignation she stalked out of the room, and going to her apartments found the following letter, which had just arrived from her sister;-- MY DEAR CLARA,-- As you are down in the country, I suppose the news about Fanny's "young man" has not yet reached you. Fanny's young man! Had Fanny been the housemaid, it was thus that they might have spoken of her lover. Could it be that "Fanny and her young man" had already got themselves married? Lady Kingsbury, when she read this, almost let the letter drop from her hand, so much was she disgusted by the manner in which her sister spoke of this most unfortunate affair. I heard something of it only yesterday, and the rest of the details to-day. As it has come through the Foreign Office you may be quite sure that it is true, though it is so wonderful. The young man is not George Roden at all, nor is he an Englishman. He is an Italian, and his proper name and title is Duca di Crinola. Again Lady Kingsbury allowed the letter almost to drop; but on this occasion with feelings of a very different nature. What! not George Roden! Not a miserable clerk in the English Post Office! Duca di Crinola;--a title of which she thought that she remembered to have heard as belonging to some peculiarly ancient family! It was not to be believed. And yet it came from her sister, who was usually correct in all such matters;--and came also from the Foreign Office, which she regarded as the one really trustworthy source of information as to foreign matters of an aristocratic nature. "Duca di Crinola!" she said to herself, as she went on with the reading of her letter. There is a long story of the marriage of his mother which I do not quite understand as yet, but it is not necessary to the facts of the case. The young man has been recognized in his own country as entitled to all the honours of his family, and must be received so by us. Persiflage says that he will be ready to present him at Court on his return as Duca di Crinola, and will ask him at once to dine in Belgrave Square. It is a most romantic story, but must be regarded by you and me as being very fortunate, as dear Fanny had certainly set her heart upon marrying the man. I am told that he inherits nothing but the bare title. Some foreign noblemen are, you know, very poor; and in this case the father, who was a "_mauvais sujet_," contrived to destroy whatever rights of property he had. Lord Kingsbury probably will be able to do something for him. Perhaps he may succeed in getting official employment suited to his rank. At any rate we must all of us make the best of him for Fanny's sake. It will be better to have a Duca di Crinola among us, even though he should not have a shilling, than a Post Office clerk with two or three hundred a year. I asked Persiflage to write to Lord Kingsbury; but he tells me that I must do it all, because he is so busy. Were my brother-in-law well enough I think he should come up to town to make inquiry himself and to see the young man. If he cannot do so, he had better get Hampstead to take him down to Trafford. Hampstead and this young Duchino are luckily bosom friends. It tells well for Hampstead that, after all, he did not go so low for his associates as you thought he did. Amaldina intends to write to Fanny to congratulate her. Your affectionate sister, GERALDINE PERSIFLAGE. Duca di Crinola! She could not quite believe it;--and yet she did believe it. Nor could she be quite sure as to herself whether she was happy in believing it or the reverse. It had been terrible to her to think that she should have to endure the name of being stepmother to a clerk in the Post Office. It would not be at all terrible to her to be stepmother to a Duca di Crinola, even though the stepson would have no property of his own. That little misfortune would, as far as the feelings of society went, be swallowed up amidst the attributes of rank. Nothing would sound better than Duchessa or Duchessina! And, moreover, it would be all true! This was no paltry title which might be false, or might have been picked up, any how, the other day. All the world would know that the Italian Duke was the lineal representative of a magnificent family to whom this identical rank had belonged for many years. There were strong reasons for taking the young Duke and the young Duchess to her heart at once. But then there were other reasons why she should not wish it to be true. In the first place she hated them both. Let the man be Duca di Crinola as much as he might, he would still have been a Post Office clerk, and Lady Frances would have admitted his courtship having believed him at the time to have been no more than a Post Office clerk. The sin would have been not the less abominable in the choice of her lover, although it might be expedient that the sin should be forgiven. And then the girl had insulted her, and there had been that between them which would prevent the possibility of future love; and would it not be hard upon her darlings if it should become necessary to carve out from the family property a permanent income for this Italian nobleman, and for a generation of Italian noblemen to come; and then what a triumph would this be for Hampstead, who, of all human beings, was the most distasteful to her. But upon the whole she thought it would be best to accept the Duca. She must, indeed, accept him. Nothing that she could do would restore the young man to his humble desk and humble name. Nor would the Marquis be actuated by any prayer of hers in reference to the carving of the property. It would be better for her to accept the young Duke and the young Duchess, and make the best of them. If only the story should at last be shown to be true! The duty was imposed on her of communicating the story to the Marquis; but before she did so she was surprised by a visit from Mr. Greenwood. Mr. Roberts had used no more than the violence of argument, and Mr. Greenwood had been induced to take himself to Shrewsbury on the day named for his departure. If he went he would have £200 a year from the Marquis,--and £100 would be added by Lord Hampstead, of which the Marquis need not know anything. Unless he went on the day fixed that £100 would not be added. A good deal was said on either side, but he went. The Marquis had refused to see him. The Marchioness had bade him adieu in a most formal manner,--in a manner quite unbecoming those familiar suggestions which, he thought, had been made to him as to a specially desirable event. But he had gone, and as he went he told himself that circumstances might yet occur in the family which might be of use to him. He, too, had heard the great family news,--perhaps through some under-satellite of the Foreign Office, and he came with the idea that he would be the first to make it known at Trafford Park. He would have asked for the Marquis, but he knew that the Marquis would not receive him. Lady Kingsbury consented to see him, and he was ushered up to the room to which he had so often made his way without any asking. "I hope you are well, Mr. Greenwood," she said. "Are you still staying in the neighbourhood?" It was, however, well known at Trafford that he was at Shrewsbury. "Yes, Lady Kingsbury. I have not gone from the neighbourhood. I thought that perhaps you might want to see me again." "I don't know that we need trouble you, Mr. Greenwood." "I have come with some news respecting the family." As he said this he managed to assume the old look, and stood as though he had never moved from the place since he had last been in the room. "Do sit down, Mr. Greenwood. What news?" "Mr. George Roden, the clerk in the Post Office--" But she was not going to have the tidings repeated to her by him, so as to give him any claim to gratitude for having brought them. "You mean the Duca di Crinola!" "Oh," exclaimed Mr. Greenwood. "I have heard all that, Mr. Greenwood." "That the Post Office clerk is an Italian nobleman?" "It suited the Italian nobleman for a time to be a Post Office clerk. That is what you mean." "And Lady Frances is to be allowed--" "Mr. Greenwood, I must ask you not to discuss Lady Frances here." "Oh! Not to discuss her ladyship!" "Surely you must be aware how angry the Marquis has been about it." "Oh!" He had not seated himself, nor divested himself of that inquisitorial appearance which was so distasteful to her. "We used to discuss Lady Frances sometimes, Lady Kingsbury." "I will not discuss her now. Let that be enough, Mr. Greenwood." "Nor yet Lord Hampstead." "Nor yet Lord Hampstead. I think it very wrong of you to come after all that took place. If the Marquis knew it--" Oh! If the Marquis knew it! If the Marquis knew all, and if other people knew all! If it were known how often her ladyship had spoken, and how loud, as to the wished-for removal to a better world of his lordship's eldest son! But he could not dare to speak it out. And yet it was cruel on him! He had for some days felt her ladyship to be under his thumb, and now it seemed that she had escaped from him. "Oh! very well, Lady Kingsbury. Perhaps I had better go,--just for the present." And he went. This served, at least, for corroboration. She did not dare to keep the secret long from her husband, and therefore, in the course of the evening, went down with her sister's letter in her hand. "What!" said the Marquis, when the story had been read to him. "What! Duca di Crinola." "There can't be a doubt about it, my dear." "And he a clerk in the Post Office?" "He isn't a clerk in the Post Office now." "I don't quite see what he will be then. It appears that he has inherited nothing." "My sister says nothing." "Then what's the good of his title. There is nothing so pernicious in the world as a pauper aristocracy. A clerk in the Post Office is entitled to have a wife, but a poor nobleman should at any rate let his poverty die with himself." This was a view of the case which had not hitherto presented itself to Lady Kingsbury. When she suggested to him that the young nobleman should be asked down to Trafford, he did not seem to see that it was at all necessary. It would be much better that Fanny should come back. The young nobleman would, he supposed, live in his own country;--unless, indeed, the whole tale was a cock-and-bull story made up by Persiflage at the Foreign Office. It was just the sort of thing, he said, that Persiflage would do. He had said not a word as to carving an income out of the property for the young noble couple when she left him. CHAPTER III. ALL THE WORLD KNOWS IT. The story was in truth all over London and half over England by the time that Lady Frances had returned to Hendon Hall. Though Vivian had made a Foreign Office secret of the affair at Gorse Hall, nevertheless it had been so commonly talked about during the last Sunday there, that Hautboy had told it all to poor Walker and to the Walker ladies. "By Jove, fancy!" Hautboy had said, "to go at once from a Post Office clerk to a duke! It's like some of those stories where a man goes to bed as a beggar and gets up as a prince. I wonder whether he likes it." Hampstead had of course discussed the matter very freely with his sister, still expressing an opinion that a man could not do other than take his father's name and his father's title. Lady Frances having thus become used to the subject was not surprised to find the following letter from her friend Lady Amaldina when she reached her home:-- MY DEAREST FANNY,-- I am indeed _delighted_ to be able to congratulate you on the wonderful and _most romantic_ story which has just been made known to us. I was never one of those who blamed you _very much_ because you had given your affections to a man _so much below_ you in rank. Nevertheless, we all could not but feel that it was a pity that he should be _a Post Office clerk!_ Now, indeed, you have reason to be proud! I have already read up the subject, and I find that the Ducas di Crinola are supposed to have _the very best blood_ in Europe. There can be no doubt that one of the family married a _Bourbon_ before they came to the French throne. I could send you all the details, only I do not doubt that you have found it out for yourself already. Another married _a second cousin of that Maximilian who married Mary of Burgundy_. One of the ladies of the family is supposed to have been the wife of the younger brother of one of the Guises, though it isn't _quite_ certain whether they were ever married. But that little blot, my dear, will hardly affect _you_ now. Taking the name altogether, I don't think there is anything higher in all Europe. Papa says that the Di Crinolas have always been doing something in Italy in the way of politics, or rebellion, or fighting. So it isn't as though they were all washed out and no longer of any account, like some of those we read of in history. Therefore I _do_ think that you must be a _very happy girl_. I do feel _so completely snuffed out_, because, after all, the title of Merioneth was only conferred in the time of _Charles the Second_. And though there _was_ a Lord Llwddythlw before that, even he was only created by _James the First_. The Powells no doubt are a very old Welsh family, and it is supposed that there was some relationship between them and the Tudors. But what is that to be compared to the _mediæval honours_ of the _great House of Di Crinola?_ Papa seems to think that he will not have _much_ fortune. I am one of those who do not think that a large income is at all to be compared to good birth in the way of giving _real position_ in the world. Of course the Duke's estates are supposed to be _enormous_, and Llwddythlw, _even as an eldest son_, is a rich man; but as far as I can see there is nothing but trouble comes from it. If he has anything to do with a provincial town in the way of _rents_ he is expected to lay the _first brick_ of every church and institute about the place. If anything has to be _opened_ he has to _open_ it; and he is never allowed to eat his dinner without having to make _two or three speeches before and afterwards_. That's what I call a _great bore_. As far as I can see you will be always able to have your duke with you, because he will have no abominable public duties to look after. I suppose something will have to be _done_ as to an _income_. Llwddythlw seems to think that he ought to get into Parliament. At least that is what he said to papa the other day; for I have not seen him myself for ever so long. He calls in the Square every Sunday just as we have done lunch, and never remains _above two minutes_. Last Sunday we had not heard of this _glorious_ news; but papa did see him one day at the House, and that was what he said. I don't see how he is to get into the House _if he is an Italian Duke_, and I don't know _what_ he'd get by going there. Papa says that he might be employed in some _diplomatic_ position by his own Government; but I should think that the Marquis could do _something for him_ as he has _so much_ at his own disposition. Every acre of the Merioneth property is settled upon,--well,--whoever may happen to be the next heir. There will sure to be an income. There always is. Papa says that the young dukes are always as well off, at any rate, as the young ravens. But, as I said before, what does all this signify in comparison with BLOOD. It does make your position, my dear, _quite another thing_ from what we had expected. You would have kept your title no doubt; but _where_ would _he_ have been? I wonder whether you will be married now before August. I suppose not, because it doesn't seem to be quite certain when that _wicked papa_ of his died; but I do hope that you won't. A day at last has been fixed for us;--the 20th of August, when, as I told you before, Lord David is to run away _instantly_ after the ceremony so as to travel all night and _open something_ the next morning at _Aberdeen_. I mention it now, because you will be _by far_ the most _remarkable_ of all my bevy of twenty. Of course your name will have been in the papers before that as _the_ future Italian _Duchess_. That I own will be to me a just cause of pride. I think I have got my bevy all fixed at last, and I do _hope_ that none of them will get married before _my_ day. That has happened _so often_ as to be quite _heart-breaking_. I shall cry if I find that _you_ are to be married _first_. Believe me to be Your most affectionate friend and cousin, AMALDINA. She wrote also to her future husband on the same subject;-- DEAREST LLWDDYTHLW,-- It was very _good_ of you to come last Sunday, but I wish you hadn't gone away just because the Graiseburys were there. They would not have _eaten_ you, though he is a Liberal. I have written to Fanny Trafford to congratulate her; because you know it is after all better than being a mere _Post Office clerk_. That was terrible;--so bad that one hardly knew how to mention her name in society! When people talked about it, I really _did feel_ that I blushed all over. One can mention her name now because people are not _supposed_ to know that he has got nothing. Nevertheless, it is very dreadful. _What on earth are they to live on?_ I have told her about the young ravens. It was papa who said that when he first heard of this Di Crinola affair. I suppose a girl _ought to trust in Providence_ when she marries a man without a shilling. That was what papa meant. Papa says that you said that he ought to go into Parliament. But what would he _get_ by that? Perhaps as he is in the Post Office they might make him _Postmaster-General_. Only papa says that if he were to go into Parliament, then he could not call himself Duca di Crinola. Altogether it seems to be _very sad_,--though not _quite_ so sad as before. It is true that one of the Di Crinolas married a _Bourbon_, and that others of them have married ever so many _royalties_. I think there ought to be a law for giving such people something to live upon _out of the taxes_. How are they to be _expected_ to live upon nothing? I asked papa whether he couldn't get it done; but he said it would be a _money bill_, and that _you_ ought to take it up. Pray don't, for fear it should take you _all August_. I know you wouldn't have a scruple about putting off your own little affair, if anything of that kind _were_ to come in the way. _I believe you'd like it._ _Do_ stop a little longer when you come on Sunday. I have _ever so many_ things to say to you. And if you can think of anything to be done for those _poor_ Di Crinolas, anything that won't take up _all_ August,--pray do it. Your own, AMY. One more letter shall be given; the answer, namely, to the above from the lover to his future bride;-- DEAR AMY,-- I'll be at the Square on Sunday by three. I will walk out if you like, but it is always raining. I have to meet five or six conservative members later on in the afternoon as to the best thing to be done as to Mr. Green's Bill for lighting London by electricity. It would suit everybody; but some of our party, I am afraid, would go with them, and the Government is very shilly-shally. I have been going into the figures, and it has taken me all the week. Otherwise I would have been to see you. This Di Crinola affair is quite a romance. I did not mean that he ought to go into the House by way of getting an income. If he takes up the title of course he could not do so. If he takes it, he must regard himself as an Italian. I should think him quite as respectable, earning his bread as a clerk in a public office. They tell me he's a high-spirited fellow. If he is, that is what he will do. Yours affectionately, LLWDDYTHLW. When Lord Persiflage spoke of the matter to Baron d'Ossi, the Italian Minister in London, the Baron quite acknowledged the position of the young Duca, and seemed to think that very little could be wanting to the making of the young man's fortune. "Ah, yes, your Excellency," said the Baron. "He has no great estates. Here in England you all have great estates. It is very nice to have great estates. But he has an uncle who is a great man in Rome. And he will have a wife whose uncle is a very great man in London. What more should he want?" Then the Baron bowed to the Minister of State, and the Minister of State bowed to the Baron. But the surprise expressed and the consternation felt at the Post Office almost exceeded the feelings excited at the Foreign Office or among Lady Fanny's family and friends. Dukes and Ministers, Barons and Princes, are terms familiar to the frequenters of the Foreign Office. Ambassadors, Secretaries, and diplomatic noblemen generally, are necessarily common in the mouths of all the officials. But at the Post Office such titles still carried with them something of awe. The very fact that a man whom they had seen should be a Duke was tremendous to the minds of Bobbin and Geraghty; and when it became known to them that a fellow workman in their own room, one who had in truth been no more than themselves, would henceforth be called by so august a title, it was as though the heavens and the earth were coming together. It affected Crocker in such a way that there was for a time a doubt whether his senses were not temporarily leaving him,--so that confinement would become necessary. Of course the matter had found its way into the newspapers. It became known at the office on the last day of February,--two days before the return of the Rodens to London. "Have you heard it, Mr. Jerningham?" said Crocker, rushing into the room that morning. He was only ten minutes after the proper time, having put himself to the expense of a cab in his impetuous desire to be the first to convey the great news to his fellow clerks. But he had been forestalled in his own room by the energy of Geraghty. The condition of mind created in Mr. Jerningham's bosom by the story told by Geraghty was of such a nature that he was unable to notice Crocker's sin in reference to the ten minutes. "Dchuca di Crinola!" shouted Geraghty in his broadest brogue as Crocker came in; determined not to be done out of the honour fairly achieved by him. "By Jove, yes! A Duke," said Crocker. "A Duke! My own especial friend! Hampstead will be nowhere; nowhere; nowhere! Duca di Crinola! Isn't it beautiful? By George, I can't believe it. Can you, Mr. Jerningham?" "I don't know what to believe," said Mr. Jerningham. "Only he was always a most steady, well-behaved young man, and the office will have a great loss of him." "I suppose the Duke won't come and see us ever," said Bobbin. "I should like to shake hands with him once again." "Shake hands with him," said Crocker. "I'm sure he won't drop out like that;--my own peculiar friend! I don't think I ever was so fond of anybody as George Ro--, the Duca di Crinola of course I mean. By George! haven't I sat at the same table with him for the last two years! Why, it was only a night or two before he started on this remarkable tour that I spent an evening with him in private society at Holloway!" Then he got up and walked about the room impetuously, clapping his hands, altogether carried away by the warmth of his feelings. "I think you might as well sit down to your desk, Mr. Crocker," said Mr. Jerningham. "Oh, come, bother, Mr. Jerningham!" "I will not be spoken to in that way, Mr. Crocker." "Upon my word, I didn't mean anything, sir. But when one has heard such news as this, how is it possible that one should compose oneself? It's a sort of thing that never happened before,--that one's own particular friend should turn out to be the Duca di Crinola. Did anybody ever read anything like it in a novel? Wouldn't it act well? Can't I see the first meeting between myself and the Duke at the Haymarket! 'Duke,' I should say--'Duke, I congratulate you on having come to your august family title, to which no one living could do so much honour as yourself.' Bancroft should do me. Bancroft would do me to the life, and the piece should be called the _Duke's Friend_. I suppose we shall call him Duke here in England, and Duca if we happen to be in Italy together; eh, Mr. Jerningham?" "You had better sit down, Mr. Crocker, and try to do your work." "I can't;--upon my word I can't. The emotion is too much for me. I couldn't do it if Æolus were here himself. By the way, I wonder whether Sir Boreas has heard the news." Then he rushed off, and absolutely made his way into the room of the great potentate. "Yes, Mr. Crocker," said Sir Boreas, "I have heard it. I read the newspapers, no doubt, as well as you do." "But it's true, Sir Boreas?" "I heard it spoken of two or three days ago, Mr. Crocker, and I believe it to be true." "He was my friend, Sir Boreas; my particular friend. Isn't it a wonderful thing,--that one's particular friend should turn out to be Duca di Crinola! And he didn't know a word of it himself. I feel quite sure that he didn't know a word of it." "I really can't say, Mr. Crocker; but as you have now expressed your wonder, perhaps you had better go back to your room and do your work." "He pretends he knew it three days ago!" said Crocker, as he returned to his room. "I don't believe a word of it. He'd have written to me had it been known so long ago as that. I suppose he had too many things to think of, or he would have written to me." "Go aisy, Crocker," said Geraghty. "What do you mean by that? It's just the thing he would have done." "I don't believe he ever wrote to you in his life," said Bobbin. "You don't know anything about it. We were here together two years before you came into the office. Mr. Jerningham knows that we were always friends. Good heavens! Duca di Crinola! I tell you what it is, Mr. Jerningham. If it were ever so, I couldn't do anything to-day. You must let me go. There are mutual friends of ours to whom it is quite essential that I should talk it over." Then he took his hat and marched off to Holloway, and would have told the news to Miss Clara Demijohn had he succeeded in finding that young lady at home. Clara was at that moment discussing with Mrs. Duffer the wonderful fact that Mr. Walker and not Lord Hampstead had been kicked and trodden to pieces at Gimberley Green. But even Æolus, great as he was, expressed himself with some surprise that afternoon to Mr. Jerningham as to the singular fortune which had befallen George Roden. "I believe it to be quite true, Mr. Jerningham. These wonderful things do happen sometimes." "He won't stay with us, Sir Boreas, I suppose?" "Not if he is Duca di Crinola. I don't think we could get on with a real duke. I don't know how it will turn out. If he chooses to remain an Englishman he can't take the title. If he chooses to take the title he must be an Italian, then he'll have nothing to live on. My belief is we shan't see him any more. I wish it had been Crocker with all my heart." CHAPTER IV. "IT SHALL BE DONE." Lord Hampstead has been left standing for a long time in Marion Fay's sitting-room after the perpetration of his great offence, and Mrs. Roden has been standing there also, having come to the house almost immediately after her return home from her Italian journey. Hampstead, of course, knew most of the details of the Di Crinola romance, but Marion had as yet heard nothing of it. There had been so much for him to say to her during the interview which had been so wretchedly interrupted by his violence that he had found no time to mention to her the name either of Roden or of Di Crinola. "You have done that which makes me ashamed of myself." These had been Marion's last words as Mrs. Roden entered the room. "I didn't know Lord Hampstead was here," said Mrs. Roden. "Oh, Mrs. Roden, I'm so glad you are come," exclaimed Marion. This of course was taken by the lady as a kindly expression of joy that she should have returned from her journey; whereas to Hampstead it conveyed an idea that Marion was congratulating herself that protection had come to her from further violence on his part. Poor Marion herself hardly knew her own meaning,--hardly had any. She could not even tell herself that she was angry with her lover. It was probable that the very ecstacy of his love added fuel to hers. If a lover so placed as were this lover,--a lover who had come to her asking her to be his wife, and who had been received with the warmest assurance of her own affection for him,--if he were not justified in taking her in his arms and kissing her, when might a lover do so? The ways of the world were known to her well enough to make her feel that it was so, even in that moment of her perturbation. Angry with him! How could she be angry with him? He had asked her, and she had declared to him that she was not angry. Nevertheless she had been quite in earnest when she had said that now,--after the thing that he had done,--he must "never, never come to her again." She was not angry with him, but with herself she was angry. At the moment, when she was in his arms, she bethought herself how impossible had been the conditions she had imposed upon him. That he should be assured of her love, and yet not allowed to approach her as a lover! That he should be allowed to come there in order that she might be delighted in looking at him, in hearing his voice, in knowing and feeling that she was dear to him; but that he should be kept at arm's length because she had determined that she should not become his wife! That they should love each other dearly; but each with a different idea of love! It was her fault that he should be there in her presence at all. She had told herself that it was her duty to sacrifice herself, but she had only half carried out her duty. Should she not have kept her love to herself,--so that he might have left her, as he certainly would have done had she behaved to him coldly, and as her duty had required of her. She had longed for some sweetness which would be sweet to her though only a vain encouragement to him. She had painted for her own eyes a foolish picture, had dreamed a silly dream. She had fancied that for the little of life that was left to her she might have been allowed the delight of loving, and had been vain enough to think that her lover might be true to her and yet not suffer himself! Her sacrifice had been altogether imperfect. With herself she was angry,--not with him. Angry with him, whose very footfall was music to her ears! Angry with him, whose smile to her was as a light specially sent from heaven for her behoof! Angry with him, the very energy of whose passion thrilled her with a sense of intoxicating joy! Angry with him because she had been enabled for once,--only for once,--to feel the glory of her life, to be encircled in the warmth of his arms, to become conscious of the majesty of his strength! No,--she was not angry. But he must be made to understand,--he must be taught to acknowledge,--that he must never, never come to her again. The mind can conceive a joy so exquisite that for the enjoyment of it, though it may last but for a moment, the tranquillity, even the happiness, of years may be given in exchange. It must be so with her. It had been her own doing, and if the exchange were a bad one, she must put up with the bargain. He must never come again. Then Mrs. Roden had entered the room, and she was forced to utter whatever word of welcome might first come to her tongue. "Yes," said Hampstead, trying to smile, as though nothing had happened which called for special seriousness of manner, "I am here. I am here, and hope to be here often and often till I shall have succeeded in taking our Marion to another home." "No," said Marion faintly, uttering her little protest ever so gently. "You are very constant, my lord," said Mrs. Roden. "I suppose a man is constant to what he really loves best. But what a history you have brought back with you, Mrs. Roden! I do not know whether I am to call you Mrs. Roden." "Certainly, my lord, you are to call me so." "What does it mean?" asked Marion. "You have not heard," he said. "I have not been here time enough to tell her all this, Mrs. Roden." "You know it then, Lord Hampstead?" "Yes, I know it;--though Roden has not condescended to write me a line. What are we to call him?" To this Mrs. Roden made no answer on the spur of the moment. "Of course he has written to Fanny, and all the world knows it. It seems to have reached the Foreign Office first, and to have been sent down from thence to my people at Trafford. I suppose there isn't a club in London at which it has not been repeated a hundred times that George Roden is not George Roden." "Not George Roden?" asked Marion. "No, dearest. You will show yourself terribly ignorant if you call him so." "What is he then, my lord?" "Marion!" "I beg your pardon. I will not do it again this time. But what is he?" "He is the Duca di Crinola." "Duke!" said Marion. "That's what he is, Marion." "Have they made him that over there?" "Somebody made one of his ancestors that ever so many hundred years ago, when the Traffords were--; well, I don't know what the Traffords were doing then;--fighting somewhere, I suppose, for whatever they could get. He means to take the title, I suppose?" "He says not, my lord." "He should do so." "I think so too, Lord Hampstead. He is obstinate, you know; but, perhaps, he may consent to listen to some friend here. You will tell him." "He had better ask others better able than I am to explain all the ins and outs of his position. He had better go to the Foreign Office and see my uncle. Where is he now?" "He has gone to the Post Office. We reached home about noon, and he went at once. It was late yesterday when we reached Folkestone, and he let me stay there for the night." "Has he always signed the old name?" asked Hampstead. "Oh yes. I think he will not give it up." "Nor his office?" "Nor his office. As he says himself, what else will he have to live on?" "My father might do something." Mrs. Roden shook her head. "My sister will have money, though it may probably be insufficient to furnish such an income as they will want." "He would never live in idleness upon her money, my lord. Indeed I think I may say that he has quite resolved to drop the title as idle lumber. You perhaps know that he is not easily persuaded." "The most obstinate fellow I ever knew in my life," said Hampstead, laughing. "And he has talked my sister over to his own views." Then he turned suddenly round to Marion, and asked her a question. "Shall I go now, dearest?" he said. She had already told him to go,--to go, and never to return to her. But the question was put to her in such a manner that were she simply to assent to his going, she would, by doing so, assent also to his returning. For the sake of her duty to him, in order that she might carry out that self-sacrifice in the performance of which she would now be so resolute, it was necessary that he should in truth be made to understand that he was not to come back to her. But how was this to be done while Mrs. Roden was present with them? Had he not been there then she could have asked her friend to help her in her great resolution. But before the two she could say nothing of that which it was in her heart to say to both of them. "If it pleases you, my lord," she said. "I will not be 'my lord.' Here is Roden, who is a real duke, and whose ancestors have been dukes since long before Noah, and he is allowed to be called just what he pleases, and I am to have no voice in it with my own particular and dearest friends! Nevertheless I will go, and if I don't come to-day, or the day after, I will write you the prettiest little love-letter I can invent." "Don't," she said;--oh so weakly, so vainly;--in a manner so utterly void of that intense meaning which she was anxious to throw into her words. She was conscious of her own weakness, and acknowledged to herself that there must be another interview, or at any rate a letter written on each side, before he could be made to understand her own purpose. If it must be done by a letter, how great would be the struggle to her in explaining herself. But perhaps even that might be easier than the task of telling him all that she would have to tell, while he was standing by, impetuous, impatient, perhaps almost violent, assuring her of his love, and attempting to retain her by the pressure of his hand. "But I shall," he said, as he held her now for a moment. "I am not quite sure whether I may not have to go to Trafford; and if so there shall be the love-letter. I feel conscious, Mrs. Roden, of being incapable of writing a proper love-letter. 'Dearest Marion, I am yours, and you are mine. Always believe me ever thine.' I don't know how to go beyond that. When a man is married, and can write about the children, or the leg of mutton, or what's to be done with his hunters, then I dare say it becomes easy. Good-bye dearest. Good-bye, Mrs. Roden. I wish I could keep on calling you Duchess in revenge for all the 'my lordings.'" Then he left them. There was a feeling in the mind of both of them that he had conducted himself just as a man would do who was in a high good-humour at having been permanently accepted by the girl to whom he had offered his hand. Marion Fay knew that it was not so;--knew that it never could be so. Mrs. Roden knew that it had not been so when she had left home, now nearly two months since; and knew also that Marion had pledged herself that it should not be so. The young lord then had been too strong with his love. A feeling of regret came over her as she remembered that the reasons against such a marriage were still as strong as ever. But yet how natural that it should be so! Was it possible that such a lover as Lord Hampstead should not succeed in his love if he were constant to it himself? Sorrow must come of it,--perhaps a tragedy so bitter that she could hardly bring herself to think of it. And Marion had been so firm in her resolve that it should not be so. But yet it was natural, and she could not bring herself to express to the girl either anger or disappointment. "Is it to be?" she said, putting on her sweetest smile. "No!" said Marion, standing up suddenly,--by no means smiling as she spoke! "It is not to be. Why do you look at me like that, Mrs. Roden? Did I not tell you before you went that it should never be so?" "But he treats you as though he were engaged to you?" "How can I help it? What can I do to prevent it? When I bid him go, he still comes back again, and when I tell him that I can never be his wife he will not believe me. He knows that I love him." "You have told him that?" "Told him! He wanted no telling. Of course he knew it. Love him! Oh, Mrs. Roden, if I could die for him, and so have done with it! And yet I would not wish to leave my dear father. What am I to do, Mrs. Roden?" "But it seemed to me just now that you were so happy with him." "I am never happy with him;--but yet I am as though I were in heaven." "Marion!" "I am never happy. I know that it cannot be, that it will not be, as he would have it. I know that I am letting him waste his sweetness all in vain. There should be some one else, oh, so different from me! There should be one like himself, beautiful, strong in health, with hot eager blood in her veins, with a grand name, with grand eyes and a broad brow and a noble figure, one who, in taking his name, will give him as much as she takes--one, above all, who will not pine and fade before his eyes, and trouble him during her short life with sickness and doctors and all the fading hopes of a hopeless invalid. And yet I let him come, and I have told him how dearly I love him. He comes and he sees it in my eyes. And then it is so glorious, to be loved as he loves. Oh, Mrs. Roden, he kissed me." That to Mrs. Roden did not seem to be extraordinary; but, not knowing what to say to it at the moment, she also kissed the girl. "Then I told him that he must go, and never come back to me again." "Were you angry with him?" "Angry with him! With myself I was angry. I had given him the right to do it. How could I be angry with him? And what does it matter;--except for his sake? If he could only understand! If he would only know that I am in earnest when I speak to him! But I am weak in everything except one thing. He will never make me say that I will be his wife." "My Marion! Dear Marion!" "But father wishes it." "Wishes you to become his wife?" "He wishes it. Why should I not be like any other girl, he says. How can I tell him? How can I say that I am not like to other girls because of my darling, my own dearest mother? And yet he does not know it. He does not see it, though he has seen so much. He will not see it till I am there, on my bed, unable to come to him when he wants me." "There is nothing now to show him or me that you may not live to be old as he is." "I shall not live to be old. You know that I shall not live to be more than young. Have any of them lived? For my father,--for my dear father,--he must find it out for himself. I have sometimes thought that even yet I might last his time--that I might be with him to the end. It might be so,--only that all this tortures me." "Shall I tell him;--shall I tell Lord Hampstead?" "He must at any rate be told. He is not bound to me as my father is. For him there need be no great sorrow." At this Mrs. Roden shook her head. "Must it be so?" "If he is banished from your presence he will not bear it lightly." "Will a young man love me like that;--a young man who has so much in the world to occupy him? He has his ship, and his hounds, and his friends, and his great wealth. It is only girls, I think, who love like that." "He must bear his sorrow as others do." "But it shall be made as light as I can make it,--shall it not? I should have done this before. I should have done it sooner. Had he been made to go away at once, then he would not have suffered. Why would he not go when I told him? Why would he not believe me when I spoke to him? I should have heard all his words and never have answered him even with a smile. I should not have trembled when he told me that I was there, at his hearth, as a friend. But who thought then, Mrs. Roden, that this young nobleman would have really cared for the Quaker girl?" "I saw it, Marion." "Could you see just by looking at him that he was so different from others? Are his truth, and his loving heart, and his high honour, and his pure honesty, all written in his eyes,--to you as they are to me? But, Mrs. Roden, there shall be an end of it! Though it may kill me,--though it may for a little time half-break his heart,--it shall be done! Oh, that his dear heart should be half-broken for me! I will think of it, Mrs. Roden, to-night. If writing may do it, perhaps I may write. Or, perhaps, I may say a word that he will at least understand. If not you shall tell him. But, Mrs. Roden, it shall be done!" CHAPTER V. MARION WILL CERTAINLY HAVE HER WAY. On the day but one following there came a letter to Marion from Hampstead,--the love-letter which he had promised her;-- DEAR MARION-- It is as I supposed. This affair about Roden has stirred them up down at Trafford amazingly. My father wants me to go to him. You know all about my sister. I suppose she will have her way now. I think the girls always do have their way. She will be left alone, and I have told her to go and see you as soon as I have gone. You should tell her that she ought to make him call himself by his father's proper name. In my case, dearest, it is not the girl that is to have her own way. It's the young man that is to do just as he pleases. My girl, my own one, my love, my treasure, think of it all, and ask yourself whether it is in your heart to refuse to bid me be happy. Were it not for all that you have said yourself I should not be vain enough to be happy at this moment, as I am. But you have told me that you love me. Ask your father, and he will tell you that, as it is so, it is your duty to promise to be my wife. I may be away for a day or two,--perhaps for a week. Write to me at Trafford,--Trafford Park, Shrewsbury,--and say that it shall be so. I sometimes think that you do not understand how absolutely my heart is set upon you,--so that no pleasures are pleasant to me, no employments useful, except in so far as I can make them so by thinking of your love. Dearest, dearest Marion, Your own, HAMPSTEAD. Remember there must not be a word about a lord inside the envelope. It is very bad to me when it comes from Mrs. Roden, or from a friend such as she is; but it simply excruciates me from you. It seems to imply that you are determined to regard me as a stranger. She read the letter a dozen times, pressing it to her lips and to her bosom. She might do that at least. He would never know how she treated this only letter that she ever had received from him, the only letter that she would receive. These caresses were only such as those which came from her heart, to relieve her solitude. It might be absurd in her to think of the words he had spoken, and to kiss the lines which he had written. Were she now on her deathbed that would be permitted to her. Wherever she might lay her head till the last day should come that letter should be always within her reach. "My girl, my own one, my love, my treasure!" How long would it last with him? Was it not her duty to hope that the words were silly words, written as young men do write, having no eagerness of purpose,--just playing with the toy of the moment? Could it be that she should wish them to be true, knowing, as she did, that his girl, his love, his treasure, as he called her, could never be given up to him? And yet she did believe them to be true, knew them to be true, and took an exceeding joy in the assurance. It was as though the beauty and excellence of their truth atoned to her for all else that was troublous to her in the condition of her life. She had not lived in vain. Her life now could never be a vain and empty space of time, as it had been consecrated and ennobled and blessed by such a love as this. And yet she must make the suffering to him as light as possible. Though there might be an ecstasy of joy to her in knowing that she was loved, there could be nothing akin to that in him. He wanted his treasure, and she could only tell him that he might never have it. "Think of it all, and ask yourself whether it is in your heart to refuse to bid me be happy." It was in her heart to do it. Though it might break her heart she would do it. It was the one thing to do which was her paramount duty. "You have told me that you love me." Truly she had told him so, and certainly she would never recall her words. If he ever thought of her in future years when she should long have been at her rest,--and she thought that now and again he would think of her, even when that noble bride should be sitting at his table,--he should always remember that she had given him her whole heart. He had bade her write to him at Trafford. She would obey him at once in that; but she would tell him that she could not obey him in aught else. "Tell me that it shall be so," he had said to her with his sweet, imperious, manly words. There had been something of command about him always, which had helped to make him so perfect in her eyes. "You do not understand," he said, "how absolutely my heart is set upon you." Did he understand, she wondered, how absolutely her heart had been set upon him? "No pleasures are pleasant to me, no employment useful, unless I can make them so by thinking of your love!" It was right that he as a man,--and such a man,--should have pleasures and employments, and it was sweet to her to be told that they could be gilded by the remembrance of her smiles. But for her, from the moment in which she had known him, there could be no pleasure but to think of him, no serious employment but to resolve how best she might do her duty to him. It was not till the next morning that she took up her pen to begin her all-important letter. Though her resolution had been so firmly made, yet there had been much need for thinking before she could sit down to form the sentences. For a while she had told herself that it would be well first to consult her father; but before her father had returned to her she had remembered that nothing which he could say would induce her in the least to alter her purpose. His wishes had been made known to her; but he had failed altogether to understand the nature of the duty she had imposed upon herself. Thus she let that day pass by, although she knew that the writing of the letter would be an affair of much time to her. She could not take her sheet of paper, and scribble off warm words of love as he had done. To ask, or to give, in a matter of love must surely, she thought, be easy enough. But to have given and then to refuse--that was the difficulty. There was so much to say of moment both to herself and to him, or rather so much to signify, that it was not at one sitting, or with a single copy, that this letter could be written. He must be assured, no doubt, of her love; but he must be made to understand,--quite to understand, that her love could be of no avail to him. And how was she to obey him as to her mode of addressing him? "It simply excruciates me from you," he had said, thus debarring her from that only appellation which would certainly be the easiest, and which seemed to her the only one becoming. At last the letter, when written, ran as follows;-- How I am to begin my letter I do not know, as you have forbidden me to use the only words which would come naturally. But I love you too well to displease you in so small a matter. My poor letter must therefore go to you without any such beginning as is usual. Indeed, I love you with all my heart. I told you that before, and I will not shame myself by saying that it was untrue. But I told you also before that I could not be your wife. Dearest love, I can only say again what I said before. Dearly as I love you I cannot become your wife. You bid me to think of it all, and to ask myself whether it is in my heart to refuse to bid you to be happy. It is not in my heart to let you do that which certainly would make you unhappy. There are two reasons for this. Of the first, though it is quite sufficient, I know that you will make nothing. When I tell you that you ought not to choose such a one as me for your wife because my manners of life have not fitted me for such a position, then you sometimes laugh at me, and sometimes are half angry,--with that fine way you have of commanding those that are about you. But not the less am I sure that I am right. I do believe that of all human beings poor Marion Fay is the dearest to you. When you tell me of your love and your treasure I do not for a moment doubt that it is all true. And were I to be your wife, your honour and your honesty would force you to be good to me. But when you found that I was not as are other grand ladies, then I think you would be disappointed. I should know it by every line of your dear face, and when I saw it there I should be broken-hearted. But this is not all. If there were nothing further, I think I should give way because I am only a weak girl; and your words, my own, own love, would get the better of me. But there is another thing. It is hard for me to tell, and why should you be troubled with it? But I think if I tell it you out and out, so as to make you understand the truth, then you will be convinced. Mrs. Roden could tell you the same. My dear, dear father could tell you also; only that he will not allow himself to believe, because of his love for the only child that remains to him. My mother died; and all my brothers and sisters have died. And I also shall die young. Is not that enough? I know that it will be enough. Knowing that it will be enough, may I not speak out to you, and tell you all my heart? Will you not let me do so, as though it had been understood between us, that though we can never be more to each other than we are, yet we may be allowed to love each other? Oh, my dearest, my only dearest, just for this once I have found the words in which I may address you. I cannot comfort you as I can myself, because you are a man, and cannot find comfort in sadness and disappointment, as a girl may do. A man thinks that he should win for himself all that he wants. For a girl, I think it is sufficient for her to feel that, as far as she herself is concerned, that would have been given to her which she most desires, had not Fortune been unkind. You, dearest, cannot have what you want, because you have come to poor Marion Fay with all the glory and sweetness of your love. You must suffer for a while. I, who would so willingly give my life to serve you, must tell you that it will be so. But as you are a man, pluck up your heart, and tell yourself that it shall only be for a time. The shorter the better, and the stronger you will show yourself in overcoming the evil that oppresses you. And remember this. Should Marion Fay live to know that you had brought a bride home to your house, as it will be your duty to do, it will be a comfort to her to feel that the evil she has done has been cured. MARION. I cannot tell you how proud I should be to see your sister if she will condescend to come and see me. Or would it not be better that I should go over to Hendon Hall? I could manage it without trouble. Do not you write about it, but ask her to send me one word. Such was the letter when it was at last finished and despatched. As soon as it was gone,--dropped irrevocably by her own hand into the pillar letter-box which stood at the corner opposite to the public-house,--she told her father what she had done. "And why?" he said crossly. "I do not understand thee. Thou art flighty and fickle, and knowest not thy own mind." "Yes, father; I have known my own mind always in this matter. It was not fitting." "If he thinks it fitting, why shouldst thou object?" "I am not fit, father, to be the wife of a great nobleman. Nor can I trust my own health." This she said with a courage and firmness which seemed to silence him,--looking at him as though by her looks she forbade him to urge the matter further. Then she put her arms round him and kissed him. "Will it not be better, father, that you and I shall remain together till the last?" "Nothing can be better for me that will not also be best for thee." "For me it will be best. Father, let it be so, and let this young man be no more thought of between us." In that she asked more than could be granted to her; but for some days Lord Hampstead's name was not mentioned between them. Two days afterwards Lady Frances came to her. "Let me look at you," said Marion, when the other girl had taken her in her arms and kissed her. "I like to look at you, to see whether you are like him. To my eyes he is so beautiful." "More so than I am." "You are a--lady, and he is a man. But you are like him, and very beautiful. You, too, have a lover, living close to us?" "Well, yes. I suppose I must own it." "Why should you not own it? It is good to be loved and to love. And he has become a great nobleman,--like your brother." "No, Marion; he is not that.--May I call you Marion?" "Why not? He called me Marion almost at once." "Did he so?" "Just as though it were a thing of course. But I noticed it. It was not when he bade me poke the fire, but the next time. Did he tell you about the fire?" "No, indeed." "A man does not tell of such things, I think; but a girl remembers them. It is so good of you to come. You know--do you not?" "Know what?" "That I,--and your brother,--have settled everything at last?" The smile of pleasant good humour passed away from the face of Lady Frances, but at the moment she made no reply. "It is well that you should know. He knows now, I am sure. After what I said in my letter he will not contradict me again." Lady Frances shook her head. "I have told him that while I live he of all the world must be dearest to me. But that will be all." "Why should you--not live?" "Lady Frances--" "Nay, call me Fanny." "You shall be Fanny if you will let me tell you. Oh! I do so wish that you would understand it all, and make me tell you nothing further. But you must know,--you must know that it cannot be as your brother has wished. If it were only less known,--if he would consent and you would consent,--then I think that I could be happy. What is it after all,--the few years that we may have to live here? Shall we not meet again, and shall we not love each other then?" "I hope so." "If you can really hope it, then why should we not be happy? But how could I hope it if, with my eyes open, I were to bring a great misfortune upon him? If I did him an evil here, could I hope that he would love me in Heaven, when he would know all the secrets of my heart? But if he shall say to himself that I denied myself,--for his sake; that I refused to be taken into his arms because it would be bad for him, then, though there may be some one dearer, then shall not I also be dear to him?" The other girl could only cling to her and embrace her. "When he shall have strong boys round his hearth,--the hearth he spoke of as though it were almost mine,--and little girls with pink cheeks and bonny brows, and shall know, as he will then, what I might have done for him, will he not pray for me, and tell me in his prayers that when we shall meet hereafter I shall still be dear to him? And when she knows it all, she who shall lie on his breast, shall I not be dear also to her?" "Oh, my sister!" "He will tell her. I think he will tell her,--because of his truth, his honour, and his manliness." Lady Frances, before she left the house, had been made to understand that her brother could not have his way in the matter which was so near his heart, and that the Quaker's daughter would certainly have hers. CHAPTER VI. "BUT HE IS;--HE IS." George Roden had come to a decision as to his title, and had told every one concerned that he meant to be as he always had been,--George Roden, a clerk in the Post Office. When spoken to, on this side and the other, as to the propriety,--or rather impropriety,--of his decision, he had smiled for the most part, and had said but little, but had been very confident in himself. To none of the arguments used against him would he yield in the least. As to his mother's name, he said, no one had doubted, and no one would doubt it for a moment. His mother's name had been settled by herself, and she had borne it for a quarter of a century. She had not herself thought of changing it. For her to blaze out into the world as a Duchess,--it would be contrary to her feelings, to her taste, and to her comfort! She would have no means of maintaining the title,--and would be reduced to the necessity of still living in Paradise Row, with the simple addition of an absurd nickname. As to that, no question had been raised. It was only for him that she required the new appellation. As for herself, the whole thing had been settled at once by her own good judgment. As for himself, he said, the arguments were still stronger against the absurd use of the grand title. It was imperative on him to earn his bread, and his only means of doing so was by doing his work as a clerk in the Post Office. Everybody admitted that it would not be becoming that a Duke should be a clerk in the Post Office. It would be so unbecoming, he declared, that he doubted whether any man could be found brave enough to go through the world with such a fool's cap on his head. At any rate he had no such courage. Moreover, no Englishman, as he had been told, could at his own will and pleasure call himself by a foreign title. It was his pleasure to be an Englishman. He had always been an Englishman. As an inhabitant of Holloway he had voted for two Radical members for the Borough of Islington. He would not stultify his own proceedings, and declare that everything which he had done was wrong. It was thus that he argued the matter; and, as it seemed, no one could take upon himself to prove that he was an Italian, or to prove that he was a Duke. But, though he seemed to be, if not logical, at any rate rational, the world generally did not agree with him. Wherever he was encountered there seemed to be an opinion that he ought to assume whatever name and whatever rights belonged to his father. Even at the Post Office the world was against him. "I don't quite know why you couldn't do it," said Sir Boreas, when Roden put it to him whether it would be practicable that a young man calling himself Duca di Crinola should take his place as a clerk in Mr. Jerningham's room. It may be remembered that Sir Boreas had himself expressed some difficulty in the matter. He had told Mr. Jerningham that he did not think that they could get on very well with a real Duke among them. It was thus that the matter had at first struck him. But he was a brave man, and, when he came to look at it all round, he did not see that there would be any impossibility. It would be a nine days' wonder, no doubt. But the man would be there just the same,--the Post Office clerk inside the Duke. The work would be done, and after a little time even he would become used to having a Duke among his subordinates. As to whether the Duke were a foreigner or an Englishman,--that, he declared, would not matter in the least, as far as the Post Office was concerned. "I really don't see why you shouldn't try it," said Sir Boreas. "The absurdity would be so great that it would crush me, sir. I shouldn't be worth my salt," said Roden. "That's a kind of thing that wears itself out very quickly. You would feel odd at first,--and so would the other men, and the messengers. I should feel a little odd when I asked some one to send the Duca di Crinola to me, for we are not in the habit of sending for Dukes. But there is nothing that you can't get used to. If your father had been a Prince I don't think I should break down under it after the first month." "What good would it do me, Sir Boreas?" "I think it would do you good. It is difficult to explain the good,--particularly to a man who is so violently opposed as you to all ideas of rank. But--." "You mean that I should get promoted quicker because of my title?" "I think it probable that the Civil Service generally would find itself able to do something more for a good officer with a high name than for a good officer without one." "Then, Sir Boreas, the Civil Service ought to be ashamed of itself." "Perhaps so;--but such would be the fact. Somebody would interfere to prevent the anomaly of the Duca di Crinola sitting at the same table with Mr. Crocker. I will not dispute it with you,--whether it ought to be so;--but, if it be probable, there is no reason why you should not take advantage of your good fortune, if you have capacity and courage enough to act up to it. Of course what we all want in life is success. If a chance comes in your way I don't see why you should fling it away." This was the wisdom of Sir Boreas; but Roden would not take advantage of it. He thanked the great man for his kindness and sympathy, but declined to reconsider his decision. In the outer office,--in the room, for instance, in which Mr. Jerningham sat with Crocker and Bobbin and Geraghty, the feeling was very much stronger in favour of the title, and was expressed in stronger language. Crocker could not contain himself when he heard that there was a doubt upon the subject. On Roden's first arrival at the office Crocker almost flung himself into his friend's arms, with just a single exclamation. "Duca, Duca, Duca!" he had said, and had then fallen back into his own seat overcome by his emotions. Roden had passed this by without remark. It was very distasteful to him, and disgusting. He would fain have been able to sit down at his own desk, and go on with his own work, without any special notice of the occasion, other than the ordinary greeting occasioned by his return. It was distressing to him that anything should have been known about his father and his father's title. But that it should be known was natural. The world had heard of it. The world had put it into the newspapers, and the world had talked about it. Of course Mr. Jerningham also would talk of it, and the two younger clerks,--and Crocker. Crocker would of course talk of it louder than any one else. That was to be expected. A certain amount of misconduct was to be expected from Crocker, and must be forgiven. Therefore he passed over the ecstatic and almost hysterical repetition of the title which his father had borne, hoping that Crocker might be overcome by the effort, and be tranquil. But Crocker was not so easily overcome. He did sit for a moment or two on his seat with his mouth open; but he was only preparing himself for his great demonstration. "We are very glad to see you again,--sir," said Mr. Jerningham; not at first quite knowing how it would become him to address his fellow-clerk. "Thank you, Mr. Jerningham. I have got back again safe." "I am sure we are all delighted to hear--what we have heard," said Mr. Jerningham cautiously. "By George, yes," said Bobbin. "I suppose it's true; isn't it? Such a beautiful name!" "There are so many things are true, and so many are false, that I don't quite know how to answer you," said Roden. "But you are--?" asked Geraghty; and then he stopped, not quite daring to trust himself with the grand title. "No;--that's just what I'm not," replied the other. "But he is," shouted Crocker, jumping from his seat. "He is! He is! It's quite true. He is Duca di Crinola. Of course we'll call him so, Mr. Jerningham;--eh?" "I am sure I don't know," said Mr. Jerningham with great caution. "You'll allow me to know my own name," said Roden. "No! no!" continued Crocker. "It's all very well for your modesty, but it's a kind of thing which your friends can't stand. We are quite sure that you're the Duca." There was something in the Italian title which was peculiarly soothing to Crocker's ears. "A man has to be called by what he is, not by what he chooses. If the Duke of Middlesex called himself Mr. Smith, he'd be Duke all the same;--wouldn't he, Mr. Jerningham? All the world would call him Duke. So it must be with you. I wouldn't call your Grace Mr. ----; you know what I mean, but I won't pronounce it ever again;--not for ever so much." Roden's brow became very black as he found himself subjected to the effects of the man's folly. "I call upon the whole office," continued Crocker, "for the sake of its own honour, to give our dear and highly-esteemed friend his proper name on all occasions. Here's to the health of the Duca di Crinola!" Just at that moment Crocker's lunch had been brought in, consisting of bread and cheese and a pint of stout. The pewter pot was put to his mouth and the toast was drank to the honour and glory of the drinker's noble friend with no feeling of intended ridicule. It was a grand thing to Crocker to have been brought into contact with a man possessed of so noble a title. In his heart of hearts he reverenced "The Duca." He would willingly have stayed there till six or seven o'clock and have done all the Duca's work for him,--because the Duca was a Duca. He would not have done it satisfactorily, because it was not in his nature to do any work well, but he would have done it as well as he did his own. He hated work; but he would have sooner worked all night than see a Duca do it,--so great was his reverence for the aristocracy generally. "Mr. Crocker," said Mr. Jerningham severely, "you are making yourself a nuisance. You generally do." "A nuisance!" "Yes; a nuisance. When you see that a gentleman doesn't wish a thing, you oughtn't to do it." "But when a man's name is his name!" "Never mind. When he doesn't wish it, you oughtn't to do it!" "If it's a man's own real name!" "Never mind," said Mr. Jerningham. "If it shoots a gintleman to be incognito, why isn't he to do as he plaises?" asked Geraghty. "If the Duke of Middlesex did call himself Mr. Smith," said Bobbin, "any gentleman that was a gentleman would fall in with his views." Crocker, not conquered, but for the moment silenced, seated himself in a dudgeon at his desk. It might do very well for poor fellows, weak creatures like Jerningham, Bobbin, and Geraghty, thus to be done out of their prey;--but he would not be cheated in that way. The Duca di Crinola should be Duca di Crinola as far as he, Crocker, could make his voice heard; and all that heard him should know that the Duca was his own old peculiar friend. In Paradise Row the world was decidedly against Roden; and not only were the Demijohns and Duffers against him, but also his own mother and her friend Mrs. Vincent. On the first Monday after Mrs. Roden's return Mrs. Vincent came to the Row as usual,--on this occasion to welcome her cousin, and to hear all the news of the family as it had been at last brought back from Italy. There was a great deal to be told. Many things had been brought to light which had had their commencement in Mrs. Vincent's days. There was something of the continuation of a mild triumph for her in every word that was spoken. She had been against the Di Crinola marriage, when it had been first discussed more than a quarter of a century ago. She had never believed in the Duca di Crinola, and her want of faith had been altogether justified. She did not, after all those years, bear hardly on her friend,--but there was still that well-known tone of gentle censure and of gentle self-applause. "I told you so," said the elder crow to the younger crow. When does the old crow cease to remind the younger crow that it was so? "A sad, sad story," said Mrs. Vincent, shaking her head. "All our stories I suppose have much in them that is sad. I have got my son, and no mother can have more reason to be proud of a son." Mrs. Vincent shook her head. "I say it is so," repeated the mother; "and having such a son, I will not admit that it has all been sad." "I wish he were more ready to perform his religious duties," said Mrs. Vincent. "We cannot all agree about everything. I do not know that that need be brought up now." "It is a matter that should be brought up every hour and every day, Mary,--if the bringing of it up is to do any good." But it was not on this matter that Mrs. Roden now wished to get assistance from her cousin;--certainly not with any present view towards the amelioration of her son's religious faith. That might come afterwards perhaps. But it was her present object to induce her cousin to agree with her, that her son should permit himself to be called by his father's title. "But you think he should take his father's name?" she asked. Mrs. Vincent shook her head and tried to look wise. The question was one on which her feelings were very much divided. It was of course proper that the son should be called by his father's name. All the proprieties of the world, as known to Mrs. Vincent, declared that it should be so. She was a woman, too, who by no means despised rank, and who considered that much reverence was due to those who were privileged to carry titles. Dukes and lords were certainly very great in her estimation, and even the humblest knight was respected by her, as having been in some degree lifted above the community by the will of his Sovereign. And though she was always in some degree hostile to George Roden, because of the liberties he took in regard to certain religious matters, yet she was good enough and kind enough to wish well to her own cousin. Had there been a question in regard to an English title she certainly would not have shaken her head. But as to this outlandish Italian title, she had her doubts. It did not seem to her to be right that an Englishman should be called a Duca. If it had been Baron, or even Count, the name would have been less offensive. And then to her mind hereditary titles, as she had known them, had been recommended by hereditary possessions. There was something to her almost irreligious in the idea of a Duke without an acre. She could therefore only again shake her head. "He has as much right to it," continued Mrs. Roden, "as has the eldest son of the greatest peer in England." "I dare say he has, my dear, but--." "But what?" "I dare say you're right, only--; only it's not just like an English peer, you know." "The privilege of succession is the same." "He never could sit in the House of Lords, my dear." "Of course not. He would assume only what is his own. Why should he be ashamed to take an Italian title any more than his friend Lord Hampstead is to take an English one? It is not as though it would prevent his living here. Many foreign noblemen live in England." "I suppose he could live here," said Mrs. Vincent as though she were making a great admission. "I don't think that there would be any law to turn him out of the country." "Nor out of the Post Office, if he chooses to remain there," said Mrs. Roden. "I don't know how that may be." "Even if they did, I should prefer that it should be so. According to my thinking, no man should fling away a privilege that is his own, or should be ashamed of assuming a nobility that belongs to him. If not for his own sake, he should do it for the sake of his children. He at any rate has nothing to be ashamed of in the name. It belonged to his father and to his grandfather, and to his ancestors through many generations. Think how men fight for a title in this country; how they struggle for it when there is a doubt as to who may properly have inherited it! Here there is no doubt. Here there need be no struggle." Convinced by the weight of this argument Mrs. Vincent gave in her adhesion, and at last expressed an opinion that her cousin should at once call himself by his father's name. CHAPTER VII. THE GREAT QUESTION. Neither were the arguments of Mrs. Roden nor the adhesion of Mrs. Vincent of any power in persuading George Roden. He answered his mother gently, kindly, but very firmly. Had anything, he said, been necessary to strengthen his own feeling, it would have been found in his mother's determination to keep his old name. "Surely, mother, if I may say so without disrespect, what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander." At this the mother smiled, kissing her son to show that the argument had been taken in good part. "In this matter," he continued, "we certainly are in a boat together. If I am a Duke you would be a Duchess. If I am doomed to make an ape of myself at the Post Office, you must be equally ridiculous in Paradise Row,--unless you are prepared to go back to Italy and live your life there." "And you?" "I could not live there. How could I earn my bread there? How could I pass my days so as to be in any degree useful? What could be more mean? My uncle, though he has been civil, and to a certain degree generous, would be specially anxious not to see me in public life. You and I together would have just means enough for existence. I should be doomed to walk about the streets of some third-rate Italian town, and call myself by my grand name. Would a life like that satisfy your ambition on my behalf?" Then she thought of the girl who was in love with him, of the friends whom he had made for himself, of the character which belonged to him, and she was driven to confess that, by whatever name he might be called, he must continue to live an Englishman's life, and to live in England. Nevertheless, she told herself that the title would not be abolished, because it might be in abeyance. She might, she thought, still live to hear her son called by the name of which she herself had been proud till she had become thoroughly ashamed of the husband who had given it to her. But there were others besides Crocker and Mrs. Vincent, and his mother and Sir Boreas, who were much interested by George Roden's condition. Mrs. Roden returned home on the 2nd of March, and, as may be remembered, the tidings respecting her son had reached England before she came. By the end of the month many persons were much exercised as to the young man's future name, and some people of high rank had not only discussed the subject at great length, but had written numerous letters concerning it. It was manifest to Lady Persiflage that no further attempt should now be made to throw obstacles in the way of Lady Frances and her lover. Lady Persiflage had never believed in the obstacles from the first. "Of course they'll marry," she had said to her one daughter, who was now almost as good as married herself, and equally trustworthy. "When a girl is determined like that, of course nothing will stop her. My sister shouldn't have let her meet the young man at first." But this had been said before the young man had turned out to be an Italian Duke. Since the news had come Lady Persiflage had been very eager in recommending her sister to discontinue the opposition. "Make the most of him," she had said in one of her letters. "It is all that can be done now. It is a fine name, and though Italian titles do not count like ours, yet, when they are as good as this, they go for a good deal. There are real records of the Di Crinola family, and there is no manner of doubt but that he is the head of them. Take him by the hand, and have him down at Trafford if Kingsbury is well enough. They tell me he is quite presentable, with a good figure and all that;--by no means a young man who will stand shivering in a room because he doesn't know how to utter a word. Had he been like that Fanny would never have set her heart upon him. Persiflage has been talking about him, and he says that something will be sure to turn up if he is brought forward properly, and is not ashamed of his family name. Persiflage will do whatever he can, but that can only be if you will open your arms to him." Lady Kingsbury did feel that she was called upon to undergo a terrible revulsion of sentiment. Opening her arms to the Duca di Crinola might be possible to her. But how was she to open her arms to Lady Frances Trafford? The man whom she had seen but once might appear before her with his new title as a young nobleman of whose antecedents she was not bound to remember anything. She might seem to regard him as a new arrival, a noble suitor for her stepdaughter's hand, of whom she had not before heard. But how was she to receive Fanny Trafford, the girl whom she had locked up at Königsgraaf, whose letters she had stopped as they came from the Post Office? Nevertheless she consented,--as far at least as her sister was concerned. "I shall never like Fanny," she had said, "because she is so sly." Girls are always called sly by their friends who want to abuse them. "But of course I will have them both here, as you think it will be best. What they are to live upon Heaven only knows. But of course that will be no concern of mine." As a first result of this Lady Persiflage asked George Roden down to Castle Hautboy for the Easter holidays. There was a difficulty about this. How was he to be addressed? Hampstead was consulted, and he, though he was not much in heart just then for the arrangement of such a matter, advised that for the present his friend's old name should be used. Lady Persiflage therefore wrote to--George Roden, Esq., at the General Post Office. In this letter it was signified that Lord Persiflage was very anxious to make the acquaintance of--Mr. Roden. Lady Persiflage was also very anxious. Lady Persiflage explained that she was aware of,--Well! Lady Frances Trafford was to be at Castle Hautboy, and that she thought might act as an inducement to--Mr. Roden. The letter was very cleverly managed. Though it never once mentioned the grand title it made allusions which implied that the real rank of the Post Office clerk was well known to every one at Castle Hautboy. And though nothing of course was said as to any possible relations between Lord Persiflage as a member of the British Cabinet and the clerk's uncle as a member of the Italian Cabinet, nevertheless as to this also there were allusions which were intelligible. This letter was altogether very gracious,--such a one as few young men would be able to resist coming from such a person as Lady Persiflage. But the special offer which prevailed with our Post Office clerk was no doubt the promise of the presence of Fanny Trafford. In all the rest, gracious as the words were, there was nothing but trouble for him. It was clear enough to him that Lady Persiflage was on the same side as Crocker. Lady Persiflage would no doubt prefer a Duca di Crinola to a Post Office clerk for Lady Frances. And he could see also that the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs was on the same side. The Secretary of State would not have expressed a special desire to see him, the Post Office clerk, at Castle Hautboy, and have, as it were, welcomed him to the possession of his brother-in-law's daughter, had nothing been told of the Duca di Crinola. He heard as much from Lord Hampstead, who advised him to go to Castle Hautboy, and make himself acquainted with Fanny's family friends. It was all manifest. And as it was all being done in opposition to his own firm resolution, he would not have gone,--but that the temptation was too great for him. Fanny Trafford would be there,--and he was quite open to the charm of the offer which was almost being made to him of Lady Fanny's hand. He arranged the matter at the office, and wrote to Lady Persiflage accepting the invitation. "So you're going to Castle Hautboy?" said Crocker to him. Crocker was in torments at the time. He had been made to understand that he would be doing quite wrong in calling the Duca "Your Grace." Roden, if a Duke at all, could be only an Italian Duke--and not on that account "Your Grace." This had been explained by Bobbin, and had disturbed him. The title "Duca" was still open to him; but he feared Roden's wrath if he should use it too freely. "How do you know?" asked Roden. "I have been there myself, you know;--and am in the habit of hearing from Castle Hautboy." His father was agent on the property, and of course he heard tidings, if not from his father, at any rate from his sisters. "Yes; I am going to Castle Hautboy." "Hampstead will be there probably. I met Hampstead there. A man in Lord Persiflage's position will, of course, be delighted to welcome the--the--Duca di Crinola." He shrank as though he feared that Roden would strike him--but he uttered the words. "Of course, if you choose to annoy me, I cannot well help myself," said Roden as he left the room. On his first arrival at the Castle things were allowed to go quietly with him. Every one called him "Mr. Roden." Lady Persiflage received him very graciously. Lady Frances was in the house, and her name was mentioned to him with the whispered intimacy which on such occasions indicates the triumph of the man's position. She made no allusion either to his rank or to his office, but treated him just as she might have done any other suitor,--which was exactly what he wanted. Lord Llwddythlw had come down for his Easter holidays of two days, and was very civil to him. Lady Amaldina was delighted to make his acquaintance, and within three minutes was calling upon him to promise that he would not get himself married before August in consideration for her bevy. "If I was to lose Fanny now," she said, "I really think I should give it up altogether." Then before dinner he was allowed to find himself alone with Fanny, and for the first time in his life felt that his engagement was an acknowledged thing. All this was made very pleasant to him by the occasional use of his proper name. He had been almost ashamed of himself because of the embarrassment which his supposed title had occasioned him. He felt that he had thought of the matter more than it was worth. The annoyances of Crocker had been abominable to him. It was not likely that he should encounter a second Crocker, but still he dreaded he hardly knew what. It certainly was not probable that these people at Castle Hautboy should call him by a name he had never used without consulting him. But still he had dreaded something, and was gratified that the trouble seemed to pass by him easily. Lady Persiflage and Lady Amaldina had both used his legitimate name, and Lord Llwddythlw had called him nothing at all. If he could only be allowed to go away just as he had come, without an allusion from any one to the Di Crinola family, then he should think that the people at Castle Hautboy were very well-bred. But he feared that this was almost too much to hope. He did not see Lord Persiflage till a moment before dinner, when he specially remarked that he was introduced as Mr. Roden. "Very glad to see you, Mr. Roden. I hope you're fond of scenery. We're supposed to have the finest view in England from the top of the tower. I have no doubt my daughter will show it you. I can't say that I ever saw it myself. Beautiful scenery is all very well when you are travelling, but nobody ever cares for it at home." Thus Lord Persiflage had done his courtesy to the stranger, and the conversation became general, as though the stranger were a stranger no longer. When Roden found that he was allowed to give his arm to Lady Frances, and go out and eat his dinner quietly and comfortably without any reference to the peculiarity of his position, he thought that perhaps no further troubles were in store for him. The whole of the next day was devoted to the charms of love and scenery. The spring weather was delightful, and Roden was allowed to ramble about where he pleased with Lady Frances. Every one about the place regarded him as an accepted and recognized lover. As he had never been in truth accepted by one of the family except by the girl herself;--as the Marquis had not condescended even to see him when he had come, but had sent Mr. Greenwood to reject him scornfully; as the Marchioness had treated him as below contempt; as even his own friend Lord Hampstead had declared that the difficulties would be insuperable, this sudden cessation of all impediments did seem to be delightfully miraculous. Assent on the part of Lord and Lady Persiflage would, he understood, be quite as serviceable as that of Lord and Lady Kingsbury. Something had occurred which, in the eyes of all the family, had lifted him up as it were out of the gutter and placed him on a grand pedestal. There could be no doubt as to this something. It was all done because he was supposed to be an Italian nobleman. And yet he was not an Italian nobleman; nor would he allow any one to call him so, as far as it might be in his power to prevent it. His visit was limited to two entire days. One was passed amidst all the sweets of love-making. With the pleasures of that no allusions were allowed to interfere. On the following morning he found himself alone with Lord Persiflage after breakfast. "Delighted to have had you down here, you know," began his lordship. To this Roden simply bowed. "I haven't the pleasure of knowing your uncle personally, but there isn't a man in Europe for whom I have a higher respect." Again Roden bowed. "I've heard all about this romance of yours from D'Ossi. You know D'Ossi?" Roden declared that he had not the honour of knowing the Italian Minister. "Ah; well, you must know D'Ossi, of course. I won't say whether he's your countryman or not, but you must know him. He is your uncle's particular friend." "It's only by accident that I know my uncle, or even learnt that he was my uncle." "Just so. But the accident has taken place, and the result fortunately remains. Of course you must take your own name." "I shall keep the name I have, Lord Persiflage." "You will find it to be quite impossible. The Queen will not allow it." Upon hearing this Roden opened his eyes; but the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs looked him full in the face as though to assure him that, though he had never heard of such a thing before, such, in fact, was the truth. "Of course there will be difficulties. I'm not prepared at the present moment to advise how this should be done. Perhaps you had better wait till Her Majesty has signified her pleasure to receive you as the Duca di Crinola. When she has done so you will have no alternative." "No alternative as to what I may call myself?" "None in the least, I should say. I am thinking now in a great measure as to the welfare of my own relative, Lady Frances. Something will have to be done. I don't quite see my way as yet; but something, no doubt, will be done. The Duca di Crinola will, I have no doubt, find fitting employment." Then a little bell was rung, and Vivian, the private secretary, came into the room. Vivian and Roden knew each other, and a few pleasant words were spoken; but Roden found himself obliged to take his departure without making any further protests in regard to Her Majesty's assumed wishes. About five o'clock that evening he was invited into a little sitting-room belonging to Lady Persiflage up-stairs. "Haven't I been very good to you?" she said, laughing. "Very good, indeed. Nothing could be so good as inviting me down here to Castle Hautboy." "That was done for Fanny's sake. But have I said one word to you about your terrible name?" "No, indeed; and now, Lady Persiflage, pray go on and be good to the end." "Yes," she said, "I will be good to the end,--before all the people down-stairs. I haven't said a word of it even to Fanny. Fanny is an angel." "According to my thinking." "That's of course. But even an angel likes to have her proper rank. You mustn't allow yourself to suppose that even Fanny Trafford is indifferent to titles. There are things that a man may expect a girl to do for him, but there are things which cannot be expected, let her be ever so much in love. Fanny Trafford has got to become Duchess of Crinola." "I am afraid that that is more than I can do for her." "My dear Mr. Roden, it must be done. I cannot let you go away from here without making you understand that, as a man engaged to be married, you cannot drop your title. Did you intend to remain single, I cannot say how far your peculiar notions might enable you to prevail; but as you mean to marry, she, too, will have rights. I put it to you whether it would be honest on your part to ask her to abandon the rank which she will be entitled to expect from you. Just you think of it, Mr. Roden. And now I won't trouble you any more upon the subject." Not a word more was said on the subject at Castle Hautboy, and on the next day he returned to the Post Office. CHAPTER VIII. "I CANNOT COMPEL HER." About the middle of April Lord and Lady Kingsbury came up to London. From day to day and week to week he had declared that he would never again be able to move out of his room; and had gone on making up his mind to die immediately, till people around him began to think that he was not going to die at all. He was, however, at last persuaded that he might at any rate as well die in London as at Trafford, and, therefore, allowed himself to be carried up to Park Lane. The condition of his own health was, of course, given to him for the reason of this movement. At this peculiar period of the year, it would be better for him, they said, to be near his London doctor. No doubt the Marquis believed that it was so. When a man is ill nothing is so important to him as his own illness. But it may be a question whether the anxiety felt by the Marchioness as to other affairs of the family generally had not an effect with her in inducing her to persuade her husband. The Marquis had given a modified assent to his daughter's marriage; and she, in a manner still more modified, had withdrawn her opposition. Permission had been given to Fanny to marry the Duca di Crinola. This had been given without any reference to money, but had certainly implied a promise of a certain amount of income from the bride's father. How else would it be possible that they should live? The letter had been written to Lady Frances by her stepmother at the dictation of the Marquis. But the words absolutely dictated had not perhaps been religiously followed. The father had intended to be soft and affectionate, merely expressing his gratification that his girl's lover should turn out to be the Duca di Crinola. Out of this the Marchioness had made a stipulation. The lover should be received as a lover, on condition that he bore the name and title. Lady Persiflage had told her sister that as a matter of course the name would be taken. "A man always takes his father's name as a matter of course," Lady Persiflage had said. She believed that the man's absurd notions would be overcome by continual social pressure. Whether the social pressure would or would not prevail, the man would certainly marry the girl. There could, therefore, be no better course than that of trusting to social pressure. Lady Persiflage was quite clear as to her course. But the Marchioness, though yielding to her sister in much, still thought that a bargain should be made. It had been suggested that she should invite "the young man" down to Trafford. Roden was usually called "the young man" at present in these family conclaves. She had thought that it would be better to see him up in London. Lady Frances would come to them in Park Lane, and then the young man should be invited. The Marchioness would send her compliments to the "Duca di Crinola." Nothing on earth should induce her to write the name of Roden,--unless it might happily come to pass that the engagement should be broken. Hampstead at this time was still living at Hendon. His sister remained with him till the Marchioness came up to town about the middle of April, but no one else except George Roden saw much of him. Since Roden's return from Italy his visits to Hendon Hall had been tacitly permitted. The Kingsbury and Persiflage world had taken upon itself to presume that the young man was the Duca di Crinola, and, so presuming, had in truth withdrawn all impediments. Lady Frances had written to her father in answer to the letter which had reached her from the Marchioness in his name, and had declared that Mr. Roden was Mr. Roden, and would remain Mr. Roden. She had explained his reasons at great length, but had probably made them anything but intelligible to her father. He, however, had simply concealed the letter when he had half-read it. He would not incur the further trouble of explaining this to his wife, and had allowed the matter to go on, although the stipulation made was absolutely repudiated by the parties who were to have been bound by it. For Roden and Lady Frances this was no doubt very pleasant. Even Lady Amaldina Hauteville with her bevy was not more thoroughly engaged to her aristocratic lover than was Lady Frances to this precarious Italian nobleman. But the brother in these days was by no means as happy as his sister. There had been a terrible scene between him and Lady Frances after his return from Trafford. He came back with Marion's letter in his pocket,--with every word contained in it clear in his memory; but still, still doubting as to the necessity of obeying Marion's orders. She had declared, with whatever force of words she had known how to use, that the marriage which he proposed to himself was impossible. She had told him so more than once before, and the telling had availed nothing. Her first assertion that she could not become his wife had hardly served to moderate in the least the joy which he had felt from the assurances of her affections. It had meant nothing to him. When she had spoken to him simply of their differences of rank he had thrown the arguments under his feet, and had trampled upon them with his masterful imperious determination. His whole life and energy were devoted to the crushing of arguments used towards him by those who were daily telling him that he was severed from other men by the peculiarities of his rank. He certainly would not be severed from this one woman whom he loved by any such peculiarity. Fortifying his heart by these reflections, he had declared to himself that the timid doubtings of the girl should go for nothing. As she loved him he would of course be strong enough to conquer all such doubtings. He would take her up in his arms and carry her away, and simply tell her that she had got to do it. He had a conviction that a girl when once she had confessed that she loved a man, belonged to the man, and was bound to obey him. To watch over her, to worship her, to hover round her, so that no wind should be allowed to blow too strongly on her, to teach her that she was the one treasure in the world that could be of real value to him,--but at the same time to make a property of her, so that she should be altogether his own,--that had been his idea of the bond which should unite him and Marion Fay together. As she took a joy in his love it could not be but that she would come to his call at last. She too had perceived something of this,--so much, that it had become necessary to her to tell him the whole truth. Those minor reasons, though even they should have been strong enough, were not, she found, powerful with him. She tried it, and acknowledged to herself that she failed. The man was too wilful for her guidance,--too strong for the arguments by which she had hoped to control him. Then it had been necessary to tell him all the truth. This she had done at last with very few words. "My mother died; and all my brothers and sisters have died. And I also shall die young." Very simple, this had been; but, ah, powerful as it was simple! In it there had been a hard assertion of facts too strong even for his masterful nature. He could not say, even to himself, that it was not so,--that it should not be so. It might be that she might be spared where others had not been spared. That risk, of course, he was prepared to run. Without turning it much in his thoughts, without venturing to think of the results or to make a calculation, he was prepared to tell her that she too must leave all that in the hand of God, and run her chance as do all human mortal beings. He certainly would so argue the matter with her. But he could not tell her that there was no ground for fear. He could not say that though her mother had died, and though her little brothers and sisters had died, there was yet no cause for fear. And he felt that should she persist in her resolution there would be a potency about her which it might well be that he should fail to dominate. If we can live, let us live together; and if we must die, let us die,--as nearly together as may be. That we should come together is the one thing absolutely essential; and then let us make our way through our troubles as best we may under the hands of Fate. This was what he would now say to her. But he knew that he could not say it with that bright look and those imperious tones which had heretofore almost prevailed with her. Not replying to Marion's letter by any written answer, but resolving that the words which would be necessary might best be spoken, he came back to Hendon. Oh how softly they should be spoken! With his arm round her waist he would tell her that still it should be for better or for worse. "I will say nothing of what may happen except this;--that whatever may befall us we will take it and bear it together." With such words whispered into her ear, would he endeavour to make her understand that though it might all be true, still would her duty be the same. But when he reached his house, intending to go on almost at once to Holloway, he was stopped by a note from the Quaker. "My dear young friend," said the note from the Quaker, I am desired by Marion to tell thee that we have thought it better that she should go for a few weeks to the seaside. I have taken her to Pegwell Bay, whence I can run up daily to my work in the City. After that thou last saw her she was somewhat unwell,--not ill, indeed, but flurried, as was natural, by the interview. And I have taken her down to the seaside in compliance with medical advice. She bids me, however, to tell thee that there is no cause for alarm. It will, however, be better, for a time at least, that she should not be called upon to encounter the excitement of meeting thee. Thy very faithful friend, ZACHARY FAY. This made him nervous, and for the moment almost wretched. It was his desire at first to rush off to Pegwell Bay and learn for himself what might be the truth of her condition. But on consideration he felt that he did not dare to do so in opposition to the Quaker's injunction. His arrival there among the strangers of the little watering-place would of course flurry her. He was obliged to abandon that idea, and content himself with a resolve to see the Quaker in the City on the next morning. But the words spoken to him afterwards by his sister were heavier to bear than the Quaker's letter. "Dear John," she had said, "you must give it up." "I will never give it up," he had answered. And as he spoke there came across his brows an angry look of determination. "Dear John!" "What right have you to tell me to give it up? What would you say to me if I were to declare that George Roden should be given up?" "If there were the same cause!" "What do you know of any cause?" "Dear, dearest brother." "You are taking a part against me. You can be obstinate. I am not more likely to give a thing up than you are yourself." "It is her health." "Is she the first young woman that was ever married without being as strong as a milkmaid? Why should you take upon yourself to condemn her?" "It is not I. It is Marion herself. You told me to go to her, and of course she spoke to me." He paused a moment, and then in a hoarse, low voice asked a question. "What did she say to you when you spoke to her?" "Oh, John!--I doubt I can hardly tell you what she said. But you know what she said. Did she not write and tell you that because of her health it cannot be as you would have it." "And would you have me yield, because for my sake she is afraid? If George Roden were not strong would you throw him over and go away?" "It is a hard matter to discuss, John." "But it has to be discussed. It has at any rate to be thought of. I don't think that a woman has a right to take the matter into her own hands, and say that as a certainty God Almighty has condemned her to an early death. These things must be left to Providence, or Chance, or Fate, as you may call it." "But if she has her own convictions--?" "She must not be left to her own convictions. It is just that. She must not be allowed to sacrifice herself to a fantastic idea." "You will never prevail with her," said his sister, taking him by the arm, and looking up piteously into his face. "I shall not prevail? Do you say that certainly I shall not prevail?" She was still holding his arm, and still looking up into his face, and now she answered him by slightly shaking her head. "Why should you speak so positively?" "She could say things to me which she could hardly say to you." "What was it then?" "She could say things to me which I can hardly repeat to you. Oh, John, believe me,--believe me. It must be abandoned. Marion Fay will never be your wife." He shook himself free from her hand, and frowned sternly at her. "Do you think I would not have her for my sister, if it were possible? Do you not believe that I too can love her? Who can help loving her?" He knew, of course, that as the shoe pinched him it could not pinch her. What were any other love or any other sadness as compared to his love or to his sadness? It was to him as though the sun were suddenly taken out of his heaven, as though the light of day were destroyed for ever from before his eyes,--or rather as though a threat were being made that the sun should be taken from his heaven and the light from his eyes,--a threat under which it might be necessary that he should succumb. "Marion, Marion, Marion," he said to himself again and again, walking up and down between the lodge and the hall door. Whether well or ill, whether living or dying, she surely must be his! "Marion!" And then he was ashamed of himself, as he felt rather than heard that he had absolutely shouted her name aloud. On the following day he was with the Quaker in London, walking up and down Old Broad Street in front of the entrance leading up to Pogson and Littlebird's. "My dear friend," said the Quaker, "I do not say that it shall never be so. It is in the hands of the Almighty." Hampstead shook his head impatiently. "You do not doubt the power of the Almighty to watch over His creatures?" "I think that if a man wants a thing he must work for it." The Quaker looked him hard in the face. "In the ordinary needs of life, my young lord, the maxim is a good one." "It is good for everything. You tell me of the Almighty. Will the Almighty give me the girl I love if I sit still and hold my peace? Must I not work for that as for anything else?" "What can I do, Lord Hampstead?" "Agree with me that it will be better for her to run her chance. Say as I do that it cannot be right that she should condemn herself. If you,--you her father,--will bid her, then she will do it." "I do not know." "You can try with her;--if you think it right. You are her father." "Yes,--I am her father." "And she is obedient to you. You do not think that she should--? Eh?" "How am I to say? What am I to say else than that it is in God's hands? I am an old man who have suffered much. All have been taken from me;--all but she. How can I think of thy trouble when my own is so heavy?" "It is of her that we should think." "I cannot comfort her; I cannot control her. I will not even attempt to persuade her. She is all that I have. If I did think for a moment that I should like to see my child become the wife of one so high as thou art, that folly has been crushed out of me. To have my child alive would be enough for me now, let alone titles, and high places, and noble palaces." "Who has thought of them?" "I did. Not she,--my angel; my white one!" Hampstead shook his head and clenched his fist, shaking it, in utter disregard of the passers by, as the hot, fast tears streamed down his face. Could it be necessary that her name should be mentioned even in connection with feelings such as those which the Quaker owned. "Thou and I, my lord," continued Zachary Fay, "are in sore trouble about this maiden. I believe that thy love is, as mine, true, honest, and thorough. For her sake I wish I could give her to thee,--because of thy truth and honesty; not because of thy wealth and titles. But she is not mine to give. She is her own,--and will bestow her hand or refuse to do so as her own sense of what is best for thee may direct her. I will say no word to persuade her one way or the other." So speaking the Quaker strode quickly up the gateway, and Lord Hampstead was left to make his way back out of the City as best he might. CHAPTER IX. IN PARK LANE. On Monday, the 20th of April, Lady Frances returned to her father's roof. The winter had certainly not been a happy time for her. Early in the autumn she had been taken off to the German castle in great disgrace because of her plebeian lover, and had, ever since, been living under so dark a cloud, as to have been considered unfit for the companionship of those little darlings, the young lords, her half-brothers. She had had her way no doubt, never having for a moment wavered in her constancy to the Post Office clerk; but she had been assured incessantly by all her friends that her marriage with the man was impossible, and had no doubt suffered under the conviction that her friends were hostile to her. Now she might be happy. Now she was to be taken back to her father's house. Now she was to keep her lover, and not be held to have been disgraced at all. No doubt in this there was great triumph. But her triumph had been due altogether to an accident;--to what her father graciously called a romance, while her stepmother described it less civilly as a "marvellous coincidence, for which she ought to thank her stars on her bended knees." The accident,--or coincidence or romance as it might be called,--was, of course, her lover's title. Of this she was by no means proud, and would not at all thank her stars for it on her bended knees. Though she was happy in her lover's presence, her happiness was clouded by the feeling that she was imposing upon her father. She had been allowed to ask her lover to dine at Kingsbury House because her lover was supposed to be the Duca di Crinola. But the invitation had been sent under an envelope addressed to George Roden, Esq., General Post Office. No one had yet ventured to inscribe the Duke's name and title on the back of a letter. The Marchioness was assured by her sister that it would all come right, and had, therefore, submitted to have the young man asked to come and eat his dinner under the same roof with her darlings. But she did not quite trust her sister, and felt that after all it might become her imperative duty to gather her children together in her bosom, and fly with them from contact with the Post Office clerk,--the Post Office clerk who would not become a Duke. The Marquis himself was only anxious that everything should be made to be easy. He had, while at Trafford, been so tormented by Mr. Greenwood and his wife that he longed for nothing so much as a reconciliation with his daughter. He was told on very good authority,--on the authority of no less a person than the Secretary of State,--that this young man was the Duca di Crinola. There had been a romance, a very interesting romance; but the fact remained. The Post Office clerk was no longer George Roden, and would, he was assured, soon cease to be a Post Office clerk. The young man was in truth an Italian nobleman of the highest order, and as such was entitled to marry the daughter of an English nobleman. If it should turn out that he had been misinformed, that would not be his fault. So it was when George Roden came to dine at Kingsbury House. He himself at this moment was not altogether happy. The last words which Lady Persiflage had said to him at Castle Hautboy had disturbed him. "Would it be honest on your part," Lady Persiflage had asked him, "to ask her to abandon the rank which she will be entitled to expect from you?" He had not put the matter to himself in that light before. Lady Frances was entitled to as much consideration in the matter as was himself. The rank would be as much hers as his. And yet he couldn't do it. Not even for her sake could he walk into the Post Office and call himself the Duca di Crinola. Not even for her sake could he consent to live an idle, useless life as an Italian nobleman. Love was very strong with him, but with it there was a sense of duty and manliness which would make it impossible for him to submit himself to such thraldom. In doing it he would have to throw over all the strong convictions of his life. And yet he was about to sit as a guest at Lord Kingsbury's table, because Lord Kingsbury would believe him to be an Italian nobleman. He was not, therefore, altogether happy when he knocked at the Marquis's door. Hampstead had refused to join the party. He was not at present in a condition to join any social gathering. But, omitting him, a family party had been collected. Lord and Lady Persiflage were there, with Lady Amaldina and her betrothed. The Persiflages had taken the matter up very strongly, so that they may have been said to have become George Roden's special patrons or protectors. Lord Persiflage, who was seldom much in earnest about anything, had determined that the Duca di Crinola should be recognized, and was supposed already to have spoken a word on the subject in a very high quarter indeed. Vivian, the Private Secretary, was there. The poor Marquis himself was considered unable to come down into the dining-room, but did receive his proposed son-in-law up-stairs. They had not met since the unfortunate visit made by the Post Office clerk to Hendon Hall, when no one had as yet dreamed of his iniquity; nor had the Marchioness seen him since the terrible sound of that feminine Christian name had wounded her ears. The other persons assembled had in a measure become intimate with him. Lord Llwddythlw had walked round Castle Hautboy and discussed with him the statistics of telegraphy. Lady Amaldina had been confidential with him as to her own wedding. Both Lord and Lady Persiflage had given him in a very friendly manner their ideas as to his name and position. Vivian and he had become intimate personal friends. They could, all of them, accept him with open arms when he was shown into the drawing-room, except Lady Kingsbury herself. "No; I am not very well just at present," said the Marquis from his recumbent position as he languidly stretched out his hand. "You won't see me down at dinner. God knows whether anybody will ever see me down at dinner again." "Not see you down at dinner!" said Lord Persiflage. "In another month you will be talking treason in Pall Mall as you have done all your life." "I wish you had made Hampstead come with you, Mr.--" But the Marquis stopped himself, having been instructed that he was not on any account to call the young man Mr. Roden. "He was here this morning, but seemed to be in great trouble about something. He ought to come and take his place at the bottom of the table, seeing how ill I am;--but he won't." Lady Kingsbury waited until her husband had done his grumbling before she attempted the disagreeable task which was before her. It was very disagreeable. She was a bad hypocrite. There are women who have a special gift of hiding their dislikings from the objects of them, when occasion requires. They can smile and be soft, with bitter enmity in their hearts, to suit the circumstances of the moment. And as they do so, their faces will overcome their hearts, and their enmity will give way to their smiles. They will become almost friendly because they look friendly. They will cease to hate because hatred is no longer convenient. But the Marchioness was too rigid and too sincere for this. She could command neither her features nor her feelings. It was evident from the moment the young man entered the room, that she would be unable to greet him even with common courtesy. She hated him, and she had told every one there that she hated him. "How do you do?" she said, just touching his hand as soon as he was released from her husband's couch. She, too, had been specially warned by her sister that she must not call the young man by any name. If she could have addressed him by his title, her manner might perhaps have been less austere. "I am much obliged to you by allowing me to come here," said Roden, looking her full in the face, and making his little speech in such a manner as to be audible to all the room. It was as though he had declared aloud his intention of accepting this permission as conveying much more than a mere invitation to dinner. Her face became harder and more austere than ever. Then finding that she had nothing more to say to him she seated herself and held her peace. Only that Lady Persiflage was very unlike her sister, the moment would have been awkward for them all. Poor Fanny, who was sitting with her hand within her father's, could not find a word to say on the occasion. Lord Persiflage, turning round upon his heel, made a grimace to his Private Secretary. Llwddythlw would willingly have said something pleasant on the occasion had he been sufficiently ready. As it was he stood still, with his hands in his trousers pockets and his eyes fixed on the wall opposite. According to his idea the Marchioness was misbehaving herself. "Dear Aunt Clara," said Lady Amaldina, trying to say something that might dissipate the horror of the moment, "have you heard that old Sir Gregory Tollbar is to marry Letitia Tarbarrel at last?" But it was Lady Persiflage who really came to the rescue. "Of course we're all very glad to see you," she said. "You'll find that if you'll be nice to us, we'll all be as nice as possible to you. Won't we, Lord Llwddythlw?" "As far as I am concerned," said the busy Member of Parliament, "I shall be delighted to make the acquaintance of Mr. Roden." A slight frown, a shade of regret, passed over the face of Lady Persiflage as she heard the name. A darker and bitterer cloud settled itself on Lady Kingsbury's brow. Lord Kingsbury rolled himself uneasily on his couch. Lady Amaldina slightly pinched her lover's arm. Lord Persiflage was almost heard to whistle. Vivian tried to look as if it didn't signify. "I am very much obliged to you for your courtesy, Lord Llwddythlw," said George Roden. To have called him by his name was the greatest favour that could have been done to him at that moment. Then the door was opened and dinner announced. "Time and the hour run through the roughest day." In this way that dinner at Kingsbury House did come to an end at last. There was a weight of ill-humour about Lady Kingsbury on this special occasion against which even Lady Persiflage found it impossible to prevail. Roden, whose courage rose to the occasion, did make a gallant effort to talk to Lady Frances, who sat next to him. But the circumstances were hard upon him. Everybody else in the room was closely connected with everybody else. Had he been graciously accepted by the mistress of the house, he could have fallen readily enough into the intimacies which would then have been opened to him. But as it was he was forced to struggle against the stream, and so to struggle as to seem not to struggle. At last, however, time and the hour had done its work, and the ladies went up to the drawing-room. "Lord Llwddythlw called him Mr. Roden!" This was said by the Marchioness in a tone of bitter reproach as soon as the drawing-room door was closed. "I was so sorry," said Lady Amaldina. "It does not signify in the least," said Lady Persiflage. "It cannot be expected that a man should drop his old name and take a new one all in a moment." "He will never drop his old name and take the new one," said Lady Frances. "There now," said the Marchioness. "What do you think of that, Geraldine?" "My dear Fanny," said Lady Persiflage, without a touch of ill-nature in her tone, "how can you tell what a young man will do?" "I don't think it right to deceive Mamma," said Fanny. "I know him well enough to be quite sure that he will not take the title, as he has no property to support it. He has talked it over with me again and again, and I agree with him altogether." "Upon my word, Fanny, I didn't think that you would be so foolish," said her aunt. "This is a kind of thing in which a girl should not interfere at all. It must be arranged between the young man's uncle in Italy, and--and the proper authorities here. It must depend very much upon--." Here Lady Persiflage reduced her words to the very lowest whisper. "Your uncle has told me all about it, and of course he must know better than any one else. It's a kind of thing that must be settled for a man by,--by--by those who know how to settle it. A man can't be this or that just as he pleases." "Of course not," said Lady Amaldina. "A man has to take the name, my dear, which he inherits. I could not call myself Mrs. Jones any more than Mrs. Jones can call herself Lady Persiflage. If he is the Duca di Crinola he must be the Duca di Crinola." "But he won't be Duca di Crinola," said Lady Frances. "There now!" said the Marchioness. "If you will only let the matter be settled by those who understand it, and not talk about it just at present, it would be so much better." "You heard what Lord Llwddythlw called him," said the Marchioness. "Llwddythlw always was an oaf," said Amaldina. "He meant to be gracious," said Fanny; "and I am much obliged to him." "And as to what you were saying, Fanny, as to having nothing to support the title, a foreign title in that way is not like one here at home. Here it must be supported." "He would never consent to be burdened with a great name without any means," said Fanny. "There are cases in which a great name will help a man to get means. Whatever he calls himself, I suppose he will have to live, and maintain a wife." "He has his salary as a clerk in the Post Office," said Fanny very boldly. Amaldina shook her head sadly. The Marchioness clasped her hands together and raised her eyes to the ceiling with a look of supplication. Were not her darlings to be preserved from such contamination? "He can do better than that, my dear," exclaimed Lady Persiflage; "and, if you are to be his wife, I am sure that you will not stand in the way of his promotion. His own Government and ours between them will be able to do something for him as Duca di Crinola, whereas nothing could be done for George Roden." "The English Government is his Government," said Fanny indignantly. "One would almost suppose that you want to destroy all his prospects," said Lady Persiflage, who was at last hardly able to restrain her anger. "I believe she does," said the Marchioness. In the mean time the conversation was carried on below stairs, if with less vigour, yet perhaps with more judgment. Lord Persiflage spoke of Roden's Italian uncle as a man possessing intellectual gifts and political importance of the highest order. Roden could not deny that the Italian Cabinet Minister was his uncle, and was thus driven to acknowledge the family, and almost to acknowledge the country. "From what I hear," said Lord Persiflage, "I suppose you would not wish to reside permanently in Italy, as an Italian?" "Certainly not," said Roden. "There is no reason why you should. I can imagine that you should have become too confirmed an Englishman to take kindly to Italian public life as a career. You could hardly do so except as a follower of your uncle, which perhaps would not suit you." "It would be impossible." "Just so. D'Ossi was saying to me this morning that he thought as much. But there is no reason why a career should not be open to you here as well as there;--not political perhaps, but official." "It is the only career that at present is open to me." "There might be difficulty about Parliament certainly. My advice to you is not to be in a hurry to decide upon anything for a month or two. You will find that things will shake down into their places." Not a word was said about the name or title. When the gentlemen went up-stairs there had been no brilliancy of conversation, but neither were there any positive difficulties to be incurred. Not a word further was said in reference to "George Roden" or to the "Duca di Crinola." CHAPTER X. AFTER ALL HE ISN'T. Six weeks passed by, and nothing special had yet been done to arrange George Roden's affairs for him in the manner suggested by Lady Persiflage. "It's a kind of thing that must be settled for a man by, by, by--those who know how to settle it." That had been her counsel when she was advocating delay. No doubt "things" often do arrange themselves better than men or women can arrange them. Objections which were at first very strong gradually fade away. Ideas which were out of the question become possible. Time quickly renders words and names and even days habitual to us. In this Lady Persiflage had not been unwise. It was quite probable that a young man should become used to a grand name quicker than he had himself expected. But nothing had as yet been done in the right direction when the 1st of June had come. Attempts had been made towards increasing the young man's self-importance, of which he himself had been hardly aware. Lord Persiflage had seen Sir Boreas Bodkin, and Vivian had seen the private secretary of the Postmaster-General. As the first result of these interviews our clerk was put to sit in a room by himself, and called upon to manage some separate branch of business in which he was free from contact with the Crockers and Bobbins of the Department. It might, it was thought, be possible to call a man a Duke who sat in a separate room, even though he were still a clerk. But, as Sir Boreas had observed, there were places to be given away, Secretaryships, Inspectorships, Surveyorships, and suchlike, into one of which the Duke, if he would consent to be a Duke, might be installed before long. The primary measure of putting him into a room by himself had already been carried out. Then a step was taken, of which George Roden had ground to complain. There was a certain Club in London called the Foreigners, made up half of Englishmen and half of men of other nations, which was supposed to stand very high in the world of fashion. Nearly every member was possessed of either grand titles before his name, or of grand letters after it. Something was said by Vivian to George Roden as to this club. But no actual suggestion was made, and certainly no assent was given. Nevertheless the name of the Duca di Crinola was put down in the Candidate Book, as proposed by Baron d'Ossi and seconded by Lord Persiflage. There it was, so that all the world would declare that the young "Duca" was the "Duca." Otherwise the name would not have been inserted there by the Italian Minister and British Secretary of State. Whereas George Roden himself knew nothing about it. In this way attempts were made to carry out that line of action which Lady Persiflage had recommended. Letters, too, were delivered to Roden, addressed to the Duca di Crinola, both at Holloway and at the Post Office. No doubt he refused them when they came. No doubt they generally consisted of tradesmen's circulars, and were probably occasioned by manoeuvres of which Lady Persiflage herself was guilty. But they had the effect of spreading abroad the fact that George Roden was George Roden no longer, but was the Duca di Crinola. "There's letters coming for the Duker every day," said the landlady of the Duchess to Mrs. Duffer of Paradise Row. "I see them myself. I shan't stand on any p's and q's. I shall call him Duker to his face." Paradise Row determined generally to call him Duker to his face, and did so frequently, to his great annoyance. Even his mother began to think that his refusal would be in vain. "I don't see how you're to stand out against it, George. Of course if it wasn't so you'd have to stand out against it; but as it is the fact--" "It is no more a fact with me than with you," he said angrily. "Nobody dreams of giving me a title. If all the world agrees, you will have to yield." Sir Boreas was as urgent. He had always been very friendly with the young clerk, and had now become particularly intimate with him. "Of course, my dear fellow," he said, "I shall be guided entirely by yourself." "Thank you, sir." "If you tell me you're George Roden, George Roden you'll be to me. But I think you're wrong. And I think moreover that the good sense of the world will prevail against you. As far as I understand anything of the theory of titles, this title belongs to you. The world never insists on calling a man a Lord or a Count for nothing. There's too much jealousy for that. But when a thing is so, people choose that it shall be so." All this troubled him, though it did not shake his convictions. But it made him think again and again of what Lady Persiflage had said to him down at Castle Hautboy. "Will it be honest on your part to ask her to abandon the rank which she will be entitled to expect from you?" If all the world conspired to tell him that he was entitled to take this name, then the girl whom he intended to marry would certainly be justified in claiming it. It undoubtedly was the fact that titles such as these were dear to men,--and specially dear to women. As to this girl, who was so true to him, was he justified in supposing that she would be different from others, simply because she was true to him? He had asked her to come down as it were from the high pedestal of her own rank, and to submit herself to his lowly lot. She had consented, and there never had been to him a moment of remorse in thinking that he was about to injure her. But as Chance had brought it about in this way, as Fortune had seemed determined to give back to her that of which he would have deprived her, was it right that he should stand in the way of Fortune? Would it be honest on his part to ask her to abandon these fine names which Chance was putting in her way? That it might be so, should he be pleased to accept what was offered to him, did become manifest to him. It was within his power to call himself and to have himself called by this new name. It was not only the party of the Crockers. Others now were urgent in persuading him. The matter had become so far customary to him as to make him feel that if he would simply put the name on his card, and cause it to be inserted in the Directories, and write a line to the officials saying that for the future he would wish to be so designated, the thing would be done. He had met Baron D'Ossi, and the Baron had acknowledged that an Englishman could not be converted into an Italian Duke without his own consent,--but had used very strong arguments to show that in this case the Englishman ought to give his consent. The Baron had expressed his own opinion that the Signorina would be very much ill-used indeed if she were not allowed to take her place among the Duchessinas. His own personal feelings were in no degree mitigated. To be a Post Office clerk, living at Holloway, with a few hundreds a-year to spend,--and yet to be known all over the world as the claimant of a magnificently grand title! It seemed as though a cruel fate had determined to crush him with a terrible punishment because of his specially democratic views! That he of all the world should be selected to be a Duke in opposition to his own wishes! How often had he been heard to declare that all hereditary titles were, of their very nature, absurd! And yet he was to be forced to become a penniless hereditary Duke! Nevertheless he would not rob her whom he hoped to make his wife of that which would of right belong to her. "Fanny," he said to her one day, "you cannot conceive how many people are troubling me about this title." "I know they are troubling me. But I would not mind any of them;--only for papa." "Is he very anxious about it?" "I am afraid he is." "Have I ever told you what your aunt said to me just before I left Castle Hautboy?" "Lady Persiflage, you mean. She is not my aunt, you know." "She is more anxious than your father, and certainly uses the only strong argument I have heard." "Has she persuaded you?" "I cannot say that; but she has done something towards persuading me. She has made me half think that it may be my duty." "Then I suppose you will take the name," she said. "It shall depend entirely upon you. And yet I ought not to ask you. I ought to do as these people bid me without even troubling you for an expression of your wish. I do believe that when you become my wife, you will have as complete a right to the title as has Lady Kingsbury to hers. Shall it be so?" "No," she said. "It shall not?" "Certainly, no; if it be left to me." "Why do you answer in that way when all your friends desire it?" "Because I believe that there is one friend who does not desire it. If you can say that you wish it on your own account, of course I will yield. Otherwise all that my friends may say on the matter can have no effect on me. When I accepted the offer which you made me, I gave up all idea of rank. I had my reasons, which I thought to be strong enough. At any rate I did so, and now because of this accident I will not be weak enough to go back. As to what Lady Persiflage says about me, do not believe a word of it. You certainly will not make me happy by bestowing on me a name which you do not wish me to bear, and which will be distasteful to yourself." After this there was no longer any hesitation on Roden's part, though his friends, including Lord Persiflage, the Baron, Sir Boreas, and Crocker, were as active in their endeavours as ever. For some days he had doubted, but now he doubted no longer. They might address to him what letters they would, they might call him by what nickname they pleased, they might write him down in what book they chose, he would still keep the name of George Roden, as she had protested that she was satisfied with it. It was through Sir Boreas that he learnt that his name had been written down in the club Candidate Book as "Duca di Crinola." Sir Boreas was not a member of the club, but had heard what had been done, probably at some club of which he was a member. "I am glad to hear that you are coming up at the Foreigners," said Æolus. "But I am not." "I was told last night that Baron D'Ossi had put your name down as Duca di Crinola." Then Roden discovered the whole truth,--how the Baron had proposed him and the Foreign Secretary had seconded him, without even going through the ceremony of asking him. "Upon my word I understood that you wished it," Vivian said to him. Upon this the following note was written to the Foreign Secretary. Mr. Roden presents his compliments to Lord Persiflage, and begs to explain that there has been a misunderstanding about the Foreigners' Club. Mr. Roden feels very much the honour that has been done him, and is much obliged to Lord Persiflage; but as he feels himself not entitled to the honour of belonging to the club, he will be glad that his name should be taken off. Mr. Roden takes the opportunity of assuring Lord Persiflage that he does not and never will claim the name which he understands to have been inscribed in the club books. "He's a confounded ass," said Lord Persiflage to the Baron as he did as he was bid at the club. The Baron shrugged his shoulders, as though acknowledging that his young fellow-nobleman certainly was an ass. "There are men, Baron, whom you can't help, let you struggle ever so much. This man has had stuff enough in him to win for himself a very pretty girl with a good fortune and high rank, and yet he is such a fool that he won't let me put him altogether on his legs when the opportunity comes!" Not long after this Roden called at the house in Park Lane, and asked to see the Marquis. As he passed through the hall he met Mr. Greenwood coming very slowly down the stairs. The last time he had met the gentleman had been in that very house when the gentleman had received him on behalf of the Marquis. The Marquis had not condescended to see him, but had deputed his chaplain to give him whatever ignominious answer might be necessary to his audacious demand for the hand of Lady Frances. On that occasion Mr. Greenwood had been very imperious. Mr. Greenwood had taken upon himself almost the manners of the master of the house. Mr. Greenwood had crowed as though the dunghill had been his own. George Roden even then had not been abashed, having been able to remember through the interview that the young lady was on his side; but he had certainly been severely treated. He had wondered at the moment that such a man as Lord Kingsbury should confide so much of his family matters to such a man as Mr. Greenwood. Since then he had heard something of Mr. Greenwood's latter history from Lady Frances. Lady Frances had joined with her brother in disliking Mr. Greenwood, and all that Hampstead had said to her had been passed on to her lover. Since that last interview the position of the two men had been changed. The chaplain had been turned out of the establishment, and George Roden had been almost accepted into it as a son-in-law. As they met on the foot of the staircase, it was necessary that there should be some greeting. The Post Office clerk bowed very graciously, but Mr. Greenwood barely acknowledged the salutation. "There," said he to himself, as he passed on, "that's the young man that's done all the mischief. It's because such as he are allowed to make their way in among noblemen and gentlemen that England is going to the dogs." Nevertheless, when Mr. Greenwood had first consented to be an inmate of the present Lord Kingsbury's house, Lord Kingsbury had, in spite of his Order, entertained very liberal views. The Marquis was not in a good humour when Roden was shown into his room. He had been troubled by his late chaplain, and he was not able to bear such troubles easily. Mr. Greenwood had said words to him which had vexed him sorely, and these words had in part referred to his daughter and his daughter's lover. "No, I'm not very well," he said in answer to Roden's inquiries. "I don't think I ever shall be better. What is it about now?" "I have come, my lord," said Roden, "because I do not like to be here in your house under a false pretence." "A false pretence? What false pretence? I hate false pretences." "So do I." "What do you mean by a false pretence now?" "I fear that they have told you, Lord Kingsbury, that should you give me your daughter as my wife, you will give her to the Duca di Crinola." The Marquis, who was sitting in his arm-chair, shook his head from side to side, and moved his hands uneasily, but made no immediate reply. "I cannot quite tell, my lord, what your own ideas are, because we have never discussed the subject." "I don't want to discuss it just at present," said the Marquis. "But it is right that you should know that I do not claim the title, and never shall claim it. Others have done so on my behalf, but with no authority from me. I have no means to support the rank in the country to which it belongs; nor as an Englishman am I entitled to assume it here." "I don't know that you're an Englishman," said the Marquis. "People tell me that you're an Italian." "I have been brought up as an Englishman, and have lived as one for five-and-twenty years. I think it would be difficult now to rob me of my rights. Nobody, I fancy, will try. I am, and shall be, George Roden, as I always have been. I should not, of course, trouble you with the matter were it not that I am a suitor for your daughter's hand. Am I right in supposing that I have been accepted here by you in that light?" This was a question which the Marquis was not prepared to answer at the moment. No doubt the young man had been accepted. Lady Frances had been allowed to go down to Castle Hautboy to meet him as her lover. All the family had been collected to welcome him at the London mansion. The newspapers had been full of mysterious paragraphs in which the future happy bridegroom was sometimes spoken of as an Italian Duke and sometimes as an English Post Office clerk. "Of course he must marry her now," the Marquis had said to his wife, with much anger. "It's all your sister's doings," he had said to her again. He had in a soft moment given his affectionate blessing to his daughter in special reference to her engagement. He knew that he couldn't go back from it now, and had it been possible, would have been most unwilling to give his wife such a triumph. But yet he was not prepared to accept the Post Office clerk simply as a Post Office clerk. "I am sorry to trouble you at this moment, Lord Kingsbury, if you are not well." "I ain't well at all. I am very far from well. If you don't mind I'd rather not talk about it just at present. When I can see Hampstead, then, perhaps, things can be settled." As there was nothing further to be said George Roden took his leave. CHAPTER XI. "OF COURSE THERE WAS A BITTERNESS." It was not surprising that Lord Kingsbury should have been unhappy when Roden was shown up into his room, as Mr. Greenwood had been with him. Mr. Greenwood had called on the previous day, and had been refused admittance. He had then sent in an appeal, asking so piteously for an interview that the Marquis had been unable to repudiate it. Mr. Greenwood knew enough of letter-writing to be able to be effective on such an occasion. He had, he said, lived under the same roof with the Marquis for a quarter of a century. Though the positions of the two men in the world were so different they had lived together as friends. The Marquis throughout that long period had frequently condescended to ask the advice of his chaplain, and not unfrequently to follow it. After all this could he refuse to grant the favour of a last interview? He had found himself unable to refuse the favour. The interview had taken place, and consequently the Marquis had been very unhappy when George Roden was shown up into his room. The Rector of Appleslocombe was dead. The interview was commenced by a communication to that effect from Mr. Greenwood. The Marquis of course knew the fact,--had indeed already given the living away,--had not delayed a minute in giving it away because of some fear which still pressed upon him in reference to Mr. Greenwood. Nor did Mr. Greenwood expect to get the living,--or perhaps desire it. But he wished to have a grievance, and to be in possession of a subject on which he could begin to make his complaint. "You must have known, Mr. Greenwood, that I never intended it for you," said the Marquis. Mr. Greenwood, seated on the edge of his chair and rubbing his two hands together, declared that he had entertained hopes in that direction. "I don't know why you should, then. I never told you so. I never thought of it for a moment. I always meant to put a young man into it;--comparatively young." Mr. Greenwood shook his head and still rubbed his hands. "I don't know that I can do anything more for you." "It isn't much that you have done, certainly, Lord Kingsbury." "I have done as much as I intend to do," said the Marquis, rousing himself angrily. "I have explained all that by Mr. Roberts." "Two hundred a year after a quarter of a century!" Mr. Greenwood had in truth been put into possession of three hundred a year; but as one hundred of this came from Lord Hampstead it was not necessary to mention the little addition. "It is very wrong,--your pressing your way in here and talking to me about it at all." "After having expected the living for so many years!" "You had no right to expect it. I didn't promise it. I never thought of it for a moment. When you asked me I told you that it was out of the question. I never heard of such impertinence in all my life. I must ask you to go away and leave me, Mr. Greenwood." But Mr. Greenwood was not disposed to go away just yet. He had come there for a purpose, and he intended to go on with it. He was clearly resolved not to be frightened by the Marquis. He got up from his chair and stood looking at the Marquis, still rubbing his hands, till the sick man was almost frightened by the persistency of his silence. "What is it, Mr. Greenwood, that makes you stand thus? Do you not hear me tell you that I have got nothing more to say to you?" "Yes, my lord; I hear what you say." "Then why don't you go away? I won't have you stand there staring like that." He still shook his head. "Why do you stand there and shake your head?" "It must be told, my lord." "What must be told?" "The Marchioness!" "What do you mean, sir? What have you got to say?" "Would you wish to send for her ladyship?" "No; I wouldn't. I won't send for her ladyship at all. What has her ladyship got to do with it?" "She promised." "Promised what?" "Promised the living! She undertook that I should have Appleslocombe the moment it became vacant." "I don't believe a word of it." "She did. I don't think that her ladyship will deny it." It might have been so, certainly; and had there been no chance of truth in the statement he would hardly have been so ready to send for Lady Kingsbury. But had she done so the promise would amount to nothing. Though he was sick and wretched and weak, and in some matters afraid of his wife, there had been no moment of his life in which he would have given way to her on such a subject as this. "She promised it me,--for a purpose." "A purpose!" "For a purpose, my lord." "What purpose?" Mr. Greenwood went on staring and shaking his head and rubbing his hands, till the Marquis, awestruck and almost frightened, put out his hand towards the bell. But he thought of it again. He remembered himself that he had nothing to fear. If the man had anything to say about the Marchioness it might perhaps be better said without the presence of servants. "If you mean to say anything, say it. If not,--go. If you do neither one nor the other very quickly, I shall have you turned out of the house." "Turned out of the house?" "Certainly. If you have any threat to make, you had better make it in writing. You can write to my lawyers, or to me, or to Lord Hampstead, or to Mr. Roberts." "It isn't a threat. It is only a statement. She promised it me,--for a purpose." "I don't know what you mean by a purpose, Mr. Greenwood. I don't believe Lady Kingsbury made any such promise; but if she did it wasn't hers to promise. I don't believe it; but had she promised I should not be bound by it." "Not if you have not given it away?" "I have given it away, Mr. Greenwood." "Then I must suggest--" "Suggest what!" "Compensation, my lord. It will only be fair. You ask her ladyship. Her ladyship cannot intend that I should be turned out of your lordship's house with only two hundred a year, after what has passed between me and her ladyship." "What passed?" said the Marquis, absolutely rousing himself so as to stand erect before the other man. "I had rather, my lord, you should hear it from her ladyship." "What passed?" "There was all that about Lady Frances." "What about Lady Frances?" "Of course I was employed to do all that I could to prevent the marriage. You employed me yourself, my lord. It was you sent me down to see the young man, and explain to him how impertinent he was. It isn't my fault, Lord Kingsbury, if things have got themselves changed since then." "You think you ought to make a demand upon me because as my Chaplain you were asked to see a gentleman who called here on a delicate matter?" "It isn't that I am thinking about. If it had been only that I should have said nothing. You asked me what it was about, and I was obliged to remind you of one thing. What took place between me and her ladyship was, of course, much more particular; but it all began with your lordship. If you hadn't commissioned me I don't suppose her ladyship would ever have spoken to me about Lady Frances." "What is it all? Sit down;--won't you?--and tell it all like a man if you have got anything to tell." The Marquis, fatigued with his exertion, was forced to go back to his chair. Mr. Greenwood also sat down,--but whether or no like a man may be doubted. "Remember this, Mr. Greenwood, it does not become a gentleman to repeat what has been said to him in confidence,--especially not to repeat it to him or to them from whom it was intended to be kept secret. And it does not become a Christian to endeavour to make ill-blood between a husband and his wife. Now, if you have got anything to say, say it." Mr. Greenwood shook his head. "If you have got nothing to say, go away. I tell you fairly that I don't want to have you here. You have begun something like a threat, and if you choose to go on with it, you may. I am not afraid to hear you, but you must say it or go." Mr. Greenwood again shook his head. "I suppose you won't deny that her ladyship honoured me with a very close confidence." "I don't know anything about it." "Your lordship didn't know that her ladyship down at Trafford used to be talking to me pretty freely about Lord Hampstead and Lady Frances?" "If you have got anything to say, say it," screamed the Marquis. "Of course his lordship and her ladyship are not her ladyship's own children." "What has that got to do with it?" "Of course there was a bitterness." "What is that to you? I will hear nothing from you about Lady Kingsbury, unless you have to tell me of some claim to be made upon her. If there has been money promised you, and she acknowledges it, it shall be paid. Has there been any such promise?" Mr. Greenwood found it very difficult,--nay, quite impossible,--to say in accurate language that which he was desirous of explaining by dark hints. There had, he thought, been something of a compact between himself and the Marchioness. The Marchioness had desired something which she ought not to have desired, and had called upon the Chaplain for more than his sympathy. The Chaplain had been willing to give her more than his sympathy,--had at one time been almost willing to give her very much more. He might possibly, as he now felt, have misinterpreted her wishes. But he had certainly heard from her language so strong, in reference to her husband's children, that he had been justified in considering that it was intended to be secret. As a consequence of this he had been compelled to choose between the Marquis and the Marchioness. By becoming the confidential friend of the one he had necessarily become the enemy of the other. Then, as a further consequence, he was turned out of the house,--and, as he declared to himself, utterly ruined. Now in this there had certainly been much hardship, and who was to compensate him if not the Marquis? There certainly had been some talk about Appleslocombe during those moments of hot passion in which Lady Kingsbury had allowed herself to say such evil things of Lady Frances and Lord Hampstead. Whether any absolute promise had been given she would probably not now remember. There certainly had been a moment in which she had thought that her husband's life might possibly pass away before that of the old rector; and reference may have been made to the fact that had her own darling been the heir, the gift of the living would then have fallen into her own hands. Mr. Greenwood had probably thought more of some possible compensation for the living than of the living itself. He had no doubt endeavoured to frighten her ladyship into thinking that some mysterious debt was due to him, if not for services actually rendered, at any rate for extraordinary confidences. But before he had forced upon her the acknowledgment of the debt, he was turned out of the house! Now this he felt to be hard. What were two hundred a-year as a pension for a gentleman after such a life-long service? Was it to be endured that he should have listened for so many years to all the abominable politics of the Marquis, and to the anger and disappointment of the Marchioness, that he should have been so closely connected, and for so many years, with luxury, wealth, and rank, and then arrive at so poor an evening of his day? As he thought of this he felt the more ashamed of his misfortune, because he believed himself to be in all respects a stronger man than the Marquis. He had flattered himself that he could lead the Marquis, and had thought that he had been fairly successful in doing so. His life had been idle, luxurious, and full of comfort. The Marquis had allowed him to do pretty well what he pleased until in an evil hour he had taken the side of the Marchioness in a family quarrel. Then the Marquis, though weak in health,--almost to his death,--had suddenly become strong in purpose, and had turned him abruptly out of the house with a miserable stipend hardly fit for more than a butler! Could it be that he should put up with such usage, and allow the Marquis to escape unscathed out of his hand? In this condition of mind, he had determined that he owed it to himself to do or say something that should frighten his lordship into a more generous final arrangement. There had been, he said to himself again and again, such a confidence with a lady of so high a rank, that the owner of it ought not to be allowed to languish upon two or even upon three hundred a-year. If the whole thing could really be explained to the Marquis, the Marquis would probably see it himself. And to all this was to be added the fact that no harm had been done. The Marchioness owed him very much for having wished to assist her in getting rid of an heir that was disagreeable to her. The Marquis owed him more for not having done it. And they both owed him very much in that he had never said a word of it all to anybody else. He had thought that he might be clever enough to make the Marquis understand something of this without actually explaining it. That some mysterious promise had been made, and that, as the promise could not be kept, some compensation should be awarded,--this was what he had desired to bring home to the mind of the Marquis. He had betrayed no confidence. He intended to betray none. He was very anxious that the Marquis should be aware, that as he, Mr. Greenwood, was a gentleman, all confidences would be safe in his hands; but then the Marquis ought to do his part of the business, and not turn his confidential Chaplain out of the house after a quarter of a century with a beggarly annuity of two hundred a-year! But the Marquis seemed to have acquired unusual strength of character; and Mr. Greenwood found that words were very difficult to be found. He had declared that there had been "a bitterness," and beyond that he could not go. It was impossible to hint that her ladyship had wished to have Lord Hampstead--removed. The horrid thoughts of a few days had become so vague to himself that he doubted whether there had been any real intention as to the young lord's removal even in his own mind. There was nothing more that he could say than this,--that during the period of this close intimacy her ladyship had promised to him the living of Appleslocombe, and that, as that promise could not be kept, some compensation should be made to him. "Was any sum of money named?" asked the Marquis. "Nothing of the kind. Her ladyship thought that I ought to have the living." "You can't have it; and there's an end of it." "And you think that nothing should be done for me?" "I think that nothing should be done for you more than has been done." "Very well. I am not going to tell secrets that have been intrusted to me as a gentleman, even though I am so badly used by those who have confided them to me. Her ladyship is safe with me. Because I sympathized with her ladyship your lordship turned me out of the house." "No; I didn't." "Should I have been treated like this had I not taken her ladyship's part? I am too noble to betray a secret, or, no doubt, I could compel your lordship to behave to me in a very different manner. Yes, my lord, I am quite ready to go now. I have made my appeal, and I have made it in vain. I have no wish to call upon her ladyship. As a gentleman I am bound to give her ladyship no unnecessary trouble." While this last speech was going on a servant had come into the room, and had told the Marquis that the "Duca di Crinola" was desirous of seeing him. The servants in the establishment were of course anxious to recognize Lady Frances' lover as an Italian Duke. The Marquis would probably have made some excuse for not receiving the lover at this moment, had he not felt that he might in this way best insure the immediate retreat of Mr. Greenwood. Mr. Greenwood went, and Roden was summoned to Lord Kingsbury's presence; but the meeting took place under circumstances which naturally made the Marquis incapable of entering at the moment with much spirit on the great "Duca" question. CHAPTER XII. LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MRS. RODEN. Weeks had passed by since Lord Hampstead had walked up and down Broad Street with Mr. Fay,--weeks which were to him a period of terrible woe. His passion for Marion had so seized upon him, that it had in all respects changed his life. The sorrow of her alleged ill-health had fallen upon him before the hunting had been over, but from that moment he had altogether forgotten his horses. The time had now come in which he was wont to be on board his yacht, but of his yacht he took no notice whatever. "I can tell you nothing about it as yet," he said in the only line which he wrote to his skipper in answer to piteous applications made to him. None of those who were near and dear to him knew how he passed his time. His sister left him and went up to the house in London, and he felt that her going was a relief to him. He would not even admit his friend Roden to come to him in his trouble. He spent his days all alone at Hendon, occasionally going across to Holloway in order that he might talk of his sorrow to Mrs. Roden. Midsummer had come upon him before he again saw the Quaker. Marion's father had left a feeling almost of hostility in his mind in consequence of that conversation in Broad Street. "I no longer want anything on your behalf," the Quaker had seemed to say. "I care nothing now for your name, or your happiness. I am anxious only for my child, and as I am told that it will be better that you should not see her, you must stay away." That the father should be anxious for his daughter was natural enough. Lord Hampstead could not quarrel with Zachary Fay. But he taught himself to think that their interests were at variance with each other. As for Marion, whether she were ill or whether she were well, he would have had her altogether to himself. Gradually there had come upon him the conviction that there was a real barrier existing between himself and the thing that he desired. To Marion's own words, while they had been spoken only to himself, he had given no absolute credit. He had been able to declare to her that her fears were vain, and that whether she were weak or whether she were strong, it was her duty to come to him. When they two had been together his arguments and assurances had convinced at any rate himself. The love which he had seen in her eyes and had heard from her lips had been so sweet to him, that their savour had overcome whatever strength her words possessed. But these protestations, these assurances that no marriage could be possible, when they reached him second-hand, as they had done through his sister and through the Quaker, almost crushed him. He did not dare to tell them that he would fain marry the girl though she were dying,--that he would accept any chance or no chance, if he might only be allowed to hold her in his arms, and tell her that she was all his own. There had come a blow, he would say to himself, again and again, as he walked about the grounds at Hendon, there had come a blow, a fatal blow, a blow from which there could be no recovery,--but, still, it should, it ought, to be borne together. He would not admit to himself that because of this verdict there ought to be a separation between them two. It might be that the verdict had been uttered by a Judge against whom there could be no appeal; but even the Judge should not be allowed to say that Marion Fay was not his own. Let her come and die in his arms if she must die. Let her come and have what of life there might be left to her, warmed and comforted and perhaps extended by his love. It seemed to him to be certainly a fact, that because of his great love, and of hers, she did already belong to him; and yet he was told that he might not see her;--that it would be better that she should not be disturbed by his presence,--as though he were no more than a stranger to her. Every day he almost resolved to disregard them, and go down to the little cottage in which she was living. But then he remembered the warnings which were given to him, and was aware that he had in truth no right to intrude upon the Quaker's household. It is not to be supposed that during this time he had no intercourse with Marion. At first there came to be a few lines, written perhaps once a week from her, in answer to many lines written by him; but by degrees the feeling of awe which at first attached itself to the act of writing to him wore off, and she did not let a day pass without sending him some little record of herself and her doings. It had come to be quite understood by the Quaker that Marion was to do exactly as she pleased with her lover. No one dreamed of hinting to her that this correspondence was improper or injurious. Had she herself expressed a wish to see him, neither would the Quaker nor Mrs. Roden have made strong objection. To whatever might have been her wish or her decision they would have acceded. It was by her word that the marriage had been declared to be impossible. It was in obedience to her that he was to keep aloof. She had failed to prevail with her own soft words, and had therefore been driven to use the authority of others. But at this period, though she did become weaker and weaker from day to day, and though the doctor's attendance was constant at the cottage, Marion herself was hardly unhappy. She grieved indeed for his grief; but, only for that, there would have been triumph and joy to her rather than grief. The daily writing of these little notes was a privilege to her and a happiness, of which she had hitherto known nothing. To have a lover, and such a lover, was a delight to her, a delight to which there was now hardly any drawback, as there was nothing now of which she need be afraid. To have him with her as other girls may have their lovers, she knew was impossible to her. But to read his words, and to write loving words to him, to talk to him of his future life, and bid him think of her, his poor Marion, without allowing his great manly heart to be filled too full with vain memories, was in truth happiness to her. "Why should you want to come?" she said. "It is infinitely better that you should not come. We understand it all now, and acknowledge what it is that the Lord has done for us. It would not have been good for me to be your wife. It would not have been good for you to have become my husband. But it will I think be good for me to have loved you; and if you will learn to think of it as I do, it will not have been bad for you. It has given a beauty to my life," she said, "which makes me feel that I ought to be contented to die early. If I could have had a choice I would have chosen it so." But these teachings from her had no effect whatever upon him. It was her idea that she would pass away, and that there would remain with him no more than a fair sweet shade which would have but little effect upon his future life beyond that of creating for him occasionally a gentle melancholy. It could not be, she thought, that for a man such as he,--for one so powerful and so great,--such a memory should cause a lasting sorrow. But with him, to his thinking, to his feeling, the lasting biting sorrow was there already. There could be no other love, no other marriage, no other Marion. He had heard that his stepmother was anxious for her boy. The way should be open for the child. It did seem to him that a life, long continued, would be impossible to him when Marion should have been taken away from him. "Oh yes;--he's there again," said Miss Demijohn to her aunt. "He comes mostly on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. What he can be coming about is more than I can guess. Crocker says it's all true love. Crocker says that the Duca says--" "Bother the Duca," exclaimed the old woman. "I don't believe that Crocker and George Roden ever exchange a word together." "Why shouldn't they exchange words, and they fast friends of five years' standing? Crocker says as Lord Hampstead is to be at Lady Amaldina's wedding in August. His lordship has promised. And Crocker thinks--" "I don't believe very much about Crocker, my young woman. You had better look to yourself, or, perhaps, you'll find when you have got yourself married that Crocker has not got a roof to cover you." Lord Hampstead had walked over to Paradise Row, and was seated with Mrs. Roden when this little squabble was going on. "You don't think that I ought to let things remain as they are," he said to Mrs. Roden. To all such questions Mrs. Roden found it very difficult to make any reply. She did in truth think that they ought to be allowed to remain as they were,--or rather that some severance should be made more decided even than that which now existed. Putting aside her own ideas, she was quite sure that Marion would not consent to a marriage. And, as it was so, and must be so, it was better, she thought, that the young people should see no more of each other. This writing of daily letters,--what good could it do to either of them? To her indeed, to Marion, with her fixed purpose, and settled religious convictions, and almost certain fate, little evil might be done. But to Lord Hampstead the result would be, and was, terribly pernicious. He was sacrificing himself, not only as Mrs. Roden thought for the present moment, but for many years perhaps,--perhaps for his future life,--to a hopeless passion. A cloud was falling upon him which might too probably darken his whole career. From the day on which she had unfortunately taken Marion to Hendon Hall, she had never ceased to regret the acquaintance which she had caused. To her thinking the whole affair had been unfortunate. Between people so divided there should have been no intimacy, and yet this intimacy had been due to her. "It is impossible that I should not see her," continued Lord Hampstead. "I will see her." "If you would see her, and then make up your mind to part with her,--that I think would be good." "To see her, and say farewell to her for ever?" "Yes, my lord." "Certainly not. That I will never do. If it should come to pass that she must go from me for ever, I would have her in my arms to the very last!" "At such a moment, my lord, those whom nature has given to her for her friends--" "Has not nature given me too for her friend? Can any friend love her more truly than I do? Those should be with us when we die to whom our life is of most importance. Is there any one to whom her life can be half as much as it is to me? The husband is the dearest to his wife. When I look upon her as going from me for ever, then may I not say that she is the same to me as my wife." "Why--why,--why?" "I know what you mean, Mrs. Roden. What is the use of asking 'why' when the thing is done? Could I make it so now, as though I had never seen her? Could I if I would? Would I if I could? What is the good of thinking of antecedents which are impossible? She has become my treasure. Whether past and fleeting, or likely to last me for my life, she is my treasure. Can I make a change because you ask why,--and why,--and why? Why did I ever come here? Why did I know your son? Why have I got a something here within me which kills me when I think that I shall be separated from her, and yet crowns me with glory when I feel that she has loved me. If she must leave me, I have to bear it. What I shall do, where I shall go, whether I shall stand or fall, I do not pretend to say. A man does not know, himself, of what stuff he is made, till he has been tried. But whatever may be my lot, it cannot be altered by any care or custody now. She is my own, and I will not be separated from her. If she were dead, I should know that she was gone. She would have left me, and I could not help myself. As yet she is living, and may live, and I will be with her. I must go to her there, or she must come here to me. If he will permit it I will take some home for myself close to hers. What will it matter now, though every one should know it? Let them all know it. Should she live she will become mine. If she must go,--what will the world know but that I have lost her who was to have been my wife?" Even Mrs. Roden had not the heart to tell him that he had seen Marion for the last time. It would have been useless to tell him so, for he would not have obeyed the behest contained in such an assertion. Ideas of prudence and ideas of health had restrained him hitherto,--but he had been restrained only for a time. No one had dared suggest to him that he should never again see his Marion. "I suppose that we must ask Mr. Fay," she replied. She was herself more powerful than the Quaker, as she was well aware; but it had become necessary to her to say something. "Mr. Fay has less to say to it even than I have," said Hampstead. "My belief is that Marion herself is the only one among us who is strong. If it were not that she is determined, he would yield and you would yield." "Who can know as she knows?" said Mrs. Roden. "Which among us is so likely to be guided by what is right? Which is so pure, and honest, and loving? Her conscience tells her what is best." "I am not sure of that," said he. "Her conscience may fill her as well as another with fears that are unnecessary. I cannot think that a girl should be encouraged by those around her to doom herself after this fashion. Who has a right to say that God has determined that she shall die early?" Mrs. Roden shook her head. "I am not going to teach others what religion demands, but to me it seems that we should leave these things in God's hands. That she may doubt as to herself may be natural enough, but others should not have encouraged her." "You mean me, my lord?" "You must not be angry with me, Mrs. Roden. The matter to me is so vital that I have to say what I think about it. It does seem to me that I am kept away from her, whereas, by all the ties which can bind a man and a woman together, I ought to be with her. Forms and ceremonies seem to sink to nothing, when I think of all she is to me, and remember that I am told that she is soon to be taken away from me." "How would it be if she had a mother?" "Why should her mother refuse my love for her daughter? But she has no mother. She has a father who has accepted me. I do believe that had the matter been left wholly to him, Marion would now be my wife." "I was away, my lord, in Italy." "I will not be so harsh to such a friend as you, as to say that I wish you had remained there; but I feel,--I cannot but feel--" "My lord, I think the truth is that you hardly know how strong in such a matter as this our Marion herself can be. Neither have I nor has her father prevailed upon her. I can go back now, and tell you without breach of confidence all that passed between her and me. When first your name was discussed between us; when first I saw that you seemed to make much of her--" "Make much of her!" exclaimed Hampstead, angrily. "Yes; make much of her! When first I thought that you were becoming fond of her." "You speak as though there had been some idle dallying. Did I not worship her? Did I not pour out my whole heart into her lap from the first moment in which I saw her? Did I hide it even from you? Was there any pretence, any falsehood?" "No, indeed." "Do not say that I made much of her. The phrase is vile. When she told me that she loved me, she made much of me." "When first you showed us that you loved her," she continued, "I feared that it would not be for good." "Why should it not be for good?" "I will not speak of that now, but I thought so. I thought so, and I told my thoughts to Marion." "You did?" "I did;--and I think that in doing so, I did no more than my duty to a motherless girl. Of the reasons which I gave to her I will say nothing now. Her reasons were so much stronger, that mine were altogether unavailing. Her resolutions were built on so firm a rock, that they needed no persuasions of mine to strengthen them. I had ever known Marion to be pure, unselfish, and almost perfect. But I had never before seen how high she could rise, how certainly she could soar above all weakness and temptation. To her there was never a moment of doubt. She knew from the very first that it could not be so." "It shall be so," he said, jumping up from his chair, and flinging up his arms. "It was not I who persuaded her, or her father. Even you cannot persuade her. Having convinced herself that were she to marry you, she would injure you, not all her own passionate love will induce her to accept the infinite delight of yielding to you. What may be best for you;--that is present to her mind, and nothing else. On that her heart is fixed, and so clear is her judgment respecting it, that she will not allow the words of any other to operate on her for a moment. Marion Fay, Lord Hampstead, is infinitely too great to have been persuaded in any degree by me." * * * * * * Nevertheless Mrs. Roden did allow herself to say that in her opinion the lover should be allowed to see his mistress. She herself would go to Pegwell Bay, and endeavour to bring Marion back to Holloway. That Lord Hampstead should himself go down and spend his long hours at the little seaside place did not seem to her to be fitting. But she promised that she would do her best to arrange at any rate another meeting in Paradise Row. CHAPTER XIII. LORD HAMPSTEAD AGAIN WITH MARION. The Quaker had become as weak as water in his daughter's hands. To whatever she might have desired he would have given his assent. He went daily up from Pegwell Bay to Pogson and Littlebird's, but even then he was an altered man. It had been said there for a few days that his daughter was to become the wife of the eldest son of the Marquis of Kingsbury, and then it had been said that there could be no such marriage--because of Marion's health. The glory while it lasted he had borne meekly, but with a certain anxious satisfaction. The pride of his life had been in Marion, and this young lord's choice had justified his pride. But the glory had been very fleeting. And now it was understood through all Pogson and Littlebird's that their senior clerk had been crushed, not by the loss of his noble son-in-law, but by the cause which produced the loss. Under these circumstances poor Zachary Fay had hardly any will of his own, except to do that which his daughter suggested to him. When she told him that she would wish to go up to London for a few days, he assented as a matter of course. And when she explained that she wished to do so in order that she might see Lord Hampstead, he only shook his head sadly, and was silent. "Of course I will come as you wish it," Marion had said in her letter to her lover. "What would I not do that you wish,--except when you wish things that you know you ought not? Mrs. Roden says that I am to go up to be lectured. You mustn't be very hard upon me. I don't think you ought to ask me to do things which you know,--which you know that I cannot do. Oh, my lover! oh, my love! would that it were all over, and that you were free!" In answer to this, and to other letters of the kind, he wrote to her long argumentative epistles, in which he strove to repress the assurances of his love, in order that he might convince her the better by the strength of his reasoning. He spoke to her of the will of God, and of the wickedness of which she would be guilty if she took upon herself to foretell the doings of Providence. He said much of the actual bond by which they had tied themselves together in declaring their mutual love. He endeavoured to explain to her that she could not be justified in settling such a question for herself without reference to the opinion of those who must know the world better than she did. Had the words of a short ceremony been spoken, she would have been bound to obey him as her husband. Was she not equally bound now, already, to acknowledge his superiority,--and if not by him, was it not her manifest duty to be guided by her father? Then at the end of four carefully-written, well-stuffed pages, there would come two or three words of burning love. "My Marion, my self, my very heart!" It need hardly be said that as the well-stuffed pages went for nothing with Marion,--had not the least effect towards convincing her, so were the few words the very food on which she lived. There was no absurdity in the language of love that was not to her a gem so brilliant that it deserved to be garnered in the very treasure house of her memory! All those long useless sermons were preserved because they had been made rich and rare by the expression of his passion. She understood him, and valued him at the proper rate, and measured him correctly in everything. He was so true, she knew him to be so true, that even his superlatives could not be other than true! But as for his reasoning, she knew that that came also from his passion. She could not argue the matter out with him, but he was wrong in it all. She was not bound to listen to any other voice but that of her own conscience. She was bound not to subject him to the sorrows which would attend him were he to become her husband. She could not tell how weak or how strong might be his nature in bearing the burden of the grief which would certainly fall upon him at her death. She had heard, and had in part seen, that time does always mitigate the weight of that burden. Perhaps it might be best that she should go at once, so that no prolonged period of his future career should be injured by his waiting. She had begun to think that he would be unable to look for another wife while she lived. By degrees there came upon her the full conviction of the steadfastness, nay, of the stubbornness, of his heart. She had been told that men were not usually like that. When first he had become sweet to her, she had not thought that he would have been like that. Was it not almost unmanly,--or rather was it not womanly? And yet he,--strong and masterful as he was,--could he have aught of a woman's weakness about him? Could she have dreamed that it would be so from the first, she thought that from the very first she could have abstained. "Of course I shall be at home on Tuesday at two. Am I not at home every day at all hours? Mrs. Roden shall not be there as you do not wish it, though Mrs. Roden has always been your friend. Of course I shall be alone. Papa is always in the City. Good to you! Of course I shall be good to you! How can I be bad to the one being that I love better than all the world? I am always thinking of you; but I do wish that you would not think so much of me. A man should not think so much of a girl,--only just at his spare moments. I did not think that it would be like that when I told you that you might love me." All that Tuesday morning, before he left home, he was not only thinking of her, but trying to marshal in order what arguments he might use,--so as to convince her at last. He did not at all understand how utterly fruitless his arguments had been with her. When Mrs. Roden had told him of Marion's strength he had only in part believed her. In all matters concerning the moment Marion was weak and womanly before him. When he told her that this or the other thing was proper and becoming, she took it as Gospel because it came from him. There was something of the old awe even when she looked up into his face. Because he was a great nobleman, and because she was the Quaker's daughter, there was still, in spite of their perfect love, something of superiority, something of inferiority of position. It was natural that he should command,--natural that she should obey. How could it be then that she should not at last obey him in this great thing which was so necessary to him? And yet hitherto he had never gone near to prevailing with her. Of course he marshalled all his arguments. Gentle and timid as she was, she had made up her mind to everything, even down to the very greeting with which she would receive him. His first warm kiss had shocked her. She had thought of it since, and had told herself that no harm could come to her from such tokens of affection,--that it would be unnatural were she to refuse it to him. Let it pass by as an incident that should mean nothing. To hang upon his neck and to feel and to know that she was his very own,--that might not be given to her. To hear his words of love and to answer him with words as warm,--that could be allowed to her. As for the rest, it would be better that she should let it so pass by that there need be as little of contention as possible on a matter so trivial. When he came into the room he took her at once, passive and unresisting, into his arms. "Marion," he said. "Marion! Do you say that you are ill? You are as bright as a rose." "Rose leaves soon fall. But we will not talk about that. Why go to such a subject?" "It cannot be helped." He still held her by the waist, and now again he kissed her. There was something in her passive submission which made him think at the moment that she had at last determined to yield to him altogether. "Marion, Marion," he said, still holding her in his embrace, "you will be persuaded by me? You will be mine now?" Gradually,--very gently,--she contrived to extricate herself. There must be no more of it, or his passion would become too strong for her. "Sit down, dearest," she said. "You flurry me by all this. It is not good that I should be flurried." "I will be quiet, tame, motionless, if you will only say the one word to me. Make me understand that we are not to be parted, and I will ask for nothing else." "Parted! No, I do not think that we shall be parted." "Say that the day shall come when we may really be joined together; when--" "No, dear; no; I cannot say that. I cannot alter anything that I have said before. I cannot make things other than they are. Here we are, we two, loving each other with all our hearts, and yet it may not be. My dear, dear lord!" She had never even yet learned another name for him than this. "Sometimes I ask myself whether it has been my fault." She was now sitting, and he was standing over her, but still holding her by the hand. "There has been no fault. Why should either have been in fault?" "When there is so great a misfortune there must generally have been a fault. But I do not think there has been any here. Do not misunderstand me, dear. The misfortune is not with me. I do not know that the Lord could have sent me a greater blessing than to have been loved by you,--were it not that your trouble, your grief, your complainings rob me of my joy." "Then do not rob me," he said. "Out of two evils you must choose the least. You have heard of that, have you not?" "There need be no evil;--no such evil as this." Then he dropped her hand, and stood apart from her while he listened to her, or else walked up and down the room, throwing at her now and again a quick angry word, as she went on striving to make clear to him the ideas as they came to her mind. "I do not know how I could have done otherwise," she said, "when you would make it so certain to me that you loved me. I suppose it might have been possible for me to go away, and not to say a word in answer." "That is nonsense,--sheer nonsense," he said. "I could not tell you an untruth. I tried it once, but the words would not come at my bidding. Had I not spoken them, you would read the truth in my eyes. What then could I have done? And yet there was not a moment in which I have not known that it must be as it is." "It need not be; it need not be. It should not be." "Yes, dear, it must be. As it is so why not let us have the sweet of it as far as it will go? Can you not take a joy in thinking that you have given an inexpressible brightness to your poor Marion's days; that you have thrown over her a heavenly light which would be all glorious to her if she did not see that you were covered by a cloud? If I thought that you could hold up your head with manly strength, and accept this little gift of my love, just for what it is worth,--just for what it is worth,--then I think I could be happy to the end." "What would you have me do? Can a man love and not love?" "I almost think he can. I almost think that men do. I would not have you not love me. I would not lose my light and my glory altogether. But I would have your love to be of such a nature that it should not conquer you. I would have you remember your name and your family--" "I care nothing for my name. As far as I am concerned, my name is gone." "Oh, my lord!" "You have determined that my name shall go no further." "That is unmanly, Lord Hampstead. Because a poor weak girl such as I am cannot do all that you wish, are you to throw away your strength and your youth, and all the high hopes which ought to be before you? Would you say that it were well in another if you heard that he had thrown up everything, surrendered all his duties, because of his love for some girl infinitely beneath him in the world's esteem?" "There is no question of above and beneath. I will not have it. As to that, at any rate we are on a par." "A man and a girl can never be on a par. You have a great career, and you declare that it shall go for nothing because I cannot be your wife." "Can I help myself if I am broken-hearted? You can help me." "No, Lord Hampstead; it is there that you are wrong. It is there that you must allow me to say that I have the clearer knowledge. With an effort on your part the thing may be done." "What effort? What effort? Can I teach myself to forget that I have ever seen you?" "No, indeed; you cannot forget. But you may resolve that, remembering me, you should remember me only for what I am worth. You should not buy your memories at too high a price." "What is it that you would have me do?" "I would have you seek another wife." "Marion!" "I would have you seek another wife. If not instantly, I would have you instantly resolve to do so." "It would not hurt you to feel that I loved another?" "I think not. I have tried myself, and now I think that it would not hurt me. There was a time in which I owned to myself that it would be very bitter, and then I told myself, that I hoped,--that I hoped that you would wait. But now, I have acknowledged to myself the vanity and selfishness of such a wish. If I really love you am I not bound to want what may be best for you?" "You think that possible?" he said, standing over her, and looking down upon her. "Judging from your own heart do you think that you could do that if outward circumstances made it convenient?" "No, no, no." "Why should you suppose me to be harder-hearted than yourself, more callous, more like a beast of the fields?" "More like a man is what I would have you." "I have listened to you, Marion, and now you may listen to me. Your distinctions as to men and women are all vain. There are those, men and women both, who can love and do love, and there are those who neither do nor can. Whether it be for good or evil,--we can, you and I, and we do. It would be impossible to think of giving yourself to another?" "That is certainly true." "It is the same with me,--and will ever be so. Whether you live or die, I can have no other wife than Marion Fay. As to that I have a right to expect that you shall believe me. Whether I have a wife or not you must decide." "Oh, dearest, do not kill me." "It has to be so. If you can be firm so can I. As to my name and my family, it matters nothing. Could I be allowed to look forward and think that you would sit at my hearth, and that some child that should be my child should lie in your arms, then I could look forward to what you call a career. Not that he might be the last of a hundred Traffords, not that he might be an Earl or a Marquis like his forefathers, not that he might some day live to be a wealthy peer, would I have it so,--but because he would be yours and mine." Now she got up, and threw her arms around him, and stood leaning on him as he spoke. "I can look forward to that and think of a career. If that cannot be, the rest of it must provide for itself. There are others who can look after the Traffords,--and who will do so whether it be necessary or not. To have gone a little out of the beaten path, to have escaped some of the traditional absurdities, would have been something to me. To have let the world see how noble a Countess I could find for it--that would have satisfied me. And I had succeeded. I had found one that would really have graced the name. If it is not to be so,--why then let the name and family go on in the old beaten track. I shall not make another venture. I have made my choice, and it is to come to this." "You must wait, dear;--you must wait. I had not thought it would be like this; but you must wait." "What God may have in store for me, who can tell. You have told me your mind, Marion; and now I trust that you will understand mine. I do not accept your decision, but you will accept mine. Think of it all, and when you see me again in a day or two, then see whether you will not be able to join your lot to mine and make the best of it." Upon this he kissed her again, and left her without another word. CHAPTER XIV. CROCKER'S DISTRESS. When Midsummer came Paradise Row was alive with various interests. There was no one there who did not know something of the sad story of Marion Fay and her love. It was impossible that such a one as Lord Hampstead should make repeated visits to the street without notice. When Marion returned home from Pegwell Bay, even the potboy at The Duchess of Edinburgh knew why she had come, and Clara Demijohn professed to be able to tell all that passed at the interview next day. And there was the great "Duca" matter;--so that Paradise Row generally conceived itself to be concerned on all questions of nobility, both Foreign and British. There were the Ducaites and the anti-Ducaites. The Demijohn faction generally, as being under the influence of Crocker, were of opinion that George Roden being a Duke could not rid himself of his ducal nature, and they were loud in their expression of the propriety of calling the Duke Duke whether he wished it or no. But Mrs. Grimley at The Duchess was warm on the other side. George Roden, according to her lights, being a clerk in the Post Office, must certainly be a Briton, and being a Briton, and therefore free, was entitled to call himself whatever he pleased. She was generally presumed to enunciate a properly constitutional theory in the matter, and, as she was a leading personage in the neighbourhood, the Duca was for the most part called by his old name; but there were contests, and on one occasion blows had been struck. All this helped to keep life alive in the Row. But there had arisen another source of intense interest. Samuel Crocker was now regularly engaged to marry Miss Demijohn. There had been many difficulties before this could be arranged. Crocker not unnaturally wished that a portion of the enormous wealth which rumour attributed to Mrs. Demijohn should be made over to the bride on her marriage. But the discussions which had taken place between him and the old lady on the matter had been stormy and unsuccessful. "It's a sort of thing that one doesn't understand at all, you know," Crocker had said to Mrs. Grimley, giving the landlady to understand that he was not going to part with his own possession of himself without adequate consideration. Mrs. Grimley had comforted the young man by reminding him that the old lady was much given to hot brandy and water, and that she could not "take her money with her where she was going." Crocker had at last contented himself with an assurance that there should be a breakfast and a trousseau which was to cost £100. With the promise of this and the hope of what brandy-and-water might do for him, he had given in, and the match was made. Had there been no more than this in the matter the Row would not have been much stirred by it. The Row was so full of earls, marquises, and dukes that Crocker's love would have awakened no more than a passing attention, but for a concomitant incident which was touching in its nature, and interesting in its development. Daniel Tribbledale, junior clerk at Pogson and Littlebird's, had fought a battle with his passion for Clara Demijohn like a man; but, manly though the battle had been, Love had prevailed over him. He had at last found it impossible to give up the girl of his heart, and he had declared his intention of "punching Crocker's head" should he ever find him in the neighbourhood of the Row. With the object of doing this he frequented the Row constantly from ten in the evening till two in the morning, and spent a great deal more money than he ought to have done at The Duchess. He would occasionally knock at No. 10, and boldly ask to be allowed to see Miss Clara. On one or two of these occasions he had seen her, and tears had flown in great quantities. He had thrown himself at her feet, and she had assured him that it was in vain. He had fallen back at Pogson and Littlebird's to £120 a year, and there was no prospect of an increase. Moreover the betrothment with Crocker was complete. Clara had begged him to leave the vicinity of Holloway. Nothing, he had sworn, should divorce him from Paradise Row. Should that breakfast ever be given; should these hated nuptials ever take place; he would be heard of. It was in vain that Clara had threatened to die on the threshold of the church if anything rash were done. He was determined, and Clara, no doubt, was interested in the persistency of his affection. It was, however, specially worthy of remark that Crocker and Tribbledale never did meet in Paradise Row. Monday, 13th of July, was the day fixed for the marriage, and lodgings for the happy pair had been taken at Islington. It had been hoped that room might have been made for them at No. 10; but the old lady, fearing the interference of a new inmate, had preferred the horrors of solitude to the combined presence of her niece and her niece's husband. She had, however, given a clock and a small harmonium to grace the furnished sitting-room;--so that things might be said to stand on a sound and pleasant footing. Gradually, however, it came to be thought both by the old and the young lady, that Crocker was becoming too eager on that great question of the Duca. When he declared that no earthly consideration should induce him to call his friend by any name short of that noble title which he was entitled to use, he was asked a question or two as to his practice at the office. For it had come round to Paradise Row that Crocker was giving offence at the office by his persistency. "When I speak of him I always call him the 'Duca,'" said Crocker, gallantly, "and when I meet him I always address him as Duca. No doubt it may for a while create a little coolness, but he will recognize at last the truth of the spirit which actuates me. He is 'the Duca.'" "If you go on doing what they tell you not to do," said the old woman, "they'll dismiss you." Crocker had simply smiled ineffably. Not Æolus himself would dismiss him for a loyal adherence to the constitutional usages of European Courts. Crocker was in truth making himself thoroughly disagreeable at the Post Office. Sir Boreas had had his own view as to Roden's title, and had been anxious to assist Lord Persiflage in forcing the clerk to accept his nobility. But when he had found that Roden was determined, he had given way. No order had been given on the subject. It was a matter which hardly admitted of an order. But it was understood that as Mr. Roden wished to be Mr. Roden, he was to be Mr. Roden. It was declared that good taste required that he should be addressed as he chose to be addressed. When, therefore, Crocker persisted it was felt that Crocker was a bore. When Crocker declared to Roden personally that his conscience would not allow him to encounter a man whom he believed to be a nobleman without calling him by his title, the office generally felt that Crocker was an ass. Æolus was known to have expressed himself as very angry, and was said to have declared that the man must be dismissed sooner or later. This had been reported to Crocker. "Sir Boreas can't dismiss me for calling a nobleman by his right name," Crocker had replied indignantly. The clerks had acknowledged among themselves that this might be true, but had remarked that there were different ways of hanging a dog. If Æolus was desirous of hanging Crocker, Crocker would certainly find him the rope before long. There was a little bet made between Bobbin and Geraghty that the office would know Crocker no longer before the end of the year. Alas, alas;--just before the time fixed for the poor fellow's marriage, during the first week of July, there came to our Æolus not only an opportunity for dismissing poor Crocker, but an occasion on which, by the consent of all, it was admitted to be impossible that he should not do so, and the knowledge of the sin committed came upon Sir Boreas at a moment of great exasperation caused by another source. "Sir Boreas," Crocker had said, coming into the great man's room, "I hope you will do me the honour of being present at my wedding breakfast." The suggestion was an unpardonable impertinence. "I am asking no one else in the Department except the Duca," said Crocker. With what special flea in his ear Crocker was made to leave the room instantly cannot be reported; but the reader may be quite sure that neither did Æolus nor the Duca accept the invitation. It was on that very afternoon that Mr. Jerningham, with the assistance of one of the messengers, discovered that Crocker had--actually torn up a bundle of official papers! Among many official sins of which Crocker was often guilty was that of "delaying papers." Letters had to be written, or more probably copies made, and Crocker would postpone the required work from day to day. Papers would get themselves locked up, and sometimes it would not be practicable to trace them. There were those in the Department who said that Crocker was not always trustworthy in his statements, and there had come up lately a case in which the unhappy one was supposed to have hidden a bundle of papers of which he denied having ever had the custody. Then arose a tumult of anger among those who would be supposed to have had the papers if Crocker did not have them, and a violent search was instituted. Then it was discovered that he had absolutely--destroyed the official documents! They referred to the reiterated complaints of a fidgety old gentleman who for years past had been accusing the Department of every imaginable iniquity. According to this irritable old gentleman, a diabolical ingenuity had been exercised in preventing him from receiving a single letter through a long series of years. This was a new crime. Wicked things were often done, but anything so wicked as this had never before been perpetrated in the Department. The minds of the senior clerks were terribly moved, and the young men were agitated by a delicious awe. Crocker was felt to be abominable; but heroic also,--and original. It might be that a new opening for great things had been invented. The fidgety old gentleman had never a leg to stand upon,--not a stump; but now it was almost impossible that he should not be made to know that all his letters of complaint had been made away with! Of course Crocker must be dismissed. He was at once suspended, and called upon for his written explanation. "And I am to be married next week!" he said weeping to Mr. Jerningham. Æolus had refused to see him, and Mr. Jerningham, when thus appealed to, only shook his head. What could a Mr. Jerningham say to a man who had torn up official papers on the eve of his marriage? Had he laid violent hands on his bride, but preserved the papers, his condition, to Mr. Jerningham's thinking, would have been more wholesome. It was never known who first carried the tidings to Paradise Row. There were those who said that Tribbledale was acquainted with a friend of Bobbin, and that he made it all known to Clara in an anonymous letter. There were others who traced a friendship between the potboy at The Duchess and a son of one of the messengers. It was at any rate known at No. 10. Crocker was summoned to an interview with the old woman; and the match was then and there declared to be broken off. "What are your intentions, sir, as to supporting that young woman?" Mrs. Demijohn demanded with all the severity of which she was capable. Crocker was so broken-hearted that he had not a word to say for himself. He did not dare to suggest that perhaps he might not be dismissed. He admitted the destruction of the papers. "I never cared for him again when I saw him so knocked out of time by an old woman," said Clara afterwards. "What am I to do about the lodgings?" asked Crocker weeping. "Tear 'em up," said Mrs. Demijohn. "Tear 'em up. Only send back the clock and the harmonium." Crocker in his despair looked about everywhere for assistance. It might be that Æolus would be softer-hearted than Clara Demijohn. He wrote to Lord Persiflage, giving him a very full account of the affair. The papers, he said, had in fact been actually torn by accident. He was afraid of "the Duca," or he would have applied to him. "The Duca," no doubt had been his most intimate friend,--so he still declared,--but in such an emergency he did not know how to address "the Duca." But he bethought himself of Lord Hampstead, of that hunting acquaintance, with whom his intercourse had been so pleasant and so genial, and he made a journey down Hendon. Lord Hampstead at this time was living there all alone. Marion Fay had been taken back to Pegwell Bay, and her lover was at the old house holding intercourse almost with no one. His heart just now was very heavy with him. He had begun to believe that Marion would in truth never become his wife. He had begun to think that she would really die, and that he would never have had the sad satisfaction of calling her his own. All lightness and brightness had gone from him, all the joy which he used to take in argument, all the eagerness of his character,--unless the hungry craving of unsatisfied love could still be called an eagerness. He was in this condition when Crocker was brought out to him in the garden where he was walking. "Mr. Crocker," he said, standing still in the pathway and looking into the man's face. "Yes, my lord; it's me. I am Crocker. You remember me, my lord, down in Cumberland?" "I remember you,--at Castle Hautboy." "And out hunting, my lord,--when we had that pleasant ride home from Airey Force." "What can I do for you now?" "I always do think, my lord, that there is nothing like sport to cement affection. I don't know how you feel about it, my lord." "If there is anything to be said--perhaps you will say it." "And there's another bond, my lord. We have both been looking for the partners of our joys in Paradise Row." "If you have anything to say, say it." "And as for your friend, my lord, the,--the--. You know whom I mean. If I have given any offence it has only been because I've thought that as the title was certainly theirs, a young lady who shall be nameless ought to have the advantage of it. I've only done it because of my consideration for the family." "What have you come here for, Mr. Crocker? I am not just now disposed to converse,--on, I may say, any subject. If there be anything--" "Indeed, there is. Oh, my lord, they are going to dismiss me! For the sake of Paradise Row, my lord, pray, pray, interfere on my behalf." Then he told the whole story about the papers, merely explaining that they had been torn in accident. "Sir Boreas is angry with me because I have thought it right to call--you know whom--by his title, and now I am to be dismissed just when I was about to take that beautiful and accomplished young lady to the hymeneal altar. Only think if you and Miss Fay was to be divided in the same way!" With much lengthened explanation, which was, however, altogether ineffectual, Lord Hampstead had to make his visitor understand that there was no ground on which he could even justify a request. "But a letter! You could write a letter. A letter from your lordship would do so much." Lord Hampstead shook his head. "If you were just to say that you had known me intimately down in Cumberland! Of course I am not taking upon myself to say it was so,--but to save a poor fellow on the eve of his marriage!" "I will write a letter," said Lord Hampstead, thinking of it, turning over in his mind his own idea of what marriage would be to him. "I cannot say that we have been intimate friends, because it would not be true." "No;--no; no! Of course not that." "But I will write a letter to Sir Boreas. I cannot conceive that it should have any effect. It ought to have none." "It will, my lord." "I will write, and will say that your father is connected with my uncle, and that your condition in regard to your marriage may perhaps be accepted as a ground for clemency. Good day to you." Not very quickly, but with profuse thanks and the shedding of some tears, poor Crocker took his leave. He had not been long gone before the following letter was written;-- SIR, Though I have not the honour of any acquaintance with you, I take the liberty of writing to you as to the condition of one of the clerks in your office. I am perfectly aware that should I receive a reprimand from your hands, I shall have deserved it by my unjustifiable interference. Mr. Crocker represents to me that he is to be dismissed because of some act of which you as his superior officer highly disapprove. He asks me to appeal to you on his behalf because we have been acquainted with each other. His father is agent to my uncle Lord Persiflage, and we have met at my uncle's house. I do not dare to put this forward as a plea for mercy. But I understand that Mr. Crocker is about to be married almost immediately, and, perhaps, you will feel with me that a period in a man's life which should beyond all others be one of satisfaction, of joy, and of perfect contentment, may be regarded with a feeling of mercy which would be prejudicial if used more generally. Your faithful servant, HAMPSTEAD. When he wrote those words as to the period of joy and satisfaction his own heart was sore, sore, sore almost to breaking. There could never be such joy, never be such satisfaction for him. CHAPTER XV. "DISMISSAL. B. B." By return of post Lord Hampstead received the following answer to his letter;-- MY DEAR LORD HAMPSTEAD,-- Mr. Crocker's case is _a very bad one_; but the Postmaster General shall see your appeal, and his lordship will, I am sure, sympathize with your humanity--as do I also. I cannot take upon myself to say what his lordship will think it right to do, and it will be better, therefore, that you should abstain for the present from communicating with Mr. Crocker. I am, Your lordship's very faithful servant, BOREAS BODKIN. Any excuse was sufficient to our Æolus to save him from the horror of dismissing a man. He knew well that Crocker, as a public servant, was not worth his salt. Sir Boreas was blessed,--or cursed,--with a conscience, but the stings of his conscience, though they were painful, did not hurt him so much as those of his feelings. He had owned to himself on this occasion that Crocker must go. Crocker was in every way distasteful to him. He was not only untrustworthy and incapable, but audacious also, and occasionally impudent. He was a clerk of whom he had repeatedly said that it would be much better to pay him his salary and let him have perpetual leave of absence, than keep him even if there were no salary to be paid. Now there had come a case on which it was agreed by all the office that the man must go. Destroy a bundle of official papers! Mr. Jerningham had been heard to declare that the law was in fault in not having provided that a man should be at once sent to Newgate for doing such a thing. "The stupid old fool's letters weren't really worth anything," Sir Boreas had said, as though attempting to palliate the crime! Mr. Jerningham had only shaken his head. What else could he do? It was not for him to dispute any matter with Sir Boreas. But to his thinking the old gentleman's letters had become precious documents, priceless records, as soon as they had once been bound by the red tape of the Government, and enveloped by the security of an official pigeon-hole. To stay away without leave,--to be drunk,--to be obstinately idle,--to be impudent, were great official sins; but Mr. Jerningham was used to them, and knew that as they had often occurred before, so would they re-occur. Clerks are mortal men, and will be idle, will be reckless, will sometimes get into disreputable rows. A little added severity, Mr. Jerningham thought, would improve his branch of the department, but, knowing the nature of men, the nature especially of Sir Boreas, he could make excuses. Here, however, was a case in which no superior Civil Servant could entertain a doubt. And yet Sir Boreas palliated even this crime! Mr. Jerningham shook his head, and Sir Boreas shoved on one side, so as to avoid for a day the pain of thinking about them, the new bundle of papers which had already formed itself on the great Crocker case. If some one would tear up that, what a blessing it would be! In this way there was delay, during which Crocker was not allowed to show his face at the office, and during this delay Clara Demijohn became quite confirmed in her determination to throw over her engagement. Tribbledale with his £120 would be much better than Crocker with nothing. And then it was agreed generally in Paradise Row that there was something romantic in Tribbledale's constancy. Tribbledale was in the Row every day,--or perhaps rather every night;--seeking counsel from Mrs. Grimley, and comforting himself with hot gin-and-water. Mrs. Grimley was good-natured, and impartial to both the young men. She liked customers, and she liked marriages generally. "If he ain't got no income of course he's out of the running," Mrs. Grimley said to Tribbledale, greatly comforting the young man's heart. "You go in and win," said Mrs. Grimley, indicating by that her opinion that the ardent suitor would probably be successful if he urged his love at the present moment. "Strike while the iron is hot," she said, alluding probably to the heat to which Clara's anger would be warmed by the feeling that the other lover had lost his situation just when he was most bound to be careful in maintaining it. Tribbledale went in and pleaded his case. It is probable that just at this time Clara herself was made acquainted with Tribbledale's frequent visits to The Duchess, and though she may not have been pleased with the special rendezvous selected, she was gratified by the devotion shown. When Mrs. Grimley advised Tribbledale to "go in and win," she was, perhaps, in Clara's confidence. When a girl has told all her friends that she is going to be married, and has already expended a considerable portion of the sum of money allowed for her wedding garments, she cannot sink back into the simple position of an unengaged young woman without pangs of conscience and qualms of remorse. Paradise Row knew that her young man was to be dismissed from his office, and condoled with her frequently and most unpleasantly. Mrs. Duffer was so unbearable in the matter that the two ladies had quarrelled dreadfully. Clara from the first moment of her engagement with Crocker had been proud of the second string to her bow, and now perceived that the time had come in which it might be conveniently used. It was near eleven when Tribbledale knocked at the door of No. 10, but nevertheless Clara was up, as was also the servant girl, who opened the door for the sake of discretion. "Oh, Daniel, what hours you do keep!" said Clara, when the young gentleman was shown into the parlour. "What on earth brings you here at such a time as this?" Tribbledale was never slow to declare that he was brought thither by the overwhelming ardour of his passion. His love for Clara was so old a story, and had been told so often, that the repeating of it required no circumlocution. Had he chanced to meet her in the High Street on a Sunday morning, he would have begun with it at once. "Clara," he said, "will you have me? I know that that other scoundrel is a ruined man." "Oh, Daniel, you shouldn't hit those as are down." "Hasn't he been hitting me all the time that I was down? Hasn't he triumphed? Haven't you been in his arms?" "Laws; no." "And wasn't that hitting me when I was down, do you think?" "It never did you any harm." "Oh, Clara;--if you knew the nature of my love you'd understand the harm. Every time he has pressed your lips I have heard it, though I was in King's Head Court all the time." "That must be a crammer, Daniel." "I did;--not with the ears of my head, but with the fibres of my breast." "Oh;--ah. But, Daniel, you and Sam used to be such friends at the first go off." "Go off of what?" "When he first took to coming after me. You remember the tea-party, when Marion Fay was here." "I tried it on just then;--I did. I thought that, maybe, I might come not to care about it so much." "I'm sure you acted it very well." "And I thought that perhaps it might be the best way of touching that cold heart of yours." "Cold! I don't know as my heart is colder than anybody else's heart." "Would that you would make it warm once more for me." "Poor Sam!" said Clara, putting her handkerchief up to her eyes. "Why is he any poorer than me? I was first. At any rate I was before him." "I don't know anything about firsts or lasts," said Clara, as the ghosts of various Banquos flitted before her eyes. "And as for him, what right has he to think of any girl? He's a poor mean creature, without the means of getting so much as a bed for a wife to lie on. He used to talk so proud of Her Majesty's Civil Service. Her Majesty's Civil Service has sent him away packing." "Not yet, Daniel." "They have. I've made it my business to find out, and Sir Boreas Bodkin has written the order to-day. 'Dismissal--B. B.' I know those who have seen the very words written in the punishment book of the Post Office." "Poor Sam!" "Destroying papers of the utmost importance about Her Majesty's Mail Service! What else was he to expect? And now he's penniless." "A hundred and twenty isn't so very much, Daniel." "Mr. Fay was saying only the other day that if I was married and settled they'd make it better for me." "You're too fond of The Duchess, Daniel." "No, Clara--no; I deny that. You ask Mrs. Grimley why it is I come to The Duchess so often. It isn't for anything that I take there." "Oh; I didn't know. Young men when they frequent those places generally do take something." "If I had a little home of my own with the girl I love on the other side of the fireplace, and perhaps a baby in her arms--" Tribbledale as he said this looked at her with all his eyes. "Laws, Daniel; what things you do say!" "I should never go then to any Duchess, or any Marquess of Granby, or to any Angel." These were public-houses so named, all standing thick together in the neighbourhood of Paradise Row. "I should not want to go anywhere then,--except where that young woman and that baby were to be found." "Daniel, you was always fine at poetry." "Try me, if it isn't real prose. The proof of the pudding's in the eating. You come and try." By this time Clara was in his arms, and the re-engagement was as good as made. Crocker was no doubt dismissed,--or if not dismissed had shown himself to be unworthy. What could be expected of a husband who could tear up a bundle of Her Majesty's Mail papers? And then Daniel Tribbledale had exhibited a romantic constancy which certainly deserved to be rewarded. Clara understood that the gin-and-water had been consumed night after night for her sake. And there were the lodgings and the clock and the harmonium ready for the occasion. "I suppose it had better be so, Daniel, as you wish it so much." "Wish it! I have always wished it. I wouldn't change places now with Mr. Pogson himself." "He married his third wife three years ago!" "I mean in regard to the whole box and dice of it. I'd rather have my Clara with £120, than be Pogson and Littlebird with all the profits." This gratifying assurance was rewarded, and then, considerably after midnight, the triumphant lover took his leave. Early on the following afternoon Crocker was in Paradise Row. He had been again with Lord Hampstead, and had succeeded in worming out of the good-natured nobleman something of the information contained in the letter from Sir Boreas. The matter was to be left to the Postmaster-General. Now there was an idea in the office that when a case was left to his lordship, his lordship never proceeded to extremities. Kings are bound to pardon if they allow themselves to be personally concerned as to punishment. There was something of the same feeling in regard to official discipline. As a fact the letter from Sir Boreas had been altogether false. He had known, poor man, that he must at last take the duty of deciding upon himself, and had used the name of the great chief simply as a mode of escape for the moment. But Crocker had felt that the mere statement indicated pardon. The very delay indicated pardon. Relying upon these indications he went to Paradise Row, dressed in his best frock coat, with gloves in his hand, to declare to his love that the lodgings need not be abandoned, and that the clock and harmonium might be preserved. "But you've been dismissed!" said Clara. "Never! never!" "It has been written in the book! 'Dismissal--B. B.!' I know the eyes that have seen it." "That's not the way they do it at all," said Crocker, who was altogether confused. "It has been written in the book, Sam; and I know that they never go back from that." "Who wrote it? Nothing has been written. There isn't a book;--not at least like that. Tribbledale has invented it." "Oh, Sam, why did you tear those papers;--Her Majesty's Mail papers? What else was there to expect? 'Dismissal--B. B.;' Why did you do it,--and you engaged to a young woman? No;--don't come nigh to me. How is a young woman to go and get herself married to a young man, and he with nothing to support her? It isn't to be thought of. When I heard those words, 'Dismissal--B. B.,' I thought my very heart would sink within me." "It's nothing of the kind," said Crocker. "What's nothing of the kind?" "I ain't dismissed at all." "Oh, Sam; how dare you?" "I tell you I ain't. He's written a letter to Lord Hampstead, who has always been my friend. Hampstead wasn't going to see me treated after that fashion. Hampstead wrote, and then Æolus wrote,--that's Sir Boreas,--and I've seen the letter,--that is, Hampstead told me what there is in it; and I ain't to be dismissed at all. When I heard the good news the first thing I did was to come as fast as my legs would carry me, and tell the girl of my heart." Clara did not quite believe him; but then neither had she quite believed Tribbledale, when he had announced the dismissal with the terrible corroboration of the great man's initials. But the crime committed seemed to her to be so great that she could not understand that Crocker should be allowed to remain after the perpetration of it. Crocker's salary was £150; and, balancing the two young men together as she had often done, though she liked the poetry of Tribbledale, she did on the whole prefer the swagger and audacity of Crocker. Her Majesty's Civil Service, too, had its charms for her. The Post Office was altogether superior to Pogson and Littlebird's. Pogson and Littlebird's hours were 9 to 5. Those of Her Majesty's Service were much more genteel;--10 namely to 4. But what might not a man do who had shown the nature of his disposition by tearing up official papers? And then, though the accidents of the occasion had enveloped her in difficulties on both sides, it seemed to her that, at the present moment, the lesser difficulties would be encountered by adhering to Tribbledale. She could excuse herself with Crocker. Paradise Row had already declared that the match with Crocker must be broken off. Crocker had indeed been told that the match was to be broken off. When Tribbledale had come to her overnight she had felt herself to be a free woman. When she had given way to the voice of the charmer, when she had sunk into his arms, softened by that domestic picture which he had painted, no pricks of conscience had disturbed her happiness. Whether the "Dismissal--B. B." had or had not yet been written, it was sure to come. She was as free to "wed another" as was Venice when her Doge was deposed. She could throw herself back upon the iniquity of the torn papers were Crocker to complain. But should she now return to her Crocker, how could she excuse herself with Tribbledale? "It is all over between you and me, Sam," she said with her handkerchief up to her eyes. "All over! Why should it be all over?" "You was told it was all over." "That was when all the Row said that I was to be dismissed. There was something in it,--then; though, perhaps, a girl might have waited till a fellow had got up upon his legs again." "Waiting ain't so pleasant, Mr. Crocker, when a girl has to look after herself." "But I ain't dismissed at all, and there needn't be any waiting. I thought that you would be suffering as well as me, and so I came right away to you, all at once." "So I have suffered, Sam. No one knows what I have suffered." "But it'll come all right now?" Clara shook her head. "You don't mean that Tribbledale's been and talked you over already?" "I knew Mr. Tribbledale before ever I saw you, Sam." "How often have I heard you call him a poor mean skunk?" "Never, Crocker; never. Such a word never passed my lips." "Something very like it then." "I may have said he wanted sperrit. I may have said so, though I disremember it. But if I did,--what of that?" "You despised him." "No, Crocker. What I despise is a man as goes and tears up Her Majesty's Mail papers. Tribbledale never tore up anything at Pogson and Littlebird's,--except what was to be tore. Tribbledale was never turned out for nigh a fortnight, so that he couldn't go and show his face in King's Head Court. Tribbledale never made hisself hated by everybody." That unknown abominable word which Crocker had put into her mouth had roused all the woman within her, so that she was enabled to fight her battle with a courage which would not have come to her aid had he been more prudent. "Who hates me?" "Mr. Jerningham does, and Roden, and Sir Boreas, and Bobbin." She had learned all their names. "How can they help hating a man that tears up the mail papers! And I hate you." "Clara!" "I do. What business had you to say I used that nasty word? I never do use them words. I wouldn't even so much as look at a man who'd demean himself to put such words as them into my mouth. So I tell you what it is, Mr. Crocker; you may just go away. I am going to become Daniel Tribbledale's wife, and it isn't becoming in you to stand here talking to a young woman that is engaged to another young man." "And this is to be the end of it?" "If you please, Mr. Crocker." "Well!" "If ever you feel inclined to speak your mind to another young woman, and you carry it as far as we did, and you wishes to hold on to her, don't you go and tear Her Majesty's Mail papers. And when she tells you a bit of her mind, as I did just now, don't you go and put nasty words into her mouth. Now, if you please, you may just as well send over that clock and that harmonium to Daniel Tribbledale, Esq., King's Head Court, Great Broad Street." So saying she left him, and congratulated herself on having terminated the interview without much unpleasantness. Crocker, as he shook the dust off his feet upon leaving Paradise Row, began to ask himself whether he might not upon the whole congratulate himself as to the end to which that piece of business had been brought. When he had first resolved to offer his hand to the young lady, he had certainly imagined that that hand would not be empty. Clara was no doubt "a fine girl," but not quite so young as she was once. And she had a temper of her own. Matrimony, too, was often followed by many troubles. Paradise Row would no doubt utter jeers, but he need not go there to hear them. He was not quite sure but that the tearing of the papers would in the long run be beneficial to him. CHAPTER XVI. PEGWELL BAY. July had come and nearly gone before Lord Hampstead again saw Marion Fay. He had promised not to go to Pegwell Bay,--hardly understanding why such a promise had been exacted from him, but still acceding to it when it had been suggested to him by Mrs. Roden, at the request, as she said, of the Quaker. It was understood that Marion would soon return to Holloway, and that on that account the serenity of Pegwell Bay need not be disturbed by the coming of so great a man as Lord Hampstead. Hampstead had of course ridiculed the reason, but had complied with the request,--with the promise, however, that Marion should return early in the summer. But the summer weeks had passed by, and Marion did not return. Letters passed between them daily in which Marion attempted always to be cheerful. Though she had as yet invented no familiar name for her noble lover, yet she had grown into familiarity with him, and was no longer afraid of his nobility. "You oughtn't to stay there," she said, "wasting your life and doing nothing, because of a sick girl. You've got your yacht, and are letting all the summer weather go by." In answer to this he wrote to her, saying that he had sold his yacht. "Could you have gone with me, I would have kept it," he wrote. "Would you go with me I would have another ready for you, before you would be ready. I will make no assurance as to my future life. I cannot even guess what may become of me. It may be that I shall come to live on board some ship so that I may be all alone. But with my heart as it is now I cannot bear the references which others make to me about empty pleasures." At the same time he sold his horses, but he said nothing to her as to that. Gradually he did acknowledge to himself that it was her doom to die early,--almost acknowledged to himself that she was dying. Nevertheless he still thought that it would have been fit that they should be married. "If I knew that she were my own even on her deathbed," he once said to Mrs. Roden, "there would be a comfort to me in it." He was so eager in this that Mrs. Roden was almost convinced. The Quaker was willing that it should be so,--but willing also that it should not be so. He would not even try to persuade his girl as to anything. It was his doom to see her go, and he, having realized that, could not bring himself to use a word in opposition to her word. But Marion herself was sternly determined against the suggestion. It was unfitting, she said, and would be wicked. It was not the meaning of marriage. She could not bring herself to disturb the last thoughts of her life, not only by the empty assumption of a grand name, but by the sounding of that name in her ears from the eager lips of those around her. "I will be your love to the end," she said, "your own Marion. But I will not be made a Countess, only in order that a vain name may be carved over my grave." "God has provided a bitter cup for your lips, my love," she wrote again, "in having put it into your head to love one whom you must lose so soon. And mine is bitter because yours is bitter. But we cannot rid ourselves of the bitterness by pretences. Would it make your heart light to see me dressed up for a bridal ceremony, knowing, as you would know, that it was all for nothing? My lord, my love, let us take it as God has provided it. It is only because you grieve that I grieve;--for you and my poor father. If you could only bring yourself to be reconciled, then it would be so much to me to have had you to love me in my last moments,--to love me and to be loved." He could not but accept her decision. Her father and Mrs. Roden accepted it, and he was forced to do so also. He acknowledged to himself now that there was no appeal from it. Her very weakness gave her a strength which dominated him. There was an end of all his arguments and his strong phrases. He was aware that they had been of no service to him,--that her soft words had been stronger than all his reasonings. But not on that account did he cease to wish that it might be as he had once wished, since he had first acknowledged to himself his love. "Of course I will not drive her," he said to Mrs. Roden, when that lady urged upon him the propriety of abstaining from a renewal of his request. "Had I any power of driving her, as you say, I would not do so. I think it would be better. That is all. Of course it must be as she shall decide." "It would be a comfort to her to think that you and she thought alike about all things," said Mrs. Roden. "There are points on which I cannot alter my convictions even for her comfort," he answered. "She bids me love some other woman. Can I comfort her by doing that? She bids me seek another wife. Can I do that;--or say that I will do it at some future time? It would comfort her to know that I have no wound,--that I am not lame and sick and sore and weary. It would comfort her to know that my heart is not broken. How am I to do that for her?" "No;"--said Mrs. Roden--"no." "There is no comfort. Her imagination paints for her some future bliss, which shall not be so far away as to be made dim by distance,--in enjoying which we two shall be together, as we are here, with our hands free to grasp each other, and our lips free to kiss;--a heaven, but still a heaven of this world, in which we can hang upon each other's necks and be warm to each other's hearts. That is to be, to her, the reward of her innocence, and in the ecstacy of her faith she believes in it, as though it were here. I do think,--I do think,--that if I told her that it should be so, that I trusted to renew my gaze upon her beauty after a few short years, then she would be happy entirely. It would be for an eternity, and without the fear of separation." "Then why not profess as she does?" "A lie? As I know her truth when she tells me her creed, so would she know my falsehood, and the lie would be vain." "Is there then to be no future world, Lord Hampstead?" "Who has said so? Certainly not I. I cannot conceive that I shall perish altogether. I do not think that if, while I am here, I can tame the selfishness of self, I shall reach a step upwards in that world which shall come next after this. As to happiness, I do not venture to think much of it. If I can only be somewhat nobler,--somewhat more like the Christ whom we worship,--that will be enough without happiness. If there be truth in this story, He was not happy. Why should I look for happiness,--unless it be when the struggle of many worlds shall have altogether purified my spirit? But thinking like that,--believing like that,--how can I enter into the sweet Epicurean Paradise which that child has prepared for herself?" "Is it no better than that?" "What can be better, what can be purer,--if only it be true? And though it be false to me, it may be true to her. It is for my sake that she dreams of her Paradise,--that my wounds may be made whole, that my heart may be cured. Christ's lesson has been so learned by her that no further learning seems necessary. I fancy sometimes that I can see the platform raised just one step above the ground on which I stand,--and look into the higher world to which I am ascending. It may be that it is given to her to look up the one rung of the ladder by mounting which she shall find herself enveloped in the full glory of perfection." In conversations such as these Mrs. Roden was confounded by the depth of the man's love. It became impossible to bid him not be of a broken heart, or even to allude to those fresh hopes which Time would bring. He spoke to her often of his future life, always speaking of a life from which Marion would have been withdrawn by death, and did so with a cold, passionless assurance which showed her that he had almost resolved as to the future. He would see all lands that were to be seen, and converse with all people. The social condition of God's creatures at large should be his study. The task would be endless, and, as he said, an endless task hardly admits of absolute misery. "If I die there will be an end of it. If I live till old age shall have made me powerless to carry on my work, time will then probably have done something to dim the feeling." "I think," he said again;--"I feel that could I but remember her as my wife--" "It is impossible," said Mrs. Roden. "But if it were so! It would be no more than a thin threadbare cloak over a woman's shivering shoulders. It is not much against the cold; but it would be very cruel to take that little from her." She looked at him with her eyes flooded with tears, but she could only shake her head in sign that it was impossible. At last, just at the end of July, there came a request that he would go down to Pegwell Bay. "It is so long since we have seen each other," she wrote, "and, perhaps, it is better that you should come than that I should go. The doctor is fidgety, and says so. But my darling will be good to me;--will he not? When I have seen a tear in your eyes it has gone near to crush me. That a woman, or even a man, should weep at some unexpected tidings of woe is natural. But who cries for spilt milk? Tell me that God's hand, though it be heavy to you, shall be borne with reverence and obedience and love." He did not tell her this, but he resolved that if possible she should see no tears. As for that cheerfulness, that reconciliation to his fate which she desired, he knew it to be impossible. He almost brought himself to believe as he travelled down to Pegwell Bay that it would be better that they should not meet. To thank the Lord for all His mercies was in her mind. To complain with all the bitterness of his heart of the cruelty with which he was treated was in his. He had told Mrs. Roden that according to his creed there would be a better world to come for him if he could succeed in taming the selfishness of self. But he told himself now that the struggle to do so had hitherto been vain. There had been but the one thing which had ever been to him supremely desirable. He had gone through the years of his early life forming some Utopian ideas,--dreaming of some perfection in politics, in philanthropy, in social reform, and the like,--something by devoting himself to which he could make his life a joy to himself. Then this girl had come across him, and there had suddenly sprung up within him a love so strong that all these other things faded into littlenesses. They should not be discarded. Work would be wanted for his life, and for hers. But here he had found the true salt by which all his work would be vivified and preserved and made holy and happy and glorious. There had come a something to him that was all that he wanted it to be. And now the something was fading from him,--was already all but gone. In such a state how should he tame the selfishness of self? He abandoned the attempt, and told himself that difficulties had been prepared for him greater than any of which he had dreamed when he had hoped that that taming might be within his power. He could not even spare her in his selfishness. He declared to himself that it was so, and almost owned that it would be better that he should not go to her. "Yes," she said, when he sat down beside her on her sofa, at an open window looking out on the little bay, "put your hand on mine, dear, and leave it there. To have you with me, to feel the little breeze, and to see you and to touch you is absolute happiness." "Why did you so often tell me not to come?" "Ah, why? But I know why it was, my lord." There was something half of tenderness, half pleasantry in the mode of address, and now he had ceased to rebel against it. "Why should I not come if it be a joy to you?" "You must not be angry now." "Certainly not angry." "We have got through all that,--you and I have for ourselves;--but there is a sort of unseemliness in your coming down here to see a poor Quaker's daughter." "Marion!" "But there is. We had got through all that in Paradise Row. Paradise Row had become used to you, and I could bear it. But here-- They will all be sure to know who you are." "Who cares?" "That Marion Fay should have a lover would of itself make a stir in this little place;--but that she should have a lord for her lover! One doesn't want to be looked at as a miracle." "The follies of others should not ruffle you and me." "That's very well, dear;--but what if one is ruffled? But I won't be ruffled, and you shall come. When I thought that I should go again to our own house, then I thought we might perhaps dispense with the ruffling;--that was all." There was a something in these words which he could not stand,--which he could not bear and repress that tear which, as she had said, would go near to crush her if she saw it. Had she not plainly intimated her conviction that she would never again return to her old home? Here, here in this very spot, the doom was to come, and to come quickly. He got up and walked across the room, and stood a little behind her, where she could not see his face. "Do not leave me," she said. "I told you to stay and let your hand rest on mine." Then he returned, and laying his hand once again upon her lap turned his face away from her. "Bear it," she said. "Bear it." His hand quivered where it lay as he shook his head. "Call upon your courage and bear it." "I cannot bear it," he said, rising suddenly from his chair, and hurrying out of the room. He went out of the room and from the house, on to the little terrace which ran in front of the sea. But his escape was of no use to him; he could not leave her. He had come out without his hat, and he could not stand there in the sun to be stared at. "I am a coward," he said, going back to her and resuming his chair. "I own it. Let there be no more said about it. When a trouble comes to me, it conquers me. Little troubles I think I could bear. If it had been all else in all the world,--if it had been my life before my life was your life, I think that no one would have seen me blench. But now I find that when I am really tried, I fail." "It is in God's hands, dearest." "Yes;--it is in God's hands. There is some power, no doubt, that makes you strong in spirit, but frail in body; while I am strong to live but weak of heart. But how will that help me?" "Oh, Lord Hampstead, I do so wish you had never seen me." "You should not say that, Marion; you shall not think it. I am ungrateful; because, were it given me to have it all back again, I would not sell what I have had of you, though the possession has been so limited, for all other imaginable treasures. I will bear it. Oh, my love, I will bear it. Do not say again that you wish you had not seen me." "For myself, dear,--for myself--" "Do not say it for me. I will struggle to make a joy of it, a joy in some degree, though my heart bleeds at the widowhood that is coming on it. I will build up for myself a memory in which there shall be much to satisfy me. I shall have been loved by her to have possessed whose love has been and shall be a glory to me." "Loved indeed, my darling." "Though there might have been such a heaven of joy, even that shall be counted as much. It shall be to me during my future life as though when wandering through the green fields in some long-past day, I had met a bright angel from another world; and the angel had stopped to speak to me, and had surrounded me with her glorious wings, and had given me of her heavenly light, and had spoken to me with the music of the spheres, and I had thought that she would stay with me for ever. But there had come a noise of the drums and a sound of the trumpets, and she had flown away from me up to her own abode. To have been so favoured, though it had been but for an hour, should suffice for a man's life. I will bear it, though it be in solitude." "No, darling; not in solitude." "It will be best so for me. The light and the music and the azure of the wings will so remain with me the purer and the brighter. Oh,--if it had been! But I will bear it. No ear shall again hear a sound of complaint. Not yours even, my darling, my own, mine for so short a time, but yet my very own for ever and ever." Then he fell on his knees beside her, and hid his face in her dress, while the fingers of both her hands rambled through his hair. "You are going," he said, when he rose up to his feet, "you are going whither I cannot go." "You will come; you will come to me." "You are going now, now soon, and I doubt not that you are going to joys inexpressible. I cannot go till some chance may take me. If it be given to you in that further world to see those and to think of those whom you have left below, then, if my heart be true to your heart, keep your heart true to mine. If I can fancy that, if I can believe that it is so, then shall I have that angel with me, and though my eyes may not see the tints, my ears will hear the music;--and though the glory be not palpable as is the light of heaven, there will be an inner glory in which my soul will be sanctified." After that there were not many words spoken between them, though he remained there till he was disturbed by the Quaker's coming. Part of the time she slept with her hand in his, and when awake she was contented to feel his touch as he folded the scarf close round her neck and straightened the shawl which lay across her feet, and now and again stroked her hair and put it back behind her ears as it strayed upon her forehead. Ever and again she would murmur a word or two of love as she revelled in the perception of his solicitude. What was there for her to regret, for her to whom was given the luxury of such love? Was not a month of it more than a whole life without it? Then, when the father came, Hampstead took his leave. As he kissed her lips, something seemed to tell him that it would be for the last time. It was not good, the Quaker had said, that she should be disturbed. Yes; he could come again; but not quite yet. At the very moment when the Quaker so spoke she was pressing her lips to his. "God keep you and take you, my darling," she whispered to him, "and bring you to me in heaven." She noticed not at all at the moment the warm tears that were running on to her own face; nor did the Quaker seem to notice it when Lord Hampstead left the house without saying to him a word of farewell. CHAPTER XVII. LADY AMALDINA'S WEDDING. The time came round for Lady Amaldina's marriage, than which nothing more august, nothing more aristocratic, nothing more truly savouring of the hymeneal altar, had ever been known or was ever to be known in the neighbourhood of Hanover Square. For it was at last decided that the marriage should take place in London before any of the aristocratic assistants at the ceremony should have been whirled away into autumnal spaces. Lord Llwddythlw himself knew but very little about it,--except this, that nothing would induce him so to hurry on the ceremony as to interfere with his Parliamentary duties. A day in August had been mentioned in special reference to Parliament. He was willing to abide by that, or to go to the sacrifice at any earlier day of which Parliament would admit. Parliament was to sit for the last time on Wednesday, 12th August, and the marriage was fixed for the 13th. Lady Amaldina had prayed for the concession of a week. Readers will not imagine that she based her prayers on the impatience of love. Nor could a week be of much significance in reference to that protracted and dangerous delay to which the match had certainly been subjected. But the bevy might escape. How were twenty young ladies to be kept together in the month of August when all the young men were rushing off to Scotland? Others were not wedded to their duties as was Lord Llwddythlw. Lady Amaldina knew well how completely Parliament became a mere affair of Governmental necessities during the first weeks of August. "I should have thought that just on this one occasion you might have managed it," she said to him, trying to mingle a tone of love with the sarcasm which at such a crisis was natural to her. He simply reminded her of the promise which he had made to her in the spring. He thought it best not to break through arrangements which had been fixed. When she told him of one very slippery member of the bevy,--slippery, not as to character, but in reference to the movements of her family,--he suggested that no one would know the difference if only nineteen were to be clustered round the bride's train. "Don't you know that they must be in pairs?" "Will not nine pairs suffice?" he asked. "And thus make one of them an enemy for ever by telling her that I wish to dispense with her services!" But it was of no use. "Dispense with them altogether," he said, looking her full in the face. "The twenty will not quarrel with you. My object is to marry you, and I don't care twopence for the bridesmaids." There was something so near to a compliment in this, that she was obliged to accept it. And she had, too, begun to perceive that Lord Llwddythlw was a man not easily made to change his mind. She was quite prepared for this in reference to her future life. A woman, she thought, might be saved much trouble by having a husband whom she was bound to obey. But in this matter of her marriage ceremony,--this last affair in which she might be presumed to act as a free woman,--she did think it hard that she might not be allowed to have her own way. The bridegroom, however, was firm. If Thursday, the 13th, did not suit her, he would be quite ready on Thursday, the 20th. "There wouldn't be one of them left in London," said Lady Amaldina. "What on earth do you think that they are to do with themselves?" But all the bevy were true to her. Lady Amelia Beaudesert was a difficulty. Her mother insisted on going to a far-away Bavarian lake on which she had a villa;--but Lady Amelia at the last moment surrendered the villa rather than break up the bevy, and consented to remain with a grumpy old aunt in Essex till an opportunity should offer. It may be presumed, therefore, that it was taken to be a great thing to be one of the bevy. It is, no doubt, a pleasant thing for a girl to have it asserted in all the newspapers that she is, by acknowledgment, one of the twenty most beautiful unmarried ladies in Great Britain. Lady Frances was of course one of the bevy. But there was a member of the family,--a connection rather,--whom no eloquence could induce to show himself either in the church or at the breakfast. This was Lord Hampstead. His sister came to him and assured him that he ought to be there. "Sorrows," she said, "that have declared themselves before the world are held as sufficient excuse; but a man should not be hindered from his duties by secret grief." "I make no secret of it. I do not talk about my private affairs. I do not send a town-crier to Charing Cross to tell the passers-by that I am in trouble. But I care not whether men know or not that I am unfitted for joining in such festivities. My presence is not wanted for their marriage." "It will be odd." "Let it be odd. I most certainly shall not be there." But he remembered the occasion, and showed that he did so by sending to the bride the handsomest of all the gems which graced her exhibition of presents, short of the tremendous set of diamonds which had come from the Duke of Merioneth. This collection was supposed to be the most gorgeous thing that had ever as yet been arranged in London. It would certainly not be too much to say that the wealth of precious toys brought together would, if sold at its cost price, have made an ample fortune for a young newly-married couple. The families were noble and wealthy, and the richness of the wedding presents was natural. It might perhaps have been better had not the value of the whole been stated in one of the newspapers of the day. Who was responsible for the valuation was never known, but it seemed to indicate that the costliness of the gifts was more thought of than the affection of the givers; and it was undoubtedly true that, in high circles and among the clubs, the cost of the collection was much discussed. The diamonds were known to a stone, and Hampstead's rubies were spoken of almost as freely as though they were being exhibited in public. Lord Llwddythlw when he heard of all this muttered to his maiden sister a wish that a gnome would come in the night and run away with everything. He felt himself degraded by the publicity given to his future wife's ornaments. But the gnome did not come, and the young men from Messrs. Bijou and Carcanet were allowed to arrange the tables and shelves for the exhibition. The breakfast was to take place at the Foreign Office, at which the bride's father was for the time being the chief occupant. Lord Persiflage had not at first been willing that it should be so, thinking that his own more modest house might suffice for the marriage of his own daughter. But grander counsels had been allowed to prevail. With whom the idea first arose Lord Persiflage never knew. It might probably have been with some of the bevy, who had felt that an ordinary drawing-room would hardly suffice for so magnificent an array of toilets. Perhaps the thought had first occurred to Messrs. Bijou and Carcanet, who had foreseen the glory of spreading out all that wealth in the magnificent saloon intended for the welcoming of ambassadors. But it travelled from Lady Amaldina to her mother, and was passed on from Lady Persiflage to her husband. "Of course the Ambassadors will all be there," the Countess had said, "and, therefore, it will be a public occasion." "I wish we could be married at Llanfihangel," Lord Llwddythlw said to his bride. Now Llanfihangel church was a very small edifice, with a thatched roof, among the mountains in North Wales, with which Lady Amaldina had been made acquainted when visiting the Duchess, her future mother-in-law. But Llwddythlw was not to have his way in everything, and the preparations at the Foreign Office were continued. The beautifully embossed invitations were sent about among a large circle of noble and aristocratic friends. All the Ambassadors and all the Ministers, with all their wives and daughters, were, of course, asked. As the breakfast was to be given in the great Banqueting Hall at the Foreign Office it was necessary that the guests should be many. It is sometimes well in a matter of festivals to be saved from extravagance by the modest size of one's rooms. Lord Persiflage told his wife that his daughter's marriage would ruin him. In answer to this she reminded him that Llwddythlw had asked for no fortune. Lord Llwddythlw was one of those men who prefer giving to taking. He had a feeling that a husband should supply all that was wanted, and that a wife should owe everything to the man she marries. The feeling is uncommon just at present,--except with the millions who neither have nor expect other money than what they earn. If you are told that the daughter of an old man who has earned his own bread is about to marry a young man in the same condition of life, it is spoken of as a misfortune. But Lord Llwddythlw was old-fashioned, and had the means of acting in accordance with his prejudices. Let the marriage be ever so gorgeous, it would not cost the dowry which an Earl's daughter might have expected. That was the argument used by Lady Persiflage, and it seemed to have been effectual. As the day drew near it was observed that the bridegroom became more sombre and silent even than usual. He never left the House of Commons as long as it was open to him as a refuge. His Saturdays and his Sundays and his Wednesdays he filled up with work so various and unceasing that there was no time left for those pretty little attentions which a girl about to be married naturally expects. He did call, perhaps, every other day at his bride's house, but never remained there above two minutes. "I am afraid he is not happy," the Countess said to her daughter. "Oh, yes, mamma, he is." "Then why does he go on like that?" "Oh, mamma, you do not know him." "Do you?" "I think so. My belief is that there isn't a man in London so anxious to be married as Llwddythlw." "I am glad of that." "He has lost so much time that he knows it ought to be got through and done with without further delay. If he could only go to sleep and wake up a married man of three months' standing, he would be quite happy. If it could be administered under chloroform it would be so much better! It is the doing of the thing, and the being talked about and looked at, that is so odious to him." "Then why not have had it done quietly, my dear?" "Because there are follies, mamma, to which a woman should never give way. I will not have myself made humdrum. If I had been going to marry a handsome young man so as to have a spice of romance out of it all, I would have cared nothing about the bridesmaids and the presents. The man then would have stood for everything. Llwddythlw is not young, and is not handsome." "But he is thoroughly noble." "Quite so. He's as good as gold. He will always be somebody in people's eyes because he's great and grand and trustworthy all round. But I want to be somebody in people's eyes, too, mamma. I'm all very well to look at, but nothing particular. I'm papa's daughter, which is something,--but not enough. I mean to begin and be magnificent. He understands it all, and I don't think he'll oppose me when once this exhibition day is over. I've thought all about it, and I think that I know what I'm doing." At any rate, she had her way, and thoroughly enjoyed the task she had on hand. When she had talked of a possible romance with a handsome young lover she had not quite known herself. She might have made the attempt, but it would have been a failure. She could fall in love with a Master of Ravenswood in a novel, but would have given herself by preference,--after due consideration,--to the richer, though less poetical, suitor. Of good sterling gifts she did know the value, and was therefore contented with her lot. But this business of being married, with all the most extravagant appurtenances of the hymeneal altar, was to her taste. That picture in one of the illustrated papers which professed to give the hymeneal altar at St. George's, with the Bishop and the Dean and two Queen's Chaplains officiating, and the bride and the bridegroom in all their glory, with a Royal Duke and a Royal Duchess looking on, with all the Stars and all the Garters from our own and other Courts, and especially with the bevy of twenty, standing in ten distinct pairs, and each from a portrait, was manifestly a work of the imagination. I was there, and to tell the truth, it was rather a huddled matter. The spaces did not seem to admit of majestic grouping, and as three of these chief personages had the gout, the sticks of these lame gentlemen were to my eyes very conspicuous. The bevy had not room enough, and the ladies in the crush seemed to feel the intense heat. Something had made the Bishop cross. I am told that Lady Amaldina had determined not to be hurried, while the Bishop was due at an afternoon meeting at three. The artist, in creating the special work of art, had soared boldly into the ideal. In depicting the buffet of presents and the bridal feast, he may probably have been more accurate. I was not myself present. The youthful appearance of the bridegroom as he rose to make his speech may probably be attributed to a poetic license, permissible, nay laudable, nay necessary on such an occasion. The buffet of presents no doubt was all there; though it may be doubted whether the contributions from Royalty were in truth so conspicuous as they were made to appear. There were speeches spoken by two or three Foreign Ministers, and one by the bride's father. But the speech which has created most remark was from the bridegroom. "I hope we may be as happy as your kind wishes would have us," said he;--and then he sat down. It was declared afterwards that these were the only words which passed his lips on the occasion. To those who congratulated him he merely gave his hand and bowed, and yet he looked to be neither fluttered nor ill at ease. We know how a brave man will sit and have his tooth taken out, without a sign of pain on his brow,--trusting to the relief which is to come to him. So it was with Lord Llwddythlw. It might, perhaps, have saved pain if, as Lady Amaldina had said, chloroform could have been used. "Well, my dear, it is done at last," Lady Persiflage said to her daughter, when the bride was taken into some chamber for the readjustment of her dress. "Yes, mamma, it is done now." "And are you happy?" "Certainly I am. I have got what I wanted." "And you can love him?" Coming from Lady Persiflage this did seem to be romantic; but she had been stirred up to some serious thoughts as she remembered that she was now surrendering to a husband the girl whom she had made, whom she had tutored, whom she had prepared either for the good or for the evil performance of the duties of life. "Oh, yes, mamma," said Lady Amaldina. It is so often the case that the pupils are able to exceed the teaching of their tutors! It was so in this case. The mother, as she saw her girl given up to a silent middle-aged unattractive man, had her misgivings; but not so the daughter herself. She had looked at it all round, and had resolved that she could do her duty--under certain stipulations which she thought would be accorded to her. "He has more to say for himself than you think;--only he won't trouble himself to make assertions. And if he is not very much in love, he likes me better than anybody else, which goes a long way." Her mother blessed her, and led her away into a room where she joined her husband in order that she might be then taken down to the carriage. The bride herself had not quite understood what was to take place, and was surprised to find herself quite alone for a moment with her husband. "My wife," he said; "now kiss me." She ran into his arms and put up her face to him. "I thought you were going to forget that," she said, as he held her for a moment with his arm round her waist. "I could not dare," he said, "to handle all that gorgeous drapery of lace. You were dressed up then for an exhibition. You look now as my wife ought to look." "It had to be done, Llwddythlw." "I make no complaint, dearest. I only say that I like you better as you are, as a girl to kiss, and to embrace, and to talk to, and to make my own." Then she curtsied to him prettily, and kissed him again; and after that they walked out arm-in-arm down to the carriage. There were many carriages drawn up within the quadrangle of which the Foreign Office forms a part, but the carriage which was to take the bride and the bridegroom away was allowed a door to itself,--at any rate till such time as they should have been taken away. An effort had been made to keep the public out of the quadrangle; but as the duties of the four Secretaries of State could not be suspended, and as the great gates are supposed to make a public thoroughfare, this could only be done to a certain extent. The crowd, no doubt, was thicker out in Downing Street, but there were very many standing within the square. Among these there was one, beautifully arrayed in frock coat and yellow gloves, almost as though he himself was prepared for his own wedding. When Lord Llwddythlw brought Lady Amaldina out from the building and handed her into the carriage, and when the husband and wife had seated themselves, the well-dressed individual raised his hat from his head, and greeted them. "Long life and happiness to the bride of Castle Hautboy!" said he at the top of his voice. Lady Amaldina could not but see the man, and, recognizing him, she bowed. It was Crocker,--the irrepressible Crocker. He had been also in the church. The narrator and he had managed to find standing room in a back pew under one of the galleries. Now would he be able to say with perfect truth that he had been at the wedding, and had received a parting salute from the bride; whom he had known through so many years of her infancy. He probably did believe that he was entitled to count the future Duchess of Merioneth among his intimate friends. CHAPTER XVIII. CROCKER'S TALE. A thing difficult to get is the thing mostly prized, not the thing that is valuable. Two or three additional Kimberley mines found somewhere among the otherwise uninteresting plains of South Africa would bring down the price of diamonds amazingly. It could hardly have been the beauty, or the wit, or the accomplishments of Clara Demijohn which caused Mr. Tribbledale to triumph so loudly and with so genuine an exultation, telling all Broad Street of his success, when he had succeeded in winning the bride who had once promised herself to Crocker. Were it not that she had all but slipped through his fingers he would never surely have thought her to be worthy of such a pæan. Had she come to his first whistle he might have been contented enough,--as are other ordinary young men with their ordinary young women. He would probably have risen to no enthusiasm of passion. But as things had gone he was as another Paris who had torn a Helen from her Menelaus,--only in this case an honest Paris, with a correct Helen, and from a Menelaus who had not as yet made good his claim. But the subject was worthy of another Iliad, to be followed by another Æneid. By his bow and his spear he had torn her from the arms of a usurping lover, and now made her all his own. Another man would have fainted and abandoned the contest, when rejected as he had been. But he had continued the fight, even when lying low on the dust of the arena. He had nailed his flag to the mast when all his rigging had been cut away;--and at last he had won the battle. Of course his Clara was doubly dear to him, having been made his own after such difficulties as these. "I'm not one of those who easily give way in an affair of the heart," he said to Mr. Littlebird, the junior partner in the firm, when he told that gentleman of his engagement. "So I perceive, Mr. Tribbledale." "When a man has set his affection on a young lady,--that is, his real affection,--he ought to stick to it,--or die." Mr. Littlebird, who was the happy father of three or four married and marriageable daughters, opened his eyes with surprise. The young men who had come after his young ladies had been pressing enough, but they had not died. "Or die!" repeated Tribbledale. "It is what I should have done. Had she become Mrs. Crocker, I should never again have been seen in the Court,"--"the Court" was the little alley in which Pogson and Littlebird's office was held,--"unless they had brought my dead body here to be identified." He was quite successful in his enthusiasm. Though Mr. Littlebird laughed when he told the story to Mr. Pogson, not the less did they agree to raise his salary to £160 on and from the day of his marriage. "Yes, Mr. Fay," he said to the poor old Quaker, who had lately been so broken by his sorrow as hardly to be as much master of Tribbledale as he used to be, "I have no doubt I shall be steady now. If anything can make a young man steady it is--success in love." "I hope thou wilt be happy, Mr. Tribbledale." "I shall be happy enough now. My heart will be more in the business,--what there isn't of it at any rate with that dear creature in our mutual home at Islington. It was lucky about his having taken those lodgings, because Clara had got as it were used to them. And there are one or two things, such as a clock and the like, which need not be moved. If anything ever should happen to you, Mr. Fay, Pogson and Littlebird will find me quite up to the business." "Something will happen some day, no doubt," said the Quaker. On one occasion Lord Hampstead was in the Court having a word to say to Marion's father, or, perhaps, a word to hear. "I'm sure you'll excuse me, my lord," said Tribbledale, following him out of the office. "Oh, yes," said Hampstead, with a smile,--for he had been there often enough to have made some acquaintance with the junior clerk. "If there be anything I can do for you, I will do it willingly." "Only just to congratulate me, my lord. You have heard of--Crocker?" Lord Hampstead owned that he had heard of Crocker. "He has been interfering with me in the tenderest of parts." Lord Hampstead looked serious. "There is a young woman"--the poor victim frowned, he knew not why; but remitted his frown and smiled again; "who had promised herself to me. Then that rude assailant came and upset all my joy." Here, as the narrator paused, Lord Hampstead owned to himself that he could not deny the truth of the description. "Perhaps," continued Tribbledale,--"perhaps you have seen Clara Demijohn." Lord Hampstead could not remember having been so fortunate. "Because I am aware that your steps have wandered in the way of Paradise Row." Then there came the frown again,--and then the smile. "Well;--perhaps it may be that a more perfect form of feminine beauty may be ascribed to another." This was intended as a compliment, more civil than true, paid to Marion Fay on Lord Hampstead's behalf. "But for a combination of chastity and tenderness I don't think you can easily beat Clara Demijohn." Lord Hampstead bowed, as showing his readiness to believe such a statement coming from so good a judge. "For awhile the interloper prevailed. Interlopers do prevail;--such is the female heart. But the true rock shows itself always at last. She is the true rock on which I have built the castle of my happiness." "Then I may congratulate you, Mr. Tribbledale." "Yes;--and not only that, my lord. But Crocker is nowhere. You must own that there is a triumph in that. There was a time! Oh! how I felt it. There was a time when he triumphed; when he talked of 'my Clara,' as though I hadn't a chance. He's up a tree now, my lord. I thought I'd just tell you as you are so friendly, coming among us, here, my lord!" Lord Hampstead again congratulated him, and expressed a hope that he might be allowed to send the bride a small present. "Oh, my lord," said Tribbledale, "it shall go with the clock and the harmonium, and shall be the proudest moment of my life." When Miss Demijohn heard that the salary of Pogson and Littlebird's clerk,--she called it "Dan's screw" in speaking of the matter to her aunt,--had been raised to £160 per annum, she felt that there could be no excuse for a further change. Up to that moment it had seemed to her that Tribbledale had obtained his triumph by a deceit which it still might be her duty to frustrate. He had declared positively that those fatal words had been actually written in the book, "Dismissal--B. B." But she had learned that the words had not been written as yet. All is fair in love and war. She was not in the least angry with Tribbledale because of his little ruse. A lie told in such a cause was a merit. But not on that account need she be led away by it from her own most advantageous course. In spite of the little quarrel which had sprung up between herself and Crocker, Crocker, still belonging to Her Majesty's Civil Service, must be better than Tribbledale. But when she found that Tribbledale's statement as to the £160 was true, and when she bethought herself that Crocker would probably be dismissed sooner or later, then she determined to be firm. As to the £160, old Mrs. Demijohn herself went to the office, and learned the truth from Zachary Fay. "I think he is a good young man," said the Quaker, "and he will do very well if he will cease to think quite so much of himself." To this Mrs. Demijohn remarked that half-a-dozen babies might probably cure that fault. So the matter was settled, and it came to pass that Daniel Tribbledale and Clara Demijohn were married at Holloway on that very Thursday which saw completed the alliance which had been so long arranged between the noble houses of Powell and De Hauteville. There were two letters written on the occasion which shall be given here as showing the willingness to forget and forgive which marked the characters of the two persons. A day or two before the marriage the following invitation was sent;-- DEAR SAM,-- I hope you will quite forget what is past, at any rate what was unpleasant, and come to our wedding on Thursday. There is to be a little breakfast here afterwards, and I am sure that Dan will be very happy to shake your hand. I have asked him, and he says that as he is to be the bridegroom he would be proud to have you as best man. Your old sincere friend, CLARA DEMIJOHN,--for the present. The answer was as follows:-- DEAR CLARA,-- There's no malice in me. Since our little tiff I have been thinking that, after all, I'm not the man for matrimony. To sip the honey from many flowers is, perhaps, after all my line of life. I should have been happy to be Dan Tribbledale's bottle-holder, but that there is another affair coming off which I must attend. Our Lady Amaldina is to be married, and I must be there. Our families have been connected, as you know, for a great many years, and I could not forgive myself if I did not see her turned off. No other consideration would have prevented me from accepting your very kind invitation. Your loving old friend, SAM CROCKER. There did come a pang of regret across Clara's heart, as she read this as to the connection of the families. Of course Crocker was lying. Of course it was an empty boast. But there was a savour of aristocracy even in the capability of telling such a lie. Had she made Crocker her husband she also would have been able to drag Castle Hautboy into her daily conversations with Mrs. Duffer. At the time of these weddings, the month of August, Æolus had not even yet come to a positive and actual decision as to Crocker's fate. Crocker had been suspended;--by which act he had been temporarily expelled from the office, so that his time was all his own to do what he pleased with it. Whether when suspended he would receive his salary, no one knew as a certainty. The presumption was that a man suspended would be dismissed,--unless he could succeed in explaining away or diminishing the sin of which he had been supposed to be guilty. Æolus himself could suspend, but it required an act on the part of the senior officer to dismiss,--or even to deprive the sinner of any part of his official emoluments. There had been no explanation possible. No diminishing of the sin had been attempted. It was acknowledged on all sides that Crocker had,--as Miss Demijohn properly described it,--destroyed Her Majesty's Mail papers. In order that unpardonable delay and idleness might not be traced home to him, he had torn into fragments a bundle of official documents. His character was so well known that no one doubted his dismissal. Mr. Jerningham had spoken of it as a thing accomplished. Bobbin and Geraghty had been congratulated on their rise in the department. "Dismissal--B. B." had been recorded, if not in any official book, at any rate in all official minds. But B. B. himself had as yet decided nothing. When Crocker attended Lady Amaldina's wedding in his best coat and gloves he was still under suspension; but trusting to the conviction that after so long a reprieve capital punishment would not be carried out. Sir Boreas Bodkin had shoved the papers on one side, and, since that, nothing further had been said on the matter. Weeks had passed, but no decision had been made public. Sir Boreas was a man whom the subordinates nearest to him did not like to remind as to any such duty as this. When a case was "shoved on one side" it was known to be something unpalateable. And yet, as Mr. Jerningham whispered to George Roden, it was a thing that ought to be settled. "He can't come back, you know," he said. "I dare say he will," said the Duca. "Impossible! I look upon it as impossible!" This Mr. Jerningham said very seriously. "There are some people, you know," rejoined the other, "whose bark is so much worse than their bite." "I know there are, Mr. Roden, and Sir Boreas is perhaps one of them; but there are cases in which to pardon the thing done seems to be perfectly impossible. This is one of them. If papers are to be destroyed with impunity, what is to become of the Department? I for one should not know how to go on with my duties. Tearing up papers! Good Heavens! When I think of it I doubt whether I am standing on my head or my heels." This was very strong language for Mr. Jerningham, who was not accustomed to find fault with the proceedings of his superiors. He went about the office all these weeks with a visage of woe and the air of a man conscious that some great evil was at hand. Sir Boreas had observed it, and knew well why that visage was so long. Nevertheless when his eyes fell on that bundle of papers,--on the Crocker bundle of papers,--he only pushed it a little further out of sight than it was before. Who does not know how odious a letter will become by being shoved on one side day after day? Answer it at the moment, and it will be nothing. Put it away unread, or at least undigested, for a day, and it at once begins to assume ugly proportions. When you have been weak enough to let it lie on your desk, or worse again, hidden in your breast-pocket, for a week or ten days, it will have become an enemy so strong and so odious that you will not dare to attack it. It throws a gloom over all your joys. It makes you cross to your wife, severe to the cook, and critical to your own wine-cellar. It becomes the Black Care which sits behind you when you go out a riding. You have neglected a duty, and have put yourself in the power of perhaps some vulgar snarler. You think of destroying it and denying it, dishonestly and falsely,--as Crocker did the mail papers. And yet you must bear yourself all the time as though there were no load lying near your heart. So it was with our Æolus and the Crocker papers. The papers had become a great bundle. The unfortunate man had been called upon for an explanation, and had written a blundering long letter on a huge sheet of foolscap paper,--which Sir Boreas had not read, and did not mean to read. Large fragments of the torn "mail papers" had been found, and were all there. Mr. Jerningham had written a well-worded lengthy report,--which never certainly would be read. There were former documents in which the existence of the papers had been denied. Altogether the bundle was big and unholy and distasteful. Those who knew our Æolus well were sure that he would never even undo the tape by which the bundle was tied. But something must be done. One month's pay-day had already passed since the suspension, and the next was at hand. "Can anything be settled about Mr. Crocker?" asked Mr. Jerningham, one day about the end of August. Sir Boreas had already sent his family to a little place he had in the West of Ireland, and was postponing his holiday because of this horrid matter. Mr. Jerningham could never go away till Æolus went. Sir Boreas knew all this, and was thoroughly ashamed of himself. "Just speak to me about it to-morrow and we'll settle the matter," he said, in his blandest voice. Mr. Jerningham retreated from the room frowning. According to his thinking there ought to be nothing to settle. "D---- the fellow," said Sir Boreas, as soon as the door was closed; and he gave the papers another shove which sent them off the huge table on to the floor. Whether it was Mr. Jerningham or Crocker who was damned, he hardly knew himself. Then he was forced to stoop to the humility of picking up the bundle. That afternoon he roused himself. About three o'clock he sent, not for Mr. Jerningham, but for the Duca. When Roden entered the room the bundle was before him, but not opened. "Can you send for this man and get him here to-day?" he asked. The Duca promised that he would do his best. "I can't bring myself to recommend his dismissal," he said. The Duca only smiled. "The poor fellow is just going to be married, you know." The Duca smiled again. Living in Paradise Row himself, he knew that the lady, _née_ Clara Demijohn, was already the happy wife of Mr. Tribbledale. But he knew also that after so long an interval Crocker could not well be dismissed, and he was not ill-natured enough to rob his chief of so good an excuse. He left the room, therefore, declaring that he would cause Crocker to be summoned immediately. Crocker was summoned, and came. Had Sir Boreas made up his mind briefly to dismiss the man, or briefly to forgive him, the interview would have been unnecessary. As things now were the man could not certainly be dismissed. Sir Boreas was aware of that. Nor could he be pardoned without further notice. Crocker entered the room with that mingling of the bully and the coward in his appearance which is generally the result when a man who is overawed attempts to show that he is not afraid. Sir Boreas passed his fingers through the hairs on each side of his head, frowned hard, and, blowing through his nostrils, became at once the Æolus that he had been named; Assumes the god, Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres. "Mr. Crocker," said the god, laying his hand on the bundle of papers still tied up in a lump. Then he paused and blew the wrath out of his nostrils. "Sir Boreas, no one can be more sorry for an accident than I am for that." "An accident!" "Well, Sir Boreas; I am afraid I shall not make you understand it all." "I don't think you will." "The first paper I did tear up by accident, thinking it was something done with." "Then you thought you might as well send the others after it." "One or two were torn by accident. Then--" "Well!" "I hope you'll look it over this time, Sir Boreas." "I have done nothing but look it over, as you call it, since you came into the Department. You've been a disgrace to the office. You're of no use whatsoever. You give more trouble than all the other clerks put together. I'm sick of hearing your name." "If you'll try me again I'll turn over a new leaf, Sir Boreas." "I don't believe it for a moment. They tell me you're just going to be married." Crocker was silent. Could he be expected to cut the ground from under his own feet at such a moment? "For the young lady's sake, I don't like turning you adrift on the world at such a time. I only wish that she had a more secure basis for her happiness." "She'll be all right," said Crocker. He will probably be thought to have been justified in carrying on the delusion at such a crisis of his life. "But you must take my assurance of this," said Æolus, looking more like the god of storms, "that no wife or baby,--no joy or trouble,--shall save you again if you again deserve dismissal." Crocker with his most affable smile thanked Sir Boreas and withdrew. It was said afterwards that Sir Boreas had seen and read that smile on Roden's face, had put two and two together in regard to him, and had become sure that there was to be no marriage. But, had he lost that excuse, where should he find another? CHAPTER XIX. "MY MARION." The blow came very suddenly at last. About the middle of September the spirit of Marion Fay flitted away from all its earthly joys and all its earthly troubles. Lord Hampstead saw her alive for the last time at that interview which was described a few pages back. Whenever he proposed to go down again to Pegwell Bay some objection was made, either by the Quaker or by Mrs. Roden on the Quaker's behalf. The doctor, it was alleged, had declared that such visits were injurious to his patient,--or perhaps it was that Marion had herself said that she was unable to bear the excitement. There was, no doubt, some truth in this. And Marion had seen that though she herself could enjoy the boundless love which her lover tendered to her, telling herself that though it was only for a while, it was very sweet to have it so, yet for him these meetings were full of agony. But in addition to this there was, I think, a jealousy on the part of Zachary Fay as to his daughter. When there was still a question whether the young lord should be his son-in-law, he had been willing to give way and to subordinate himself, even though his girl were the one thing left to him in all the world. While there was an idea that she should be married, there had accompanied that idea a hope, almost an expectation, that she might live. But when it was brought home to him as a fact that her marriage was out of the question because her life was waning, then unconsciously there grew up in his heart a feeling that the young lord ought not to rob him of what was left. Had Marion insisted, he would have yielded. Had Mrs. Roden told him that it was cruel to separate them, he would have groaned and given way. As it was, he simply leaned to that view of the matter which gave him the greatest preponderance with his own child. It may be that she saw it too, and would not wound him by asking for her lover's presence. About the middle of September she died, having written to Hampstead the very day before her death. Her letters lately had become but a few words each, which Mrs. Roden would put into an envelope and send to their destination. He wrote daily, assuring her that he would not leave his home for a day in order that he might go to her instantly when she would send for him. To the last she never gave up the idea of seeing him again;--but at last the little light flickered out quicker than had been expected. Mrs. Roden was at Pegwell Bay when the end came; and to her fell the duty of making it known to Lord Hampstead. She went up to town immediately, leaving the Quaker in the desolate cottage, and sent down a note from Holloway to Hendon Hall. "I must see you as soon as possible. Shall I go to you, or will you come to me?" When she wrote the words she was sure that he would understand their purport, and yet it was easier to write so than to tell the cruel truth plainly. The note was sent down by a messenger, but Lord Hampstead in person was the answer. There was no need of any telling. When he stood before her dressed from head to foot in black, she took him by the two hands and looked into his face. "It is all over for her," he said,--"the trouble and the anguish, and the sense of long dull days to come. My Marion! How infinitely she has the best of it! How glad I ought to be that it is so." "You must wait, Lord Hampstead," she said. "Pray, pray, let me have no consolation. Waiting in the sense you mean there will be none. For the one relief which will finally come to me I must of course wait. Did she say any word that you would wish to tell me!" "Many, many." "Were they for my ears?" "What other words should she have spoken to me? They were prayers for your health." "My health needs not her prayers." "Prayers for your soul's health." "Such praying will be efficacious there,--or would be were anything needed to make her fit for those angels among whom she has gone. For me they can do nothing,--unless it be that in knowing how much she loved me I may strive to be as she was." "And for your happiness." "Psha!" he exclaimed. "You must let me do her commission, Lord Hampstead. I was to bid you remember that God in His goodness has ordained that the dead after awhile shall be remembered only with a softened sorrow. I was to tell you that as a man you should give your thoughts to other things. It is not from myself;--it is from her." "She did not know. She did not understand. As regards good and evil she was, to my eyes, perfect;--perfect as she was in beauty, in grace, and feminine tenderness. But the character of others she had not learned to read. But I need not trouble you as to that, Mrs. Roden. You have been good to her as though you were her mother, and I will love you for it while I live." Then he was going away; but he turned again to ask some question as to the funeral. Might he do it. Mrs. Roden shook her head. "But I shall be there?" To this she assented, but explained to him that Zachary Fay would admit of no interference with that which he considered to be his own privilege and his own duty. Lord Hampstead had driven himself over from Hendon Hall, and had driven fast. When he left Mrs. Roden's house the groom was driving the dog-cart up and down Paradise Row, waiting for his master. But the master walked on out of the Row, forgetting altogether the horse and the cart and the man, not knowing whither he was going. The blow had come, and though it had been fully expected, though he had known well that it was coming, it struck him now as hard, almost harder than if it had not been expected. It seemed to himself that he was unable to endure his sorrow now because he had been already weakened by such a load of sorrow. Because he had grieved so much, he could not now bear this further grief. As he walked on he beat his hands about, unconscious that he was in the midst of men and women who were gazing at him in the streets. There was nothing left to him,--nothing, nothing, nothing! He felt that if he could rid himself of his titles, rid himself of his wealth, rid himself of the very clothes upon his back, it would be better for him, so that he might not seem to himself to think that comfort could be found in externals. "Marion," he said, over and over again, in little whispered words, but loud enough for his own ears to hear the sound. And then he uttered phrases which were almost fantastic in their woe, but which declared what was and had been the condition of his mind towards her since she had become so inexpressibly dear to him. "My wife," he said, "my own one! Mother of my children. My woman; my countess; my princess. They should have seen. They should have acknowledged. They should have known whom it was that I had brought among them;--of what nature should be the woman whom a man should set in a high place. I had made my choice;--and then that it should come to this!" "There is no good to be done," he said again. "It all turns to ashes and to dust. The low things of the world are those which prevail." "Oh, Marion, that I could be with you! Though it were to be nowhere,--though the great story should have no pathetic ending, though the last long eternal chapter should be a blank,--still to have wandered away with you would have been something." As soon as he reached his house he walked straight into the drawing-room, and having carefully closed the door, he took the poker in his hand and held it clasped there as something precious. "It is the only thing of mine," he said, "that she has touched. Even then I swore to myself that this hearth should be her hearth; that here we would sit together, and be one flesh and one bone." Then surreptitiously he took the bit of iron away with him, and hid it among his treasures,--to the subsequent dismay of the housemaid. There came to him a summons from the Quaker to the funeral, and on the day named, without saying a word to any one, he took the train and went down to Pegwell Bay. From the moment on which the messenger had come from Mrs. Roden he had dressed himself in black, and he now made no difference in his garments. Poor Zachary said but little to him; but that little was very bitter. "It has been so with all of them," he said. "They have all been taken. The Lord cannot strike me again now." Of the highly-born stranger's grief, or of the cause which brought him there, he had not a word to say; nor did Lord Hampstead speak of his own sorrow. "I sympathize and condole with you," he said to the old man. The Quaker shook his head, and after that there was silence between them till they parted. To the few others who were there Lord Hampstead did not address himself, nor did they to him. From the grave, when the clod of earth had been thrown on it, he walked slowly away, without a sign on his face of that agony which was rending his heart. There was a carriage there to take him to the railway, but he only shook his head when he was invited to enter it. He walked off and wandered about for hours, till he thought that the graveyard would be deserted. Then he returned, and when he found himself alone he stood over the newly heaped-up soil. "Marion," he said to himself over and over again, whispering as he stood there. "Marion,--Marion; my wife; my woman." As he stood by the grave side, one came softly stealing up to him, and laid a hand upon his shoulder. He turned round quickly, and saw that it was the bereaved father. "Mr. Fay," he said, "we have both lost the only thing that either of us valued." "What is it to thee, who are young, and hardly knew her twelve months since?" "Months make no difference, I think." "But old age, my lord, and childishness, and solitude--" "I, too, am alone." "She was my daughter, my own. Thou hadst seen a pretty face, and that was all. She had remained with me when those others died. Had thou not come--" "Did my coming kill her, Mr. Fay'?" "I do not say that. Thou hast been good to her, and I would not say a hard word to thee." "I did think that nothing could have added to my sorrow." "No, my lord; no, no. She would have died. She was her dear mother's child, and she was doomed. Go away, and be thankful that thou, too, hast not become the father of children born only to perish in your sight. I will not say an unkind word, but I would wish to have my girl's grave to myself." Upon this Lord Hampstead walked off, and went back to his own home, hardly knowing how he reached it. It was a month after this that he returned to the churchyard, and might have been seen sitting on the small stone slab which the Quaker had already caused to be laid over the grave. It was a fine October evening, and the sombre gloom of the hours was already darkening everything around. He had crept into the enclosure silently, almost slily, so as to insure himself that his presence should not be noted; and now, made confident by the coming darkness, he had seated himself on the stone. During the long hours that he sat there no word was formed within his lips, but he surrendered himself entirely to thoughts of what his life might have been had she been spared to him. He had come there for a purpose, the very opposite of that; but how often does it come to pass that we are unable to drive our thoughts into that channel in which we wish them to flow? He had thought much of her last words, and was minded to attempt to do something as she would have had him do it;--not that he might enjoy his life, but that he might make it useful. But as he sat there, he could not think of the real future,--not of the future as it might be made to take this or that form by his own efforts; but of the future as it would have been had she been with him, of the glorious, bright, beautiful future which her love, her goodness, her beauty, her tenderness would have illuminated. Till he had seen her his heart had never been struck. Ideas, sufficiently pleasant in themselves, though tinged with a certain irony and sarcasm, had been frequent with him as to his future career. He would leave that building up of a future family of Marquises,--if future Marquises there were to be,--to one of those young darlings whose bringing-up would manifestly fit them for the work. For himself he would perhaps philosophize, perhaps do something that might be of service,--would indulge at any rate his own views as to humanity;--but he would not burden himself with a Countess and a nursery full of young lords and ladies. He had often said to Roden, had often said to Vivian, that her ladyship, his stepmother, need not trouble herself. He certainly would not be guilty of making either a Countess or a Marchioness. They, of course, had laughed at him, and had bid him bide his time. He had bided his time,--as they had said,--and Marion Fay had been the result. Yes;--life would have been worth the having if Marion Fay had remained to him. It was thus he communed with himself as he sat there on the tomb. From the moment in which he had first seen her in Mrs. Roden's house he had felt that things were changed with him. There had come a vision before him which filled him full of delight. As he learned to know the tones of her voice, and the motion of her limbs, and to succumb to the feminine charms with which she enveloped him, all the world was brightened up to his view. Here there was no pretence of special blood, no assumption of fantastic titles, no claim to superiority because of fathers and mothers who were in themselves by no means superior to their neighbours. And yet there had been all the grace, all the loveliness, all the tenderness, without which his senses would not have been captivated. He had never known his want;--but he had in truth wanted one who should be at all points a lady, and yet not insist on a right to be so esteemed on the strength of inherited privileges. Chance, good fortune, providence had sent her to him,--or more probably the eternal fitness of things, as he had allowed himself to argue when things had fallen out so well to his liking. Then there had arisen difficulties, which had seemed to him to be vain and absurd,--though they would not allow themselves to be at once swept away. They had talked to him of his station and of hers, making that an obstacle which to him had been a strong argument in favour of her love. Against this he had done battle with the resolute purpose which a man has who is sure of his cause. He would have none of their sophistries, none of their fears, none of their old-fashioned absurdities. Did she love him? Was her heart to him as was his to her? That was the one question on which it must all depend. As he thought of it all, sitting there on the tombstone, he put out his arm as though to fold her form to his bosom when he thought of the moment in which he became sure that it was so. There had been no doubt of the full-flowing current of her love. Then he had aroused himself, and had shaken his mane like a lion, and had sworn aloud that this vain obstacle should be no obstacle, even though it was pleaded by herself. Nature had been strong enough within him to assure him that he would overcome the obstacle. And he had overcome it,--or was overcoming it,--when that other barrier gradually presented itself, and loomed day by day terribly large before his affrighted eyes. Even to that he would not yield,--not only as regarded her but himself also. Had there been no such barrier, the possession of Marion would have been to him an assurance of perfect bliss which the prospect of far-distant death would not have effected. When he began to perceive that her condition was not as that of other young women, he became aware of a great danger,--of a danger to himself as well as to her, to himself rather than to her. This increased rather than diminished his desire for the possession. As the ardent rider will be more intent to take the fence when it looms before him large and difficult, so with him the resolution to make Marion his wife became the stronger when he knew that there were reasons of prudence, reasons of caution, reasons of worldly wisdom, why he should not do so. It had become a religion to him that she should be his one. Then gradually her strength had become known to him, and slowly he was made aware that he must bow to her decision. All that he wanted in all the world he must not have,--not that the love which he craved was wanting, but because she knew that her own doom was fixed. She had bade him retrick his beams, and take the light and the splendour of his sun elsewhere. The light and the splendour of his sun had all passed from him. She had absorbed them altogether. He, while he had been boasting to himself of his power and his manliness, in that he would certainly overcome all the barriers, had found himself to be weak as water in her hands. She, in her soft feminine tones, had told him what duty had required of her, and, as she had said so she had done. Then he had stood on one side, and had remained looking on, till she had--gone away and left him. She had never been his. It had not been allowed to him even to write his name, as belonging also to her, on the gravestone. But she had loved him. There was nothing in it all but this to which his mind could revert with any feeling of satisfaction. She had certainly loved him. If such love might be continued between a disembodied spirit and one still upon the earth,--if there were any spirit capable of love after that divorce between the soul and the body,--her love certainly would still be true to him. Most assuredly his should be true to her. Whatever he might do towards obeying her in striving to form some manly purpose for his life, he would never ask another woman to be his wife, he would never look for other love. The black coat should be laid aside as soon as might be, so that the world around him should not have cause for remark; but the mourning should never be taken from his heart. Then, when the darkness of night had quite come upon him, he arose from his seat, and flinging himself on his knees, stretched his arms wildly across the grave. "Marion," he said; "Marion; oh, Marion, will you hear me? Though gone from me, art thou not mine?" He looked up into the night, and there, before his eyes, was her figure, beautiful as ever, with all her loveliness of half-developed form, with her soft hair upon her shoulders; and her eyes beamed on him, and a heavenly smile came across her face, and her lips moved as though she would encourage him. "My Marion;--my wife!" Very late that night the servants heard him as he opened the door and walked across the hall, and made his way up to his own room. CHAPTER XX. MR. GREENWOOD'S LAST BATTLE. During the whole of that long summer nothing was absolutely arranged as to Roden and Lady Frances, though it was known to all London, and to a great many persons outside of London, that they were certainly to become man and wife. The summer was very long to Lord and Lady Trafford because of the necessity incumbent on them of remaining through the last dregs of the season on account of Lady Amaldina's marriage. Had Lady Amaldina thrown herself away on another Roden the aunt would have no doubt gone to the country; but her niece had done her duty in life with so much propriety and success that it would have been indecent to desert her. Lady Kingsbury therefore remained in Park Lane, and was driven to endure frequently the sight of the Post Office clerk. For George Roden was admitted to the house even though it was at last acknowledged that he must be George Roden, and nothing more. And it was found also that he must be a Post Office clerk, and nothing more. Lord Persiflage, on whom Lady Kingsbury chiefly depended for seeing that her own darlings should not be disgraced by being made brothers-in-law to anything so low as a clerk in the Post Office, was angry at last, and declared that it was impossible to help a man who would not help himself. "It is no use trying to pick a man up who will lie in the gutter." It was thus he spoke of Roden in his anger; and then the Marchioness would wring her hands and abuse her stepdaughter. Lord Persiflage did think that something might be done for the young man if the young man would only allow himself to be called a Duke. But the young man would not allow it, and Lord Persiflage did not see what could be done. Nevertheless there was a general idea abroad in the world that something would be done. Even the mysterious savour of high rank which attached itself to the young man would do something for him. It may be remembered that the Marquis himself, when first the fact had come to his ears that his daughter loved the young man, had been almost as ferociously angry as his wife. He had assented to the carrying of her away to the Saxon castle. He had frowned upon her. He had been a party to the expelling her from his own house. But gradually his heart had become softened towards her; in his illness he had repented of his harshness; he had not borne her continued absence easily, and had of late looked about for an excuse for accepting her lover. When the man was discovered to be a Duke, though it was only an Italian Duke, of course he accepted him. Now his wife told him daily that Roden was not a Duke, because he would not accept his Dukedom,--and ought therefore again to be rejected. Lord Persiflage had declared that nothing could be done for him, and therefore he ought to be rejected. But the Marquis clung to his daughter. As the man was absolutely a Duke, according to the laws of all the Heralds, and all the Courts, and all the tables of precedency and usages of peerage in Christendom, he could not de-grade himself even by any motion of his own. He was the eldest and the legitimate son of the last Duca di Crinola,--so the Marquis said,--and as such was a fitting aspirant for the hand of the daughter of an English peer. "But he hasn't got a shilling," said Lady Kingsbury weeping. The Marquis felt that it was within his own power to produce some remedy for this evil, but he did not care to say as much to his wife, who was tender on that point in regard to the interest of her three darlings. Roden continued his visits to Park Lane very frequently all through the summer, and had already arranged for an autumn visit to Castle Hautboy,--in spite of that angry word spoken by Lord Persiflage. Everybody knew he was to marry Lady Frances. But when the season was over, and all the world had flitted from London, nothing was settled. Lady Kingsbury was of course very unhappy during all this time; but there was a source of misery deeper, more pressing, more crushing than even the Post Office clerk. Mr. Greenwood, the late chaplain, had, during his last interview with the Marquis, expressed some noble sentiments. He would betray nothing that had been said to him in confidence. He would do nothing that could annoy the Marchioness, because the Marchioness was a lady, and as such, entitled to all courtesy from him as a gentleman. There were grounds no doubt on which he could found a claim, but he would not insist on them, as his doing so would be distasteful to her ladyship. He felt that he was being ill-treated, almost robbed; but he would put up with that rather than say a word which would come against his own conscience as a gentleman. With these high assurances he took his leave of the Marquis as though he intended to put up with the beggarly stipend of £200 a year which the Marquis had promised him. Perhaps that had been his intention;--but before two days were over he had remembered that though it might be base to tell her ladyship's secrets, the penny-post was still open to him. It certainly was the case that Lady Kingsbury had spoken to him with strong hopes of the death of the heir to the title. Mr. Greenwood, in discussing the matter with himself, went beyond that, and declared to himself that she had done so with expectation as well as hope. Fearful words had been said. So he assured himself. He thanked his God that nothing had come of it. Only for him something,--he assured himself,--would have come of it. The whisperings in that up-stairs sitting-room at Trafford had been dreadful. He had divulged nothing. He had held his tongue,--like a gentleman. But ought he not to be paid for holding his tongue? There are so many who act honestly from noble motives, and then feel that their honesty should be rewarded by all those gains which dishonesty might have procured for them! About a fortnight after the visit which Mr. Greenwood made to the Marquis he did write a letter to the Marchioness. "I am not anxious," he said, "to do more than remind your ladyship of those peculiarly confidential discussions which took place between yourself and me at Trafford during the last winter; but I think you will acknowledge that they were of a nature to make me feel that I should not be discarded like an old glove. If you would tell his lordship that something should be done for me, something would be done." Her ladyship when she received this was very much frightened. She remembered the expressions she had allowed herself to use, and did say a hesitating, halting word to her husband, suggesting that Mr. Greenwood's pension should be increased. The Marquis turned upon her in anger. "Did you ever promise him anything?" he asked. No;--she had promised him nothing. "I am giving him more than he deserves, and will do no more," said the Marquis. There was something in his voice which forbade her to speak another word. Mr. Greenwood's letter having remained for ten days without an answer, there came another. "I cannot but think that you will acknowledge my right to expect an answer," he said, "considering the many years through which I have enjoyed the privilege of your ladyship's friendship, and the _very confidential terms_ on which we have been used to discuss matters of the highest interest to us both." The "matters" had no doubt been the probability of the accession to the title of her own son through the demise of his elder brother! She understood now all her own folly, and something of her own wickedness. To this second appeal she wrote a short answer, having laid awake over it one entire night. DEAR MR. GREENWOOD--I have spoken to the Marquis, and he will do nothing. Yours truly, C. KINGSBURY. This she did without saying a word to her husband. Then, after the interval of a few days, there came a third letter. MY DEAR LADY KINGSBURY,-- I cannot allow myself to think that this should be the end of it all, after so many years of social intimacy and confidential intercourse. Can you yourself imagine the condition of a gentleman of my age reduced after a life of ease and comfort to exist on a miserable pension of £200 a year? It simply means death,--death! Have I not a right to expect something better after the devotion of a life? Who has known as well as I the stumbling-blocks to your ladyship's ambition which have been found in the existences of Lord Hampstead and Lady Frances Trafford? I have sympathized with you no doubt,--partly because of their peculiarities, partly from sincere affection for your ladyship. It cannot surely be that your ladyship should now treat me as an enemy because I could do no more than sympathize! Dig I cannot. To beg I am ashamed. You will hardly wish that I should perish from want. I have not as yet been driven to open out my sad case to any one but yourself. Do not force me to it,--for the sake of those darling children for whose welfare I have ever been so anxious. Believe me to be, Your ladyship's most devoted and faithful friend, THOMAS GREENWOOD. This epistle so frightened her that she began to consider how she might best collect together a sufficient sum of money to satisfy the man. She did succeed in sending him a note for £50. But this he was too wary to take. He returned it, saying that he could not, though steeped in poverty, accept chance eleemosynary aid. What he required.--and had he thought a right to ask,--was an increase to the fixed stipend allowed him. He must, he thought, again force himself upon the presence of the Marquis, and explain the nature of the demand more explicitly. Upon this Lady Kingsbury showed all the letters to her husband. "What does he mean by stumbling-blocks?" asked the Marquis in his wrath. Then there was a scene which was sad enough. She had to confess that she had spoken very freely to the chaplain respecting her step-children. "Freely! What does freely mean? Do you want them out of the way?" What a question for a husband to have to ask his wife! But she had a door by which she could partly escape. It was not that she had wanted them out of the way, but that she had been so horrified by what she had thought to be their very improper ideas as to their own rank of life. Those marriages which they had intended had caused her to speak as she had done to the chaplain. When alone at Trafford she had no doubt opened her mind to the clergyman. She rested a great deal on the undoubted fact that Mr. Greenwood was a clergyman. Hampstead and Fanny had been stumbling-blocks to her ambition because she had desired to see them married properly into proper families. She probably thought that she was telling the truth as she said all this. It was at any rate accepted as truth, and she was condoned. As to Hampstead, it was known by this time that that marriage could never take place; and as to Lady Frances, the Marchioness was driven, in her present misery, to confess, that as the Duca was in truth a Duca, his family must be held to be proper. But the Marquis sent for Mr. Cumming, his London solicitor, and put all the letters into his hand,--with such explanation as he thought necessary to give. Mr. Cumming at first recommended that the pension should be altogether stopped; but to this the Marquis did not consent. "It would not suit me that he should starve," said the Marquis. "But if he continues to write to her ladyship something must be done." "Threatening letters to extort money!" said the lawyer confidently. "I can have him before a magistrate to-morrow, my lord, if it be thought well." It was, however, felt to be expedient that Mr. Cumming should in the first case send for Mr. Greenwood, and explain to that gentleman the nature of the law. Mr. Cumming no doubt felt himself that it would be well that Mr. Greenwood should not starve, and well also that application should not be made to the magistrate, unless as a last resort. He, too, asked himself what was meant by "stumbling-blocks." Mr. Greenwood was a greedy rascal, descending to the lowest depth of villany with the view of making money out of the fears of a silly woman. But the silly woman, the lawyer thought, must have been almost worse than silly. It seemed natural to Mr. Cumming that a stepmother should be anxious for the worldly welfare of her own children;--not unnatural, perhaps, that she should be so anxious as to have a feeling at her heart amounting almost to a wish that "chance" should remove the obstacle. Chance, as Mr. Cumming was aware, could in such a case mean only--death. Mr. Cumming, when he put this in plain terms to himself, felt it to be very horrid; but there might be a doubt whether such a feeling would be criminal, if backed up by no deed and expressed by no word. But here it seemed that words had been spoken. Mr. Greenwood had probably invented that particular phrase, but would hardly have invented it unless something had been said to justify it. It was his business, however, to crush Mr. Greenwood, and not to expose her ladyship. He wrote a very civil note to Mr. Greenwood. Would Mr. Greenwood do him the kindness to call in Bedford Row at such or such an hour,--or indeed at any other hour that might suit him. Mr. Greenwood thinking much of it, and resolving in his mind that any increase to his pension might probably be made through Mr. Cumming, did as he was bid, and waited upon the lawyer. Mr. Cumming, when the clergyman was shown in, was seated with the letters before him,--the various letters which Mr. Greenwood had written to Lady Kingsbury,--folded out one over another, so that the visitor's eye might see them and feel their presence; but he did not intend to use them unless of necessity. "Mr. Greenwood," he said, "I learn that you are discontented with the amount of a retiring allowance which the Marquis of Kingsbury has made you on leaving his service." "I am, Mr. Cumming; certainly I am.--£200 a year is not--" "Let us call it £300, Mr. Greenwood." "Well, yes; Lord Hampstead did say something--" "And has paid something. Let us call it £300. Not that the amount matters. The Marquis and Lord Hampstead are determined not to increase it." "Determined!" "Quite determined that under no circumstances will they increase it. They may find it necessary to stop it." "Is this a threat?" "Certainly it is a threat,--as far as it goes. There is another threat which I may have to make for the sake of coercing you; but I do not wish to use it if I can do without it." "Her ladyship knows that I am ill-treated in this matter. She sent me £50 and I returned it. It was not in that way that I wished to be paid for my services." "It was well for you that you did. But for that I could not certainly have asked you to come and see me here." "You could not?" "No;--I could not. You will probably understand what I mean." Here Mr. Cumming laid his hands upon the letters, but made no other allusion to them. "A very few words more will, I think, settle all that there is to be arranged between us. The Marquis, from certain reasons of humanity,--with which I for one hardly sympathize in this case,--is most unwilling to stop, or even to lessen, the ample pension which is paid to you." "Ample;--after a whole lifetime!" "But he will do so if you write any further letters to any member of his family." "That is tyranny, Mr. Cumming." "Very well. Then is the Marquis a tyrant. But he will go further than that in his tyranny. If it be necessary to defend either himself or any of his family from further annoyance, he will do so by criminal proceedings. You are probably aware that the doing this would be very disagreeable to the Marquis. Undoubtedly it would. To such a man as Lord Kingsbury it is a great trouble to have his own name, or worse, that of others of his family, brought into a Police Court. But, if necessary, it will be done. I do not ask you for any assurance, Mr. Greenwood, because it may be well that you should take a little time to think of it. But unless you are willing to lose your income, and to be taken before a police magistrate for endeavouring to extort money by threatening letters, you had better hold your hand." "I have never threatened." "Good morning, Mr. Greenwood." "Mr. Cumming, I have threatened no one." "Good morning, Mr. Greenwood." Then the discarded chaplain took his leave, failing to find the words with which he could satisfactorily express his sense of the injury which had been done him. Before that day was over he had made up his mind to take his £300 a year and be silent. The Marquis, he now found, was not so infirm as he had thought, nor the Marchioness quite so full of fears. He must give it up, and take his pittance. But in doing so he continued to assure himself that he was greatly injured, and did not cease to accuse Lord Kingsbury of sordid parsimony in refusing to reward adequately one whose services to the family had been so faithful and long-enduring. It may, however, be understood that in the midst of troubles such as these Lady Kingsbury did not pass a pleasant summer. CHAPTER XXI. THE REGISTRAR OF STATE RECORDS. Although Lord Persiflage had seemed to be very angry with the recusant Duke, and had made that uncivil speech about the gutter, still he was quite willing that George Roden should be asked down to Castle Hautboy. "Of course we must do something for him," he said to his wife; "but I hate scrupulous men. I don't blame him at all for making such a girl as Fanny fall in love with him. If I were a Post Office clerk I'd do the same if I could." "Not you. You wouldn't have given yourself the trouble." "But when I had done it I wouldn't have given her friends more trouble than was necessary. I should have known that they would have had to drag me up somewhere. I should have looked for that. But I shouldn't have made myself difficult when chance gave a helping hand. Why shouldn't he have taken his title?" "Of course we all wish he would." "Fanny is as bad as he is. She has caught some of Hampstead's levelling ideas and encourages the young man. It was all Kingsbury's fault from the first. He began the world wrong, and now he cannot get himself right again. A radical aristocrat is a contradiction in terms. It is very well that there should be Radicals. It would be a stupid do-nothing world without them. But a man can't be oil and vinegar at the same time." This was the expression made by Lord Persiflage of his general ideas on politics in reference to George Roden and his connection with the Trafford family; but not the less was George Roden asked down to Castle Hautboy. Lady Frances was not to be thrown over because she had made a fool of herself,--nor was George Roden to be left out in the cold, belonging as he did now to Lady Frances. Lord Persiflage never approved very much of anybody,--but he never threw anybody over. It was soon after the funeral of Marion Fay that Roden went down to Cumberland. During the last two months of Marion's illness Hampstead and Roden had been very often together. Not that they had lived together, as Hampstead had declared himself unable to bear continued society. His hours had been passed alone. But there had not been many days in which the friends had not seen each other for a few minutes. It had become a habit with Hampstead to ride over to Paradise Row when Roden had returned from the office. At first Mrs. Roden also had been there;--but latterly she had spent her time altogether at Pegwell Bay. Nevertheless Lord Hampstead would come, and would say a few words, and would then ride home again. When all was over at Pegwell Bay, when the funeral was at hand, and during the few days of absolutely prostrating grief which followed it, nothing was seen of him;--but on the evening before his friend's journey down to Castle Hautboy he again appeared in the Row. On this occasion he walked over, and his friend returned with him a part of the way. "You must do something with yourself," Roden said to him. "I see no need of doing anything special. How many men do nothing with themselves!" "Men either work or play." "I do not think I shall play much." "Not for a time certainly. You used to play; but I can imagine that the power of doing so will have deserted you." "I shan't hunt, if you mean that." "I do not mean that at all," said Roden;--"but that you should do something. There must be some occupation, or life will be insupportable." "It is insupportable," said the young man looking away, so that his countenance should not be seen. "But it must be supported. Let the load be ever so heavy, it must be carried. You would not destroy yourself?" "No;"--said the other slowly; "no. I would not do that. If any one would do it for me!" "No one will do it for you. Not to have some plan of active life, some defined labour by which the weariness of the time may be conquered, would be a weakness and a cowardice next door to that of suicide." "Roden," said the lord, "your severity is brutal." "The question is whether it be true. You shall call it what you like,--or call me what you like; but can you contradict what I say? Do you not feel that it is your duty as a man to apply what intellect you have, and what strength, to some purpose?" Then, by degrees, Lord Hampstead did explain the purpose he had before him. He intended to have a yacht built, and start alone, and cruise about the face of the world. He would take books with him, and study the peoples and the countries which he visited. "Alone?" asked Roden. "Yes, alone;--as far as a man may be alone with a crew and a captain around him. I shall make acquaintances as I go, and shall be able to bear them as such. They will know nothing of my secret wound. Had I you with me,--you and my sister let us suppose,--or Vivian, or any one from here who had known me, I could not even struggle to raise my head." "It would wear off." "I will go alone; and if occasion offers I will make fresh acquaintances. I will begin another life which shall have no connection with the old one,--except that which will be continued by the thread of my own memory. No one shall be near me who may even think of her name when my own ways and manners are called in question." He went on to explain that he would set himself to work at once. The ship must be built, and the crew collected, and the stores prepared. He thought that in this way he might find employment for himself till the spring. In the spring, if all was ready, he would start. Till that time came he would live at Hendon Hall,--still alone. He so far relented, however, as to say that if his sister was married before he began his wanderings he would be present at her marriage. Early in the course of the evening he had explained to Roden that his father and he had conjointly arranged to give Lady Frances £40,000 on her wedding. "Can that be necessary?" asked Roden. "You must live; and as you have gone into a nest with the drones, you must live in some sort as the drones do." "I hope I shall never be a drone." "You cannot touch pitch and not be defiled. You'll be expected to wear gloves and drink fine wine,--or, at any rate, to give it to your friends. Your wife will have to ride in a coach. If she don't people will point at her, and think she's a pauper, because she has a handle to her name. They talk of the upper ten thousand. It is as hard to get out from among them as it is to get in among them. Though you have been wonderfully stout about the Italian title, you'll find that it will stick to you." Then it was explained that the money, which was to be given, would in no wise interfere with the "darlings." Whatever was to be added to the fortune which would naturally have belonged to Lady Frances, would come not from her father but from her brother. When Roden arrived at Castle Hautboy Lord Persiflage was there, though he remained but for a day. He was due to be with the Queen for a month,--a duty which was evidently much to his taste, though he affected to frown over it as a hardship. "I am sorry, Roden," he said, "that I should be obliged to leave you and everybody else;--but a Government hack, you know, has to be a Government hack." This was rather strong from a Secretary of State to a Clerk in the Post Office; but Roden had to let it pass lest he should give an opening to some remark on his own repudiated rank. "I shall be back before you are gone, I hope, and then perhaps we may arrange something." The only thing that Roden wished to arrange was a day for his own wedding, as to which, as far as he knew, Lord Persiflage could have nothing to say. "I don't think you ought to be sorry," Lady Frances said to her lover as they were wandering about on the mountains. He had endeavoured to explain to her that this large income which was now promised to him rather impeded than assisted the scheme of life which he had suggested to himself. "Not sorry,--but disappointed, if you know the difference." "Not exactly." "I had wanted to feel that I should earn my wife's bread." "So you shall. If a man works honestly for his living, I don't think he need inquire too curiously what proportion of it may come from his own labour or from some other source. If I had had nothing we should have done very well without the coach,--as poor Hampstead calls it. But if the coach is there I don't see why we shouldn't ride in it." "I should like to earn the coach too," said Roden. "This, sir, will be a lesson serviceable in teaching you that you are not to be allowed to have your own way in everything." An additional leave of absence for a month had been accorded to Roden. He had already been absent during a considerable time in the spring of the year, and in the ordinary course of events would not have been entitled to this prolonged indulgence. But there were reasons deemed to be sufficient. He was going to meet a Cabinet Minister. He was engaged to marry the daughter of a Marquis. And it was known that he was not simply George Roden, but in truth the Duca di Crinola. He had suffered some qualms of conscience as to the favour to be thus shown him, but had quieted them by the idea that when a man is in love something special ought to be done for him. He remained, therefore, till the Foreign Secretary returned from his royal service, and had by that time fixed the period of his marriage. It was to take place in the cold comfortless month of March. It would be a great thing, he had said, to have Hampstead present at it, and it was Hampstead's intention to start on his long travels early in April. "I don't see why people shouldn't be married in cold weather as well as in hot," said Vivian. "Brides need not go about always in muslin." When Lord Persiflage returned to Castle Hautboy, he had his plan ready arranged for relieving his future half-nephew-in-law,--if there be such a relationship,--from the ignominy of the Post Office. "I have Her Majesty's permission," he said to Roden, "to offer you the position of Registrar of State Records to the Foreign Office." "Registrar of State Records to the Foreign Office!" "Fifteen hundred a year," said his lordship, going off at once to this one point of true vital importance. "I am bound to say that I think I could have done better for you had you consented to bear the title, which is as completely your own, as is that mine by which I am called." "Don't let us go back to that, my lord." "Oh no;--certainly not. Only this; if you could be brought to think better of it,--if Fanny could be induced to make you think better of it,--the office now offered to you would, I think, be more comfortable to you." "How so?" "I can hardly explain, but it would. There is no reason on earth why it should not be held by an Italian. We had an Italian for many years librarian at the Museum. And as an Italian you would of course be entitled to call yourself by your hereditary title." "I shall never be other than an Englishman." "Very well. One man may lead a horse to water, but a thousand cannot make him drink. I only tell you what would be the case. The title would no doubt give a prestige to the new office. It is exactly that kind of work which would fall readily into the hands of a foreigner of high rank. One cannot explain these things, but it is so. The £1500 a year would more probably become £2000 if you submitted to be called by your own proper name." Everybody knew that Lord Persiflage understood the Civil Service of his country perfectly. He was a man who never worked very hard himself, or expected those under him to do so; but he liked common sense, and hated scruples, and he considered it to be a man's duty to take care of himself,--of himself first of all, and then, perhaps, afterwards, of the Service. Neither did Roden nor did Lady Frances give way a bit the more for this. They were persistent in clinging to their old comparatively humble English name. Lady Frances would be Lady Frances to the end, but she would be no more than Lady Frances Roden. And George Roden would be George Roden, whether a clerk in the Post Office or Registrar of State Records to the Foreign Office. So much the next new bride declared with great energy to the last new bride who had just returned from her short wedding tour, having been hurried home so that her husband might be able to lay the first stone of the new bridge to be built over the Menai Straits. Lady Llwddythlw, with all the composed manners of a steady matron, was at Castle Hautboy, and used all her powers of persuasion. "Never mind, my dear, what he says," Lady Llwddythlw urged. "What you should think of is what will be good for him. He would be somebody,--almost as good as an Under Secretary of State,--with a title. He would get to be considered among the big official swells. There is so much in a name! Of course, you've got your rank. But you ought to insist on it for his sake." Lady Frances did not give way in the least, nor did any one venture to call the Duca by his title, formally or openly. But, as Lord Hampstead had said, "it stuck to him." The women when they were alone with him would call him Duca, joking with him; and it was out of the question that he should be angry with them for their jokes. He became aware that behind his back he was always spoken of as The Duke, and that this was not done with any idea of laughing at him. The people around him believed that he was a Duke and ought to be called a Duke. Of course it was in joke that Lady Llwddythlw always called Lady Frances Duchessina when they were together, because Lady Frances had certainly not as yet acquired her right to the name; but it all tended to the same point. He became aware that the very servants around him understood it. They did not call him "your grace" or "my Lord," or make spoken allusion to his rank; but they looked it. All that obsequiousness due to an hereditary nobleman, which is dear to the domestic heart, was paid to him. He found himself called upon by Lady Persiflage to go into the dining-room out of his proper place. There was a fair excuse for this while the party was small, and confined to few beyond the family, as it was expected that the two declared lovers should sit together. But when this had been done with a larger party he expostulated with his hostess. "My dear Mr. Roden," she said,--"I suppose I must call you so." "It's my name at any rate." "There are certain points on which, as far as I can see, a man may be allowed to have his way,--and certain points on which he may not." "As to his own name--" "Yes; on the matter of your name. I do not see my way how to get the better of you just at present, though on account of my near connection with Fanny I am very anxious to do so. But as to the fact of your rank, there it is. Whenever I see you,--and I hope I shall see you very often,--I shall always suppose that I see an Italian nobleman of the first class, and shall treat you so." He shrugged his shoulders, feeling that he had nothing else to do. "If I were to find myself in the society of some man calling himself by a title to which I knew that he had no right,--I should probably call him by no name; but I should be very careful not to treat him as a nobleman, knowing that he had no right to be so treated. What can I do in your case but just reverse the position?" He never went back to the Post Office,--of course. What should a Registrar of State Records to the Foreign Office do in so humble an establishment? He never went back for the purposes of work. He called to bid farewell to Sir Boreas, Mr. Jerningham, Crocker, and others with whom he had served. "I did not think we should see much more of you," said Sir Boreas, laughing. "I intended to live and die with you," said Roden. "We don't have dukes; or at any rate we don't keep them. Like to like is a motto which I always find true. When I heard that you were living with a young lord, and were going to marry the daughter of a marquis, and had a title of your own which you could use as soon as you pleased, I knew that I should lose you." Then he added in a little whisper, "You couldn't get Crocker made a duke, could you,--or a Registrar of Records?" Mr. Jerningham was full of smiles and bows, pervaded thoroughly by a feeling that he was bidding farewell to an august nobleman, though, for negative reasons, he was not to be allowed to gratify his tongue by naming the august name. Crocker was a little shy;--but he plucked up his courage at last. "I shall always know what I know, you know," he said, as he shook hands with the friend to whom he had been so much attached. Bobbin and Geraghty made no allusions to the title, but they, too, as they were severally greeted, were evidently under the influence of the nobility of their late brother clerk. The marriage was duly solemnized when March came in the parish church of Trafford. There was nothing grand,--no even distant imitation of Lady Amaldina's glorious cavalcade. Hampstead did come down, and endeavoured for the occasion to fit himself for the joy of the day. His ship was ready for him, and he intended to start now in a week or two. As it happened that the House was not sitting, Lord Llwddythlw, at the instigation of his wife, was present. "One good turn deserves another," Lady Llwddythlw had said to him. And the darlings were there in all their glory, loud, beautiful, and unruly. Lady Kingsbury was of course present; but was too much in abeyance to be able to arouse even a sign of displeasure. Since that reference to the "stumbling blocks" had reached her husband, and since those fears with which Mr. Greenwood had filled her, she had been awed into quiescence. The bridegroom was of course married under the simple name of George Roden,--and we must part with him under that name; but it is the belief of the present chronicler that the aristocratic element will prevail, and that the time will come soon in which the Registrar of State Records to the Foreign Office will be known in the purlieus of Downing Street as the Duca di Crinola. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Volume I, Chapter I, paragraph 9. Trollope refers here and elsewhere to Lord Hampstead as Lady Kingsbury's son-in-law, although he is actually her stepson. This is not a example of carelessness by the author but an archaic use of "son-in-law" which persisted into the mid-nineteenth century. Volume I, Chapter XIX, paragraph 1. The astute reader might wonder how a two-day visit can last from Wednesday to the following Tuesday, as stated in the sentence: Lady Amaldina and he were both to arrive there on Wednesday, December 3rd, and remain till the Tuesday morning. Specific changes in wording of the text are listed below. Volume I, Chapter XII, paragraph 42. "On" was changed to "Oh" in the sentence: "OH, no doubt! Volume I, Chapter III, paragraph 62. The word "began" was changed to "begun" in the sentence: In the horror of the first revelation he had yielded, but had since BEGUN to feel that too much was being done in withdrawing him from Parliament. Volume II, Chapter III, paragraph 82. A comma was changed to a semi-colon in the sentence: This was on a Tuesday; on the Wednesday he did not speak to her on the subject. Volume II, Chapter VI, paragraph 17. The word "live" was changed to "life" in the sentence: I have had to ask myself, and I have told myself that I do not dare to love above my station in LIFE. Volume II, Chapter VI, paragraph 31. The word "to" was added to the sentence: It may be that you should drive me away from you, and TO beg you never to trouble me any further. Volume II, Chapter XII, paragraph 6. The word "conviction" was changed to the plural form in the sentence: The CONVICTIONS of the world since the days of Cain have all gone in that direction. Volume II, Chapter XIII, paragraph 47. "Roden" was changed to "Trafford" in the sentence: I have seen Lady Frances TRAFFORD. Volume II, Chapter XV, paragraph 61. "10" was changed to "11" in the sentence: Marion Fay and her father live at No. 17, Paradise Row, Holloway, and Mrs. Roden and George Roden live at No. 11. The reader will recall that Mrs. Demijohn and her niece Clara resided at No. 10. Volume II, Chapter XX, paragraph 19. "17" was changed to "15" in the sentence: I hope you'll let me introduce you to Mrs. Duffer of No. 15. The reader will recall that Mrs. Duffer lives at No. 15, while No. 17 is the home of Marion Fay and her father. Volume III, Chapter III, paragraph 25. The Baron's name appears eight times in the text; this, the first, occurrence was spelled "d'Osse," and the other seven spelled "d'Ossi" or "D'Ossi." "d'Osse" was changed to "d'Ossi" in the sentence beginning: When Lord Persiflage spoke of the matter to Baron d'OSSI, the Italian Minister in London, . . . Volume III, Chapter VI, paragraph 1. The word "fame" was changed to "name" in the sentence: As to his mother's NAME, he said, no one had doubted, and no one would doubt it for a moment.